A Certain Multiverse's Holy Right

In the Book of Genesis, the Bible records that after the Great Flood, God made a covenant with humanity. At that time, all people on Earth spoke the same language and shared the same accent.

United by this shared tongue, the people sought to construct a towering structure—a high tower reaching toward the heavens. The city of Babylon they built was magnificent, prosperous, and beautiful, with the tower soaring into the clouds.

But their actions drew the attention of God, who perceived their efforts as a challenge to His authority and a questioning of His covenant. This, He could not allow. Thus, God divided humanity's language, creating countless tongues and scattering the people across the earth. Unable to communicate with one another, they abandoned the Tower of Babel halfway through its construction, never to complete it.

This original language, known as the Adamic Language, holds immense symbolic significance in mysticism. It is said that every word and syllable of this primal tongue possesses intrinsic magical power. It is the language of God, the absolute Logos, and the ultimate Word of Power. Countless magicians have sought to recover fragments of this language, drawn by its unparalleled might.

In both Eastern and Western mysticism, the spoken word is a cornerstone of magic. Modern humanity, however, uses simplified languages to recite spells and weave mysteries. By dividing human language, God effectively scattered the power of mystery and separated the unity of magic, making it nearly impossible for modern humans to recreate the wonders of the Age of Gods. Without the original language, the performance of ancient mysteries is forever out of reach.

The fifth style of The Hand of Jacob, known as Babel Ascension, embodies this mythological power. By channeling it into his strikes, Roy can disrupt cohesion, scatter concentration, and dissolve magic itself.

…

Roy extended his hand toward Marquis Voban, who had taken flight.

With a single swipe, the Marquis's movements stuttered to a halt, and a sound like bursting bubbles echoed around him. All the magic enhancing his body instantly unraveled. Even the Singing Spellbook, summoned by his authority, emitted a mournful wail before disintegrating into nothingness.

As the spell enabling flight collapsed, Marquis Voban—hovering a hundred meters above the ground—suddenly lost his ability to stay aloft. His massive werewolf body plummeted, accelerating with the force of gravity. The descent was accompanied by a deafening whistling sound, like a cannonball crashing to Earth.

"BOOM!"

The Marquis's ten-meter-tall lycanthropic form smashed through the roof of a civilian building, reducing it to rubble and carving a deep crater into the ground. The impact reverberated through the earth, leaving the surrounding area trembling. Were it not for Voban's nature as a Campione and the activation of his Legion of Hungry Wolves authority, a mortal subjected to such a fall would have been crushed into pulp.

Roy descended from the sky, his voice resounding with authority:

"The Singing Spellbook—an authority usurped from the evil god Baphomet. It allows you to forcibly extract knowledge from magicians and make it your own. This has undoubtedly been a great convenience for you, Marquis, given your lack of skill in magic...

"But tell me, Marquis, how effective do you think this authority is against Campione or Heretic Gods? How can mortal magic hope to work against the divine?"

Roy's voice took on a mocking edge as he continued:

"You possess many authorities, it's true. But most of them are suited only for slaughtering mortals. How many of your authorities can truly stand up to gods—or to other godslayers?

"If this is the extent of your abilities, Marquis, then today will be the day the Ancient Demon King learns the bitter taste of defeat at the hands of a newcomer!"

Roy's words rang out like a war cry as he dove from the heavens like a blazing meteor. Divine power gathered in his limbs, creating a resounding roar as he prepared to strike.

The crater left by Marquis Voban's fall exploded outward once again as Roy landed with tremendous force. The entire surface of the ground gave way, collapsing into a massive sinkhole.

The combination of The Hand of Jacob and Lord of Radiance—melding Godspeed with the holy power of the scriptures—was Roy's favored approach in battle. While his other authorities held devastating potential as trump cards, it was this relentless barrage of fundamental techniques that proved most lethal in a fight.

"Arrogant, ignorant brat!" Marquis Voban snarled, his voice feral with rage. "Let's see how long you can keep this up!"

Marquis Voban, rebounding from the ground like a spring, opened his massive wolf maw and unleashed a savage roar. With his howl, a cataclysmic storm broke loose—hurricanes howled, thunder roared, and torrential rain poured down once again. The apocalyptic scene swept across this corner of Tokyo, plunging it into chaos. Under the power of the Campione, mankind's steel and concrete creations crumbled like petals, fragile and powerless.

Roy's taunts and arrogance had completely awakened the primal, bloodthirsty instincts of the wolf in Marquis Voban. Without a second thought, Voban charged into the storm, carrying wind and thunder with him. He roared as his fist collided with Roy's. The two combatants tore through the cityscape, their bodies and strikes shattering building after building. Sonic booms echoed, and the once-proud skyline crumbled into wreckage.

…

"Which one, the Campione or the Heretic God, is truly humanity's most dangerous disaster?"

