Raphael's cloak was a fluid, shifting weapon.
At Rey's will, the cloak morphed into a spiked buckler attached to his left arm. The spikes were long and sharp, piercing the old man's body with brutal efficiency. Blood trickled down the black metal thorns.
They were standing chest-to-chest. Despite being impaled, the old man didn't flinch. Instead, his right hand shot out and clamped onto Rey's left shoulder.
His eyes were wide with disbelief.
This boy... this was the infant he had performed the Rite of Blessing on not long ago.
Anyone touched by the divine light carried a specific magical signature. The moment the Pope touched him, he felt it. There was no mistake. This teenager was the soulless baby.
The child had no soul. Even with the divine light, creating a soul from nothing was impossible; the Pope knew this better than anyone. He hadn't known why the soulless vessel was in a coma, but his judgment about the soul itself had been absolute.
Alofman's belief that the Rite could generate a soul was laughable ignorance. The Pope had only gone along with it for his own gain.
But now? That soulless baby was standing before him as a fully grown teenager.
How could he not be shocked?
An infant doesn't grow into an adult in a few weeks. And how does a vessel with absolutely no soul simply wake up?
Both questions fascinated the old man intensely. If he could solve this riddle, the rewards might be unimaginable.
"I never expected this... what a delightful surprise!"
The old man muttered, his lips peeling back in a grin.
His mouth was full of blood from internal injuries. The smile was hideous, tinged with madness, and it made Rey's stomach tighten.
Despite being gravely wounded, the hand gripping Rey's shoulder felt like a steel clamp. It didn't budge an inch.
Worse, the pressure was increasing. He was trying to crush Rey's shoulder blade.
"Argh!"
Rey roared in pain, shaking his shoulder violently. He had to break the grip. If he let the old man continue squeezing, his bone would shatter.
The old man didn't roar. But the veins on his right arm bulged, and his face twisted with exertion. He was pouring every ounce of his remaining strength into that grip.
He knew he was severely injured. If he let go, Rey would run. He had to cripple the boy now to buy himself time.
It was a contest of pure physical strength and pain tolerance. Neither side gave an inch.
Rey's roar grew louder, fueled by agony. But pain is a powerful motivator.
Bang!
A dull impact.
Rey's left arm went numb from the crushing pressure, causing him to lose his grip on the transfigured shield. He immediately grabbed the buckler with his right hand, retracted the spikes, and slammed the edge of the shield down onto the old man's wrist.
As he struck, new spikes erupted from the shield's surface. Rey didn't know if he could hit the old man's head, but he was definitely going to sever that hand.
---
However, nothing is ever certain in battle.
Thud!
Rey's spiked shield smashed the old man's right hand away. But in the same motion, the old man's left hand shot out and clamped onto Rey's right shoulder.
Rey's left arm was already useless. Now his right shoulder was captured. If he hesitated, both his arms would be incapacitated.
If that happened, he was dead.
Rey shouted again, throwing his body backward. He tried to rip himself free before the old man could fully engage his grip.
But the old man's left hand was just as strong. The sudden jerk only loosened the grip slightly; it didn't break it.
Realizing he couldn't pull away, Rey changed tactics. The shield in his hand suddenly lost its rigid form, expanding into a wide black cloth covered in thousands of tiny, needle-like thorns.
The old man's pupils constricted. Faced with a wall of spikes, he knew he would be turned into a pincushion if he held on.
Reluctantly, he released Rey's right shoulder and leaped backward, creating distance.
As the old man retreated, Rey kicked off the ground, sliding backward as well. The black cloth unfurled harmlessly; the spikes were short, and due to the rapid expansion, they lacked the range to hit the retreating Pope.
It had been a bluff.
But even a bluff works if the stakes are high enough. The old man dared not gamble his life on Rey's spell failing. Unless his skin was made of steel, retreating was the only logical choice.
Both men wanted distance. This was exactly what Rey needed.
The entire exchange had lasted only a second or two. In that brief window, it had been a desperate, chaotic struggle with no room for strategy.
The results were brutal. The old man's right hand was mangled, hanging uselessly at his side. His torso was punctured with at least six bleeding holes.
Rey looked unharmed on the surface, but his left arm hung limp. His fingers twitched slightly, but lifting the arm was impossible. His right shoulder burned with pain, though the bone seemed intact.
" Heh. Even a stone would have crumbled under that grip. Your bones didn't break... you really aren't human, are you?"
The old man glanced down at his ruined hand and sneered. He completely ignored the bleeding holes in his chest.
"Your body is pretty special too. Six holes in you, and you're standing there like nothing happened."
Rey didn't turn and run. In a wizard's duel, turning your back is a death sentence unless you have cover.
If he was going to retreat, he would do it facing the enemy, stepping backward carefully.
---
Rey remained calm. Even knowing this old man was the terrifyingly powerful Pope, his composure was unnatural for a teenager.
But Rey wasn't really a teenager. Adding his past life to this one, he was mentally nearing fifty.
If a fifty-year-old man who had adapted to the magical world couldn't keep his cool in a fight, he had wasted his life.
A normal teenage wizard, faced with the overwhelming aura of the Pope, might have panicked—either attacking rashly or fleeing in terror, exposing their back.
Rey's willingness to stand his ground and stare the Pope down forced the old man to reassess him.
"You... are not simple."
The old man's eyes narrowed. The look of disdain was gone, replaced by the gaze one gives an equal.
"Neither are you," Rey replied coolly.
The old man wasn't attacking, so Rey used the lull to recover. With one arm disabled, his balance and casting speed were compromised.
"A soul cannot be created from nothing. Even with rare magic, an artificial soul always has flaws. But you... you seem flawless."
The old man spoke as if they were discussing academic theory, ignoring Rey's defiant tone.
Rey frowned, confused.
" Heh. It doesn't matter if you don't understand. You have been touched by God's Light. If you join the Church, I can grant you a position equal to a Bishop."
The old man spoke eloquently, actually trying to recruit him.
But as he spoke, Rey noticed something. Faint wisps of steam were rising from the bleeding holes in the old man's chest.
If not for a slight shift in the air currents, Rey would have missed it.
The old man was healing rapidly. Visible to the naked eye, the wounds were closing. If Rey waited another ten seconds, the Pope would be fully recovered.
Rey was stalling for time, but so was the old man.
---
Kick him while he's down.
If he let the Pope recover fully, Rey knew he was dead meat.
He didn't care that his left arm was still numb. Without hesitation, he whipped out his wand with his right hand, pointed it straight at the old man, and shouted:
" Avada Kedavra! "
A bolt of sickly, ink-green lightning erupted from his wand, tearing through the air toward the old man's chest. fueled by pure dark energy, the Killing Curse was darker, heavier than usual.
It wasn't just a color change. The Killing Curse is Dark Arts; fueling it with pure dark energy made it exponentially more potent.
The green lightning was fast, powerful, and unstoppable.
But at the exact same moment, the old man also shouted:
" Avada Kedavra! "
Only... his Killing Curse was white.
White lightning, representing Light. Pure, holy, and without a single speck of impurity.
It was a "Holy" Killing Curse.
The sight was jarring, almost grotesque. It was so pure, so holy, that it felt utterly wrong.