MIGHT AS WELL BE OP - Chapter 865

Chapter 865: The End

Suddenly, Michael and the Angel disengