Anya Magnus raised her sword, the blade trembling slightly in her gauntleted hand as she pointed it right at the Heretic God. Her heart hammered a frantic, desperate rhythm against the thick armor of her chest plate.
She knew, with a certainty that she couldn't fight something like this, couldn't win. Hell, everyone in the Association had told her so when she demanded to come. Her father, a high-ranking member of the Association's inner council, had expressly forbidden it, his voice had been like a rare storm of fury and paternal fear. He saw a daughter rushing toward an inevitable death; Anya saw a necessary role in a far larger, terrifying script.
She had been too stubborn, too driven by the vision given by the Miko, a vision that showed her in pure light magic that she wielded, was a crucial thread in the weave of this 7th campiones's survival.
Still, as she stood before the deity, all the theoretical bravery melted away, leaving only a profound, crushing sense of helplessness. Morrígan stared down at her with those lightless, abyssal eyes, and Anya felt a cold sweat instantly plaster her tunic to her back.
Just that gaze, devoid of light yet somehow more menacing than any snarl, was enough to make her knees nearly buckle. It was the look of a being gazing not at her, but through her, seeing the sequence of events that would inevitably lead to her demise.
Yet, she steeled her nerves. She would stand. She decided that if her fate was to die here today, she would at least fulfill the prophecy of helping the campione kill the heretic god.
Morrígan shifted her attention fully toward the small, insignificant girl, who seemed to always be interfering, and in that instant, Harry lunged. His claws, radiating his authority, Rend Reality, tore across the god's chest and sent her flying, a black, furious smear of divinity across the devastated landscape. The briefest moment of distraction was all the Campione needed. Harry spun back, eyes narrowed on Anya, his breathing ragged.
"Who are you, and why are you here?" he demanded sharply, his voice devoid of pleasantries. The brusque tone would normally have been rude, but she realized he wasn't trying to be insulting; he simply needed critical information now to assess the sudden, unpredictable variable. His eyes never left the crater where the goddess had fallen, already predicting her ferocious return.
"I am Anya Magnus. A great knight of the Apollon School," she said, forcing her voice to be steady despite the tremor in her hands. The Apollon School specialized in Solar and Lumina magic, focused on purity and banishment. "I have come to aid you, Lord."
Apollon School? Harry thought, his brow furrowing beneath the grime. He had been reading up on the various Mage Association structures but hadn't gotten indepth with them. He knew enough to recognize that any school strong enough to send a warrior to this frontline was a major player, but he couldn't afford a detailed strategy review.
"You could die here, you know," he told her straight up, the urgency of his situation bleeding into his words. He was testing her resolve, ensuring she wasn't a liability.
"I know. And I am prepared," she nodded firmly, her grip tightening on her sword. The sword, a gift from her lineage, shimmered faintly with contained solar heat.
"Good. Keep your distance and back me up." He didn't have time to be cautious or diplomatic; they would have to operate on instinct and utility, a desperate partnership forged in the fires of divine combat.
No sooner had he given the order than Morrígan shot out from the rubble. A pair of large, shadow-feathered wings erupted from her back as she broke the sound barrier with a concussive sonic crack that split the air, tackling Harry. The impact was like being hit by a freight train forged of solidified night. It drove him deep into the earth, the goddess dragging him through the pulverized soil, tearing a massive furrow before flinging him skyward like a discarded toy.
Her spear-arm warped, elongating into a whip of solidified shadow that wrapped around his body before she yanked him back down, intent on smashing him into the ground and grinding his bones to dust.
'That hurts, or it would have,' Harry thought grimly. The moment she had pulled him back, he had used his Authority to conjure a globe of pressurized water. His body fell through the sphere, slowing his descent and cushioning the impact just enough for him to drop to the ground on his feet.
He used the brief respite of the landing to grab the whip wrapped around him in a tight grip and pulled, spinning around to leverage her own momentum. She righted herself instantly and dove toward him, her hand snapping from a whip to a razor-sharp black blade, trying to run him through.
But just as she got close, a wave of fire struck her. It sent her recoiling back for a moment. She stopped in the air, looking at her right hand, which was distinctly singed and marred by black, flaking ash.
The wound wasn't deep, but it was real. Harry couldn't help but notice that what Anya had done had left a mark on the god, small but undeniable.
This wasn't merely fire, this was divine counter-magic.
The goddess wanted to rush at the girl, her snarl wiping away the amusement she had worn since the start of the battle. Harry immediately blocked her focus by slamming his hands into the ground. Countless roots, thick as ship masts, burst out and braided themselves together until a colossal arm formed, a desperate manifestation from his Oneirothrone Authority. He fisted his own arm, and the root-arm mirrored the action, crashing down and smashing Morrígan deep into the earth.
A second later, she tore free, snarling. The carefree smile was gone, replaced by pure, murderous annoyance. She was finally taking them seriously. In an instant, Harry raised another root arm, two massive, clawing limbs now threatened the goddess. She gave Anya a look that promised complete annihilation if the Campione wasn't in the way, and Harry didn't doubt the threat for a second.
Harry blurred forward, appearing in front of the Heretic God and punching her across the head. She dodged and retaliated by returning the favor, striking back. Her hand froze mid-air, but that seemed not to work, as her entire being changed into a massive serpent of shadow and wrapped around him, intent on crushing him. She immediately jumped off him, backing away, as a sword swung exactly where she had been.
Anya. The girl was bloodied and battered, her movements faltering from fatigue and fresh wounds, but she wasn't in the way, she was BUYING seconds with pinpoint, timely interruptions. He was glad for that.
He summoned a broadsword and swung it at Morrígan, who had shifted back to her humanoid form. She brought her spear-arm at the broadsword, and it shattered instantly.
He summoned a battle-axe, channeling Rend through it, and the same thing happened. A katana, a war hammer, daggers, a halberd, every single weapon, regardless of the power he poured into it, crumbled under her precise strikes. Why? His Rend Reality should, at the very least, make them a threat, but they were being destroyed as if they were mere paper.
He watched Anya as she moved, blocking a whip that came at her, raising the sword as the whip struck the weapon and sent her flying. Harry created another weapon, watching carefully as he attacked the god, but was surprised when her eyes flashed purple, a momentary ripple of violet light in the pitch-black abyss of her gaze, before she twisted her hand and struck the weapon, and it shattered. It took a few more frantic trials and shattered weapons before the horrifying realization struck him, a cold dread far worse than physical pain.
'Bullshit, are you telling me she had mystic eye of death perception?' Harry wasn't sure if they had made a mistake. She landed a hit, sending him back a little
"Shit," he muttered, spitting blood and gritting his teeth. "That's not fair. I can't build any offense if everything I make has a built-in expiry date she can read." The realization was crushing; he was effectively fighting unarmed, reliant only on his brute strength and her momentary distraction.
Anya came back, her armor scorched and her movements faltering from fresh wounds. She was bleeding from several small cuts where the whip had found exposed flesh, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Raising her sword, she let out a brilliant light like the very sun had descended, a golden, radiant wave that banished the creeping black mist, forcing the Morrígan to raise her hands to shield her eyes.
The Solar Law of the Apollon School was an effective antidote to the shadows of the Netherworld, pushing back the darkness with sheer purity.
Harry used that critical chance. Chains of root, drawn from the deepest well of his Oneirothrone's power, surged up, wrapping Morrígan tight, pinning her limbs, pulling her into the air. He snarled, demanding that they hold. He felt the immense strain on his soul, the cost of binding a deity even for a moment, but he ignored the pain. This was it, the ultimate gamble.
His normal weapons had failed. They were all useless since she started using that copy MEDP, but now he had a clear shot at her, and he had the perfect weapon to finish the good.
He needed Gáe Bolg.
"I call upon the hero's ultimate frenzy and the law of the inevitable spear!" he roared, pouring his stolen divinity into the chant. The air around him screamed with the reversal of time. "The action of the future precedes the cause of the present! I swear by the fate of the great King's Hound that this desire shall be completed, and this outcome shall not fail!"
A golden-white lance appeared in his grip, glowing with overwhelming power. The Aura of the Inevitable Spear enveloped him, a visible wave of causality, a promise made manifest.
He took a stance, muscles tightening, his hand cocked back. The lance lit up with a blinding aura, a weapon that demanded its end be met and its target be pierced.
"Gáe Bolg!" he shouted, hurling the legendary spear at the chained Heretic God hanging helplessly in the air.
This was his win.
He threw the spear whose Law of Causality Inversion dictated that the outcome, the heart pierced, must occur before the action of the throw. Gáe Bolg never missed. It was a certainty carved into the fabric of the weapon.
The spear screamed through the air, a golden tracer aimed directly at her heart, the brilliant light promising absolute finality. Harry's lips curled into a savage, relieved grin. The sheer, overwhelming exertion of his previous efforts vanished, replaced by the giddy rush of impending victory.
And just when it was mere inches from its target, as its Law was about to assert itself, it shifted all on its own and missed the shot.
'It missed.'
Harry froze, horror crushing the air from his lungs. "What, " he stammered, the word lost in the sudden. He felt the backlash of the failed Authority tear through his spirit, a devastating, non-physical pain far worse than any wound.
Morrígan's laughter rolled across the battlefield, black and mad, laced with the terrifying certainty of a being that had all confidence and was the Mistress of Sovereignty. The chains shattered like twigs, raining down broken concepts.
She spread her wings wide, her eyes alight with cruel amusement, her voice a chilling pronouncement of absolute superiority.
"Did you really think fate would let you kill me, little God-slayer? "
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