A Certain Multiverse's Holy Right

"Brother, your hand!"

The sweet, pure voice behind him jolted Roy out of his daze. Blood trickled down the cracked wall where his fist had struck, but he turned back to face Laura with a gentle smile that masked his turmoil.

"...Sorry, did I scare you, Laura? I was just frustrated with the contents of that book and lost myself for a moment."

He gestured with his chin toward the table, where the Book of 777 lay ominously.

As her brother, Roy couldn't allow his troubles to burden Laura. He had always strived to fulfill the responsibilities his role demanded with utmost perfection.

The Book of 777 was no ordinary text; it was a grimoire of immense toxicity, as if it encapsulated the essence of an evil god. A simple-minded person might glance at its surface-level mystic symbols without issue, but the more intelligent and curious the reader, the deeper they would dig into Aleister Crowley's thoughts, risking their soul being corroded by its dark poison.

"Aleister Crowley..."

Laura Stuart's eyes fell upon the name of the book's author, her ocean-blue irises darkening with a shadow of loathing. Even her sweet, melodic voice grew colder.

"...Brother, you really shouldn't read garbage written by someone like him. It'll poison you."

From a young age, whenever Laura spoke of "Aleister," her tone carried a deep-seated resentment. Roy had assumed it was because Aleister had abandoned them, leaving them to fend for themselves. But after hearing Aiwass's cryptic words, Roy suspected her hatred ran far deeper than mere neglect.

"Ah, wait! Your hand is still bleeding…"

The slightly scatterbrained Laura finally noticed the blood dripping from Roy's injured hand. She panicked, fumbling as she grabbed a roll of bandages.

In post-WWI London, military-grade supplies like bandages were still relatively easy to find. Laura carefully cut a strip with a pair of scissors, her delicate fingers trembling as she wrapped his hand with gentle care.

Roy watched her silently, the faint scent of her presence like orchids filling his nose. Her golden hair cascaded messily to the floor, and her porcelain face was marked by a focused seriousness. Her hands, soft and pale as jade, moved with cautious tenderness as she dressed his wound.

Yet—

"Laura, let me give you a piece of advice: stay kind, but whatever you do, avoid becoming a nurse."

Roy couldn't help but laugh as he looked at his heavily wrapped hand. The bandages were so tight that it felt like they were cutting off circulation. There was no way this would stop the bleeding.

If this were a battlefield, soldiers might die from Laura's bandaging skills before enemy bullets even had a chance.

"Eh? Is my bandaging really that bad? Someone taught me how to do this!"

Laura's gaze darted nervously, avoiding Roy's eyes. Her cheeks flushed pink, and her expression turned sheepish as she gave him an embarrassed, awkward smile.

"Who taught you to bandage wounds?"

"Sister Ella from the nearby Anglican church."

"I trust Sister Ella's skills, but I doubt she taught you to wrap bandages like this."

Roy glanced again at his absurdly wrapped hand and teased her with a smirk.

"...Is my bandaging really that bad? Are you joking, brother?"

Laura gasped, genuinely shocked by his comment.

Roy rolled his eyes. His sister, Laura Stuart, truly had moments of remarkable naivety. She often left him baffled by just how clueless she could be.

"Bread is going to get cold. If it cools, it'll harden and won't taste good. I'll go grab it."

Embarrassed by Roy's reaction, Laura lifted the hem of her long skirt and stood up to fetch their dinner. But after kneeling on the floor too long, her legs had gone numb. When she stood, she accidentally stepped on her nearly floor-length golden hair, stumbling awkwardly. If Roy hadn't caught her in time, she might have fallen flat on her face.

Watching her clumsy yet adorable retreat to the small kitchen, Roy couldn't help but smile.

This was the sister he had lived with for over a decade—a girl of unparalleled beauty, yet seemingly useless at everything else. She struggled with most tasks, but perhaps her greatest talent lay in brightening the room with her radiant smile.

…

Dinner was simple, eaten at the worn wooden table amidst a warm, familial atmosphere.

Calling Laura "useless" wasn't meant maliciously—it was just an honest reflection of her skills. Even the dinner she prepared was mediocre. The homemade jam was too sour, and Roy could barely swallow it without grimacing.

But he didn't complain. This wasn't the 21st century. In this post-war London, two poor children sharing even a modest meal of bread and jam was a blessing. Years of hardship had taught Roy to appreciate the simplest things.

After dinner, Laura tidied the room with her usual clumsiness. Plates and bowls were strictly off-limits to her—one accident, and they might not have replacements for months.

Meanwhile, Roy browsed the bookshelf, pulling out a random volume.

As he read, a thought struck him. "...Any news today?" he asked, glancing toward Laura, who was busy dusting.

Laura, rubbing her bruised knee after accidentally bumping into the table, paused to think. "Sister Ella said that warring nations are planning a meeting soon."

The siblings had received much care from the church during their childhood and were devout enough to consider themselves proper Christians. In their free time, they often volunteered to help others through the church.

"Paris, huh…"

Roy muttered to himself.

The thought of relocating to North America crossed his mind. If there was any safe haven in the early 20th century, it would likely be there. Europe, meanwhile, seemed destined for another war in a few decades.

But there was no rush. The next major conflict was still over a decade away. By then, Roy hoped to become a powerful magician capable of protecting himself and Laura from any danger.

…

After reading a few pages, Roy closed the book and glanced at the cover.

Author: Aleister Crowley.

This particular book wasn't a grimoire or mystical text but a shameless erotic novel.

Roy's fragmented memories painted Aleister Crowley as the ultimate schemer—a shadowy mastermind pulling the strings of the world from behind countless veils. Yet, the reality was far different. Aleister was more like an eccentric, reclusive old man. A hedonist, even.

Aleister's personal life was chaotic—an endless parade of lovers, peculiar jokes, and scandalous escapades. He had no respect for the sanctity of romance, seeing it as nothing more than a game. Letters Aleister had written to Roy's mother, still preserved in the house, hinted at the source of this attitude: Aleister was simply too handsome.

Yes, Aleister's striking good looks made it ridiculously easy for him to charm women. Winning hearts was as effortless for him as eating or drinking, which was why he took neither women nor love seriously. He likely didn't even know he had fathered illegitimate children.

(Author's Note: This isn't made up—Aleister Crowley's lifestyle was precisely like this in the original works.)

"Damn it… this cursed, shallow world where looks mean everything!"

Roy groaned dramatically. Before transmigration, he had struggled to even get a girlfriend. He couldn't help but feel bitter about it.

But a glance at his reflection in the mirror softened the blow. With the genes inherited from Aleister, Roy realized he now had little reason to envy anyone.

"Even Aleister couldn't write anything decent for his time. This garbage novel doesn't hold a candle to the stuff I've read back home. Honestly, I could write something better right now."

Shaking his head, Roy returned the book to the shelf. Aleister's peculiar penchant for writing erotic fiction seemed more like a hobby than an attempt at serious work. Most publishers had outright rejected his novels, forcing Aleister to fund their publication himself.

Clearing his thoughts, Roy returned to his desk and took a deep breath. From the bottom drawer, he retrieved a book bound in aged leather.

This was no ordinary text. It was a forbidden book, feared by all magicians who held faith in any religion.

Roy's eyes fell upon the title embossed on the cover:

"The Book of the Law" (Liber AL vel Legis).