With that, he swung his sword in a downward arc. The speed of the swing was no joke. So he was serious then.
Crowley jumped back, knocking over the chair in the process. The direction he jumped in was where the table was, with his sword leaned against it. The next instance, he grabbed the sword and unsheathed it.
It was probable that Roy was stronger now than he used to be. After all, he kept training and improving his swordplay even now. Crowley was aware of the fact. Roy wasn’t a man of politics.
But still, as of yet…
“…I’m still stronger.”
With that, Crowley raised his sword and clashed his blade against Roy’s. Roy was probably heavier and more muscular than Crowley, but the force behind Crowley’s blade still won. A clatter of metal on metal was followed by the sound of Roy’s sword breaking. Crowley struck it in the way so that it would. The broken-off tip, spinning wildly, lodged into the ceiling.
But Crowley didn’t stop his attack. Letting his sword press into Roy’s neck driven by the momentum, he swept Roy’s legs from under him, knocking him down to the floor.
“…Ugh”, Roy groaned.
Looking down on the fallen man, Crowley ordered coldly, “Get lost.”
Roy glared at him, and spoke up. “…Just what are you running away from, Crowley Eusford?”
“I’m not ru—”
But again, Roy didn’t let him finish, continuing his speech. “Gilbert said that you’ve started losing God. No one says it out loud, but all those who returned from that war are more or less the same way. That war was just too horrible. It’s impossible to believe that God watched over us back there. But still, me and you survived that war. Survived the hell that was nigh impossible to survive. Isn’t that divine providence?”