MIGHT AS WELL BE OP - Chapter 667

Chapter 667: Victory Drinks

The soldiers stationed at Military Base Alpha-9, those who had not participated in the mission against the Forsaken Cult, had prepared themselves mentally for the worst.

In their minds, they were braced for the sight of corpses being ferried back, of fallen comrades who had given their lives for duty. After all, missions of such magnitude always demanded their price. Thousands of lives were inevitably lost, swallowed up in the chaos of war.

But when the Last Stand aircraft descended and the soldiers disembarked, the sight that greeted the stationed forces left them utterly speechless. They were stunned into silence, their minds thrown into disarray. The number of soldiers returning was far greater than they had dared hope for. It made no sense. Their eyes, hardened by battle and loss, refused to believe what they were seeing.

Questions burst forth like wildfire in their thoughts.

What had gone wrong? Had the mission been aborted midway? Did the Warlords change their minds at the last second? Was it possible the Supreme Monarchs themselves had intervened and called the mission off? Or perhaps, more alarmingly, had the element of surprise been compromised, forcing the higher-ups to retreat before the Forsaken Cult could spring an ambush?

Their minds churned with doubts. They could not fathom the mission being declared a success without the usual, crushing toll in lives.

Success without sacrifice was unheard of.

But the confusion was not theirs alone. Even the Logistics Department, seasoned in welcoming back battered veterans, was baffled. They watched soldiers return one after another, heading to their islands or preparing their aircraft for repairs.

Normally, those same soldiers would drop off battered weapons, shattered armor, or scarred equipment for mending. But this time, there was nothing, no piles of broken steel, no blood-soaked armor to clean, no bent shields or cracked helmets. The weapons carried by the returnees looked literally unused, gleaming as though they had been spared the horrors of war.

The logisticians were as lost as the stationed soldiers. Their confusion turned to urgency, and soon the inevitable question was asked.

The answers they received shook them to their very core.

The Forsaken Cult had been eradicated, completely annihilated.

The logisticians were not shocked by the outcome itself. They had always believed, deep down, that the Forsaken Cult could never withstand the might of a full-scale military operation.

A single base, if deployed in earnest, could topple the Cult with ridiculous ease. That was not the astonishing part. No, the real impossibility lay in the fact that not a single soldier had been lost. Every man and woman had returned alive.

Such a thing was unprecedented. Impossible. Unbelievable.

But before they could cling to disbelief, the returning soldiers corrected them. Not everyone had survived the mission. Thousands had indeed fallen in battle. The sands of the Abandoned Desert of Ruins had been stained red, and corpses had littered the ground.

But… they had been resurrected.

The word itself felt like a blade pressed against the heart.

Resurrected.

The stationed soldiers recoiled as though struck, their minds screaming that they were being mocked. How could the dead be restored to life? Was this some cruel jest? Some twisted attempt at humor? It sounded absurd, insulting even. To toy with life and death was to spit in the face of nature itself.

But the returnees were far from done. Their voices carried with them the weight of truth as they recounted, step by step, the miracles they had witnessed during the mission.

Anthony had fought a Demon King.

He had faced a Demon Monarch, a subordinate of that very King, and battled on a planetary scale, his strength clashing against power that could shatter entire worlds.

He had reversed time itself for the entire Blue Planet. Buildings restored, battlefields repaired, broken swords reforged, shattered armor mended, ruined terrain reshaped into its former state, all undone in a single sweep of impossible might.

He had resurrected every soul that perished on that day. Not just soldiers, but every single being. The number of the dead ran into the millions, and yet not one life remained lost.

With every new revelation, the stationed soldiers felt their minds collapse under the weight of the impossible. Their thoughts became a tangled mess of disbelief. Their ears seemed to betray them, translating words into nonsense. This could not be real. This should not be real.

Could even the Supreme Monarchs themselves achieve such feats? They were revered as godlike, yet none among the stationed soldiers had ever personally witnessed their true power.

To them, the Monarchs were as much myth as reality, distant and untouchable. Perhaps such miracles were within their reach, but to think that all of this had been wrought not by a Monarch, not even by a Warlord, but by a mere Major-ranked soldier?

The revelation shattered their sanity.

A Major-ranked soldier.

Their thoughts ground to a halt. Their minds refused to process. It was as though reality itself had fractured.

Then came regret, sharp and bitter. They cursed their own luck, cursed the choices of the Warlords who had left them behind to guard the base. Had they been chosen to partake in the mission, they would have witnessed the impossible with their own eyes.

They would have stood upon the battlefield where time was reversed, where death itself was undone. They would have seen a Demon King fought, a Demon Monarch suppressed. Instead, they had been confined to the base, missing the most awe-inspiring sight of their era.

But regret gave way to resolve. It was not their fault. It had never been their choice. The Warlords had decided who would march and who would remain. Fate itself had decreed they would stay behind.

Even as they cursed, hope returned to their hearts. The returning soldiers informed them that the entirety of the battle had been recorded, and the recordings were already available across the interplanetary network. At once, the stationed soldiers logged in, their eyes glued to screens as they bore witness to the unimaginable.

What they saw burned itself into their souls.

Stars shattered like glass. Moons splintered under the force of battle. Suns wavered as though struck by titanic hands. Planets crumbled like fragile paper before the crushing weight of colliding powers.

Their disbelief gave way to awe, and awe gave way to joy. A cancer had been cut from the world, a festering wound finally purged. The Forsaken Cult, scourge of countless lives, had been annihilated.

Happiness surged through their veins, pure and unrestrained. Cheers erupted. Roars of triumph echoed through the base. Grins stretched across every face, tears mingling with laughter.

Who did not hate the Forsaken Cult?

Everyone who was not one of them despised them. The Cult had brought nothing but suffering. They kidnapped children, trafficked organs, violated innocents, slaughtered leaders, and paved the way for Demons to thrive. They were a thorn in the side of all race, a parasite gnawing at the roots of civilization.

Now, that thorn was gone.

The soldiers embraced one another. They laughed. They rejoiced. Some collapsed to their knees in relief. It was not that they considered themselves saints, far from it. The world was selfish, its people driven by survival and ambition. Yet even in that selfishness, there remained a line they would not cross. They were not monsters. They were not cultists.

For many, this moment carried a deeper weight. It reminded them of why they had joined the military in the first place. For peace. For the faintest hope of it. For even a fragment of light in a world dominated by darkness. And now, in this single victory, they had grasped that fragment. The darkness had been lessened. If only a little, the world was safer today than it had been yesterday.

But amidst celebration, some soldiers’ eyes burned with renewed determination. They knew well that darkness was patient. The Forsaken Cult would rise again, perhaps not tomorrow, perhaps not in their lifetime, but it would return under a new name, under a new guise. And when it did, they would be there. They would fight again. They would sever it once more.

Bottles were lifted into the air. Victory drinks flowed freely, glasses clinking together in thunderous cheer. Songs erupted across the base, voices raised in unison.

Couples retreated into the shadows to indulge in passions stirred by triumph, commemorating the night with intimacy. Friends clasped one another’s hands, roaring their victory into the heavens.

It was a night of relief. A night of celebration. A night where, for once, the impossible had been achieved.

Why aren’t y’all reading… Y’all don’t want me to win….?