Horror. Fear. Terror.
None of those words could adequately describe what Anya was feeling right now. The primal dread gripping her soul was a crushing weight, heavier than any physical blow.
She stood frozen, her lungs burning with exertion, as she watched Harry Potter, Lord Potter, sent back by a catastrophic blow that tore through him, then brutally stabbed and pinned to the ground.
His body was limp and unmoving, held fast by three black, ethereal spears driven through his torso and limbs. Above him, Morrígan, the Phantom Queen, like the very embodiment of fear, hovered in the sky. Her vast, crow-like wings were spread wide against the bruised, smoky horizon, and her cold, echoing laughter pulsed through the air like thunder.
"Hahahaha! You fought well, little God-slayer. A brilliant end for a spectacular, chaotic existence like yours. You died a worthy death. It truly was an amazing battle, just as I had foreseen all those centuries ago in my visions," Morrígan declared, her voice ringing with absolute joy.
She extended a perfect, alabaster hand, a hand that had no doubt fallen many others and conjured another black spear, shimmering in black light. "Here, let me end you quick, so you need not suffer anymore. Slumber for the rest of eternity, Harry Potter."
Anya didn't think, she just reacted. With a ragged, desperate scream, she swung Gram, the demonic divine Sun Sword, sending a concentrated burst of scorching sunlight and fire toward the towering figure of the goddess.
It was, objectively, a terrible tactical move. A suicidal gesture. But it succeeded only in drawing the god's full, chilling attention away from her campione.
"Oh? What's this? A loyal little pup trying to bite its master's slyaer? Do you wish to play too, mortal?" Morrígan tilted her head, amusement glittering in her eyes. She watched the girl point her legendary sword, a relic of great power but wielded by a dying mortal, at her. "Brave child. Foolish, but brave."
The amusement ended as quickly as it began. She flicked her hand, and her arm instantly turned into a whip of liquid shadow. It lashed out with supersonic speed.
Anya raised Gram to block, the force of the impact vibrating up the hilt and through her entire skeleton. A cry of pure, involuntary pain tore from her throat as the blow hurled her like a discarded doll, her body smashing violently into a jagged rock formation.
Pain exploded through her body, a wave of agony that threatened to drown her consciousness. She forced herself onto her hands and knees, spitting out a mouthful of blood and bile that stained the ravaged earth.
This was impossible.
This was a rogue God, there was no way of winning, no way for someone like her to put up an actual fight. Sure, sure, her sword may be able to affect her, but it won't reach.
Her mana reserves were utterly gone, the few, casual hits she'd received from Morrígan had already shredded her inner organs and nearly killed her.
The Campione was dead, and she was next. She stumbled, her legs threatening to collapse completely, and finally fell to her knees, stabbing the sword into the ground. She kept herself from falling completely onto the ground.
She heaved and panted, staring mindlessly at the scarred ground beneath her. But then, in her failing vision, something flickering in the dirt caught her eye.
A small, grim smile formed on her lips.
With a superhuman effort powered by the last vestiges of her will, she managed to push herself up, raising the sword once more toward the celestial being.
"Oh, even after all that, you still wish to fight, mortal?" the god said, her voice dripping with condescension, looking at Anya as if she were a pathetic pet performing a tiresome trick.
"You're not so tough," Anya wheezed, the effort of speaking tasting metallic as more blood spilled onto her chest.
Morrígan raised a brow, then burst out into a loud, mocking laugh that seemed to carry the sorrows of a thousand battlefields. "Ah, you humans always find ways to entertain me, even in your pathetic deaths! Very well, come! I am in a good mood. I shall allow you to entertain me for a moment longer," she said, treating the ensuing fight as a casual diversion. She snapped her hand, and five black spears materialized around her, spinning lazily like dark planets.
A jolt of fear hit Anya. She had seen what these things had done to Lord Harry, he, a campione, had been barely able to dodge them. What chance does she have.
The spears shot forward. Anya was shocked that she could dodge them at all. She kept jumping, rolling, and ducking away, forcing her battered body to move despite the screaming pain that threatened to render her unconscious.
'She's playing with me,' Anya realized grimly. The spears were far, far slower than when they had attacked the Seventh Campione. Morrígan laughed each time Anya barely escaped, dodging one by the skin of her teeth, a sadistic delight coloring her gaze. She was drawing out the humiliation, savoring the inevitable end.
Then the oppressive black smoke came out, surrounding her in a contracting circle. The circle kept getting smaller, and she was running out of room, her vision blurring at the edges. Before she knew it, she fell backward into the churning mist as she dodged one last spear.
The pain, oh, the unbearable pain. It was pain that she had never experienced before. It was like her flesh was being peeled from her bones, like her very soul was being wrung out and destroyed. She shrieked, shriveling inside the suffocating darkness.
—and then Gram shone.
A brilliant, blinding light of the sun itself burst from the blade. The fires of the Sun Sword banished the shroud, scorching away the foul, soul-destroying smoke to nothing. Anya was violently freed, collapsing to the ground, utterly drained, her life force sputtering like a dying candle.
"That's quite the sword you have there, girl. A fine relic of the sun," Morrígan mused, her playful tone vanishing completely. "For it to banish my Soul Shroud… it is worthy of respect. But that alone won't save you here. You lasted quite a while, but this is where you die."
