Multiverse's Holy Right

The scent of violets spread through his nostrils, seeping into his lungs, giving Roy the sensation of wandering leisurely through a field of flowers under the warm sun.

But soon, this comforting warmth was replaced by a deathly chill. The desolate cold and aura of death blew through his body, stirring his soul, making Roy inexplicably feel as though he had already died and fallen into the underworld.

If this were the world of Campione, even if he descended into the underworld, he would at least have the goddess Athena by his side. But dying in the Land of Shadows might mean becoming the eternal slave of its queen.

Softness—

When Roy fully regained consciousness, he found his head resting on something incredibly soft, more enticing than any velvet pillow.

'A lap pillow!'

His rich experience instantly brought this term to mind. He quickly opened his eyes, and a captivating figure in deep purple came into view.

Unlike when he awoke in the hidden realm and saw Pandora—back then, his gaze had met a flat surface, allowing him to see Pandora's face clearly—now his vision was blocked by two towering peaks. Only through the gap between them could he glimpse a pair of wine-red eyes, no longer cold and ruthless but filled with the gentleness of an older sister next door.

The sensation at the back of his head was entirely different as well. Pandora was too slender; lying on her lap felt like resting on a wooden board. But Scathach was completely different—her thighs were perfectly proportioned, strong yet yielding, neither too soft nor too firm, making it an exceptionally comfortable experience.

For a moment, Roy wanted to stay there forever, his eyes glazing over with reverie. But soon, he remembered how Scáthach had humiliated him in a near-torturous manner earlier. This thought jolted him awake, and he leaped up from those alluring thighs, eyeing the woman warily.

The woman, entirely wrapped in purple, knelt on the hard ground in a seiza position, her posture bewitching and seductive, exuding an intoxicating femininity. Even Roy had to admit that Scáthach was the epitome of womanhood, blending martial prowess and allure into one.

Glancing around, he confirmed this was indeed the Land of Shadows—he was still here. His injuries had mostly healed, thanks not only to the Campione's robust physique but likely also to Scáthach's aid. As a master of the primordial runes, she was capable of healing his wounds.

"You didn't kill me?"

Seeing Scáthach silently kneeling on the ground, her two magic spears planted not far behind her, Roy decided to break the silence.

"Before you lost consciousness, do you remember what I said?"

Scáthach wore the mask that covered half her face, her tone gentle and a far cry from when she had fought Roy earlier. Her wine-red eyes shimmered with a soft, watery tenderness.

Roy raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "...I only remember you saying something about death or dying. The specifics are hazy."

At the time, Roy had been driven to near madness by Scáthach. His entire will and focus had been consumed by the thought of defeating this woman—how could he have paid close attention to her words?

"You don't remember? Then let it be. Just know that your courage, will, and strength have earned my recognition," Scáthach replied softly.

"Why should I care about your recognition?"

Roy's tone carried a hint of irritation, even childishness. Though he had been tricked by Aleister once in the past, most of his life had been smooth sailing. Naturally, arrogance had taken root in him—deep down, he looked down on everything.

To put it bluntly, he was still immature. Too young.

But this was only to be expected. From the moment Roy truly grasped his power until now, barely a year had passed. Moreover, he had soared to the pinnacle from the very start, never experiencing the gradual climb from weakness to strength.

If he were to enter the world of the Type-Moon now, few could stand against him in terms of raw power. The modern magus struggled against even Servants, but in the face of Roy's Authority, those Servants were nothing special—after all, they were no match for a Heretic God.

Yet whether Roy's luck was good or bad was hard to say. Instead of entering the world proper, he had ended up beyond it—no longer in the realm of the physical.

Scáthach showed no anger at Roy's discontent and arrogance. To her, he was just a child. She had trained countless heroes of Celtic myth, and every single one of them had carried the same attitude when they first became her disciples.

The difference was that Roy's strength surpassed all of them—even surpassing her own when she had trained Cú Chulainn. Had Roy met that version of her, their battle would have been reversed, with her scrambling for victory instead.

But "what if" was just that—a hypothetical. The current Scáthach was no longer the same as the past one. Through enlightenment on the battlefield, she had transcended the world, attaining supreme power and wisdom from the abyss.

"I don't dislike this arrogance of yours. In fact, I admire it. If a person lacks pride, they can only be weak and servile—and I have no fondness for such people. But arrogance must have its limits. First, you must understand yourself—know your limits, your talents, your flaws. Only then can your arrogance hold meaning."

Scáthach spoke as if imparting life lessons to a student, her tone gentle yet stern. Unconsciously, Roy found himself standing straighter, reminded of the times he had been scolded by his teachers in school.

"You possess boundless potential for growth, and I look forward to seeing it. Do not disappoint me."

Scáthach spoke as she slowly rose from the ground. As she straightened her posture, her enchanting and alluring figure transformed into one of heroic dignity. The swift change in her demeanor left Roy utterly astonished.

Roy wanted to argue further, but he ultimately chose to keep his mouth shut. Debating with someone stronger than him—especially someone vastly stronger—would be nothing short of arrogance. Only competitive "children" would stubbornly insist on arguing. As Scathach had said, he needed to learn the boundaries of his own pride.

"..."

"I get it. Right now, you're stronger than me, so whatever you say goes."

Though it sounded like a petulant remark, Roy had indeed taken Scáthach's words to heart.

"Teachability is a virtue."

Scáthach smiled faintly, her voice soft yet razor-sharp as it escaped her cherry lips beneath the mask.

"I still don't know your name, stranger."

"Roy. Roy Crowley!"

It was just a name—Roy saw no reason to hide it.

"Hmm... So, Roy, what brings you here?"

Scáthach let out a light hum, pausing briefly before adding, "...Be honest. Speak your true intentions."

Roy had been about to say, "I didn't come here by choice—I ended up here inexplicably," but he hesitated and fell silent instead.

What were his true intentions? Why had he come to the world of Campione, and why was he here? In truth, Roy had long known the answer—

"To seek an opportunity to grow stronger!"

Yes, that was his real goal.

Scáthach nodded in satisfaction, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she said, "...Then your opportunity lies here. Become my disciple, and I will teach you everything I know!"

"Become your disciple? As my teacher, shouldn't you at least show your true face? It's hard to trust someone who's half-hidden like this."

Roy wasn't even sure why he'd said that.

***

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