Princess Alice stood in the ruined top-floor suite of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. She gazed out at the pitch-black sky that blanketed Tokyo, watching as lightning flashed within the ominous clouds. In the distance, she observed the endless explosions and destruction, accompanied by the terrified cries of citizens and the blaring horns of cars.

Even this princess, who often delighted in chaos and had little concern for morality, wore an expression of unease.

This wasn't a battle. It was modern warfare.

"You, the sly vixen who enjoys scheming in the shadows and spying on others, wearing such a sympathetic expression—is there some authority out there that could make the sun rise in the west?"

A cold male voice echoed from the remnants of the hotel suite. Princess Alice showed no surprise upon hearing it. She merely adjusted the coat on her shoulders, hiding her exposed collarbone, before turning with a bright smile.

Behind her sat a man in his mid-twenties, casually reclined in one of the few remaining intact chairs. His legs were crossed, his jet-black hair neatly combed, and he wore a dark gray jacket that gave him the air of a refined noble.

It was none other than Alexander Gascoigne, the English Campione also known as the Black Prince.

"What brings you from the English countryside to this far-eastern island nation? I don't believe there's any news of the Holy Grail you've been chasing here."

Princess Alice's smile was radiant and dazzling. She held the collar of her coat with one hand, her elegance akin to that of a highborn lady, her etiquette impeccable.

But it was precisely this perfection that made her seem somewhat insincere, as though the image she presented wasn't truly her.

Familiar with Alexander Gascoigne's temperament, Princess Alice's tone was far from polite.

"Put away that fake smile, woman. You're no perfect noble lady—you're a nagging woman full of complaints!"

Gascoigne, seeing through Alice's façade, felt an inexplicable irritation rising within him.

The Campione, who wielded the authority of Godspeed, stood and approached Alice, reaching out as if to grab her.

But just as his hand was about to touch her, Princess Alice subtly withdrew her fair hand into her sleeve and took a step back.

Gascoigne froze, his expression darkening. "…What's the meaning of this?"

"I believe the question is what Lord Alexander Gascoigne means by this. Grabbing a lady's hand without permission is hardly the act of a gentleman."

Alice's faint smile lingered, but her tone was cold and detached.

"You're not…" Gascoigne began, his thoughts turning to the reports he'd seen—accounts of Princess Alice's supposed closeness to the New King, Roy. His anger flared momentarily.

However, Gascoigne's rationality as a Campione quickly prevailed. He exhaled, calming himself, and said, "Stop playing games. I came to save you. Come with me now."

"Oh? The Black Prince himself, coming to rescue his nemesis? How peculiar… But forgive me, I must decline. I have already been summoned by King Roy. If I were to leave with you, I would incur his wrath."

Princess Alice's words carried a faint trace of mockery, and her piercing gaze unsettled Gascoigne further.

Suppressing his irritation, Gascoigne forced his tone to remain even. "…And you're not worried about my anger?"

"You wouldn't act in anger, Lord Black Prince. Your personality is far too calculating for that. You hate taking risks, and you carefully plan every move. Without absolute certainty, you wouldn't dare act recklessly. As a Campione, I can't decide whether to praise your prudence or ridicule your caution."

Turning her attention back to the distant battlefield, where Roy and Marquis Voban clashed with unrestrained power, Alice sighed. Such reckless abandon in displaying their authorities was something Gascoigne would never do. While his restraint could be seen as a virtue, his excessive caution and calculating nature often came across as dour and unmanly—the kind of personality women tend to avoid.

Fortunately for Gascoigne, dealing with women was not among his strong suits.

"Give me a reason, Lord Black Prince. Tell me why you came to save me. If your reason is convincing, I might just go with you. Or…" she added, her eyes twinkling mischievously, "could it be that you've fallen for me and came here out of jealousy?"

Alice's body trembled with soft laughter, her playful tone disarming.

"Stop joking, you troublesome woman!" Gascoigne snapped, his voice laced with embarrassment. Turning away from her, he muttered, "If you don't appreciate my help, consider this meeting forgotten."

After a pause, he added, "…I don't get along with the New King at all."

"Indeed. Though King Roy is brash and unrestrained, there are certain similarities between you two. Both of you are highly rational and calculating. And two Campione who excel at scheming can never coexist peacefully."

Alice nodded slightly, affirming his words.

"I have a feeling," Gascoigne continued, his tone grave, "that one day, either he or I will fall by the other's hand."

With those words, Alexander Gascoigne activated his Godspeed authority and vanished.

"A woman who is not straightforward is destined to be a loser in life. A man who is not straightforward will never find someone to share his life with… Which is why I prefer Roy's honesty."

Watching the Black Prince leave, Princess Alice sighed softly. Gascoigne had the chance—the chance to approach her heart, even to win it. But his unwillingness to be frank had cost him that opportunity.

A shadow of worry crossed her face. "King Roy… If you keep fighting like this, you will lose."

As someone who understood both Roy's abilities and Marquis Voban's powers, Princess Alice couldn't help but feel growing anxiety.