She was ready to end the girl when Anya started laughing. It was weak, hoarse, and punctuated by hacking coughs.
"I… I never thought for a moment that I could win against you," Anya whispered, blood leaking from her lips. "I knew from the moment I saw you that I would not win." She smiled, a look of sublime, painful victory settling on her face. "But I will not die here. Because we haven't lost yet."
"We?" Morrígan snapped, her face twisting in confusion and sudden, chilling apprehension. Before she could complete the syllable, thick, blood-red iron chains erupted from the ground, coiling around her limbs and wings like serpents, trapping her instantly. She whipped her head around sharply, eyes blazing with fury.
Below, Harry was on his knees, coughing blood, but he was alive. A bloody, crooked grin split his face as he raised a small black stone. A sickly green light pulsed from the stone, and translucent, ghostly hands shot out, grabbing Morrígan and sinking deep into her ethereal, divine form.
Morrígan let out a deafening, inhuman scream of shock and excruciating spiritual pain as the cold hands tore at her very essence.
Harry would forever claim he was the master of the lucky escape, truly loved by Lady Luck. That was the only explanation for how he was still alive.
When he'd pulled every single defense he had to block the inevitable spears, he had somehow at the last moment managed to activate the Authority residing within the Cloak of Invisibility.
Right at the moment he was about to be fatally stabbed, the Authority activated, and his entire body turned into an intangible, swirling Death Mist.
Honestly, he had been way, way too lucky at that moment.
The name, Death Mist, had popped into his head, revealing its nature. While like this, he was completely untouchable by physical force or conventional magic, invisible to the naked eye and magic, and could slip past any defense.
He was a piece of the Afterworld walking the mortal plane, present but ultimately not touchable. It was pure, dumb luck that he'd brought it to his meeting with Narcissa Malfoy, a meeting he had fully intended to be rescheduled.
After realizing he was still miraculously alive, he used his Authority to write a message on the earth to Anya, asking her to keep the goddess busy for a few fleeting moments.
And Anya had delivered. She had perfectly drawn the god's attention, allowing Harry to work.
He used that priceless window of distraction to activate the Authority of the stone, Glaoch na n-Anamacha.
The effect is as seen. The ghostly hands weren't mere projections; they were the souls of all those of these lands.
"H-How? My Glaoch na n-Anamacha! You dare use my own Authority against me?!" Morrígan sputtered out, thrashing violently as she was forced to bear the soul-shredding pain of the phantom hands tearing into her very soul.
Bet she didn't think someone would use it against her when she put it in the stone, or maybe she did and just forgot about it, you never know with gods.
Harry staggered fully to his feet, ignoring the agony of his numerous wounds, and raised the Elder Wand. Green and crimson sparks danced along the tip, then coalesced into a single, terrifying beam of light. He fired off a blast that resembled a focused miniature nuclear detonation, blasting everything with the Authority to ensure his subsequent actions were absolute.
Decretum Macha.
This Authority simply granted the wielder the right to command and lead with authority over others, of course, only those lower than oneself, and it also multiplies the power of the master of the authority. The power of a Sovereign.
The Authority guaranteed his magic would instantly penetrate and negate any magical defense or enchantment cast by the opponent.
'Well, almost all power levels, ' he thought, gritting his teeth.
He watched Morrígan struggle, breaking the heavy iron chains on her limbs with a roar, but the spiritual hands held fast. She raised her free right hand, and a row of black spears formed, intercepting the blast, as the black smoke surged out to meet the oncoming Decretum Macha ray, pushing it back in a brutal deadlock.
But Harry didn't care at all about the stalemate. He had fully expected something to happen after all.
He was already in position.
"Gáe Bolg!" Harry yelled out, throwing his legendary lance, which screamed through the air like a demonic comet, rushing in, following close behind the projectile's trajectory.
"Fool! Haven't you learned anything?!" she shrieked, her voice regaining its mocking edge even while her soul was being held down and torn. She lashed out with her power over fate, causing the lance to shift its trajectory, making it veer harmlessly away from her body, even as Harry winced at what she did.
She freed her left hand from the phantom's grasp and prepared to stab Harry as he came in, but her eyes widened in horror.
She realized her mistake when she saw it, and realized it was too late.
Because just behind the deflected lance, moving at exactly the same speed, was another weapon, a dagger, glowing with a radiant, pure gold light.
"No…" she gasped, the truth striking her with the force of a thousand curses.
The dagger struck true, piercing her heart. Harry appeared an instant later, driving his boot into the hilt, shoving the blade deeper into her divine flesh. The gold of the blade exploded in blinding, pure light, carving a searing hole through her chest.
Morrígan's eyes were wide open, frozen in disbelief. She looked down at the wound, then back at the tyrant king.
Then, without another word, the Queen of Fate, the Goddess of Death and Sovereignty, toppled backward, her body crumbling instantly into black, wind-swept dust that mingled with the smoke of the battlefield. The Glaoch na n-Anamacha hands dissipated, their target gone.
Absolute silence fell around.
Harry collapsed back onto the ground, gasping, his body bleeding from dozens of wounds. He lay there, staring at the sky, the slowly receding smoke, the black stone, and the elder wand slipping from his grasp.
"Ha… finally…"
He exhaled, a shaky, exhausted laugh escaping him.
"That was… one hell of a fight…"
And with that, the Seventh Campione closed his eyes, victorious, his battle finished.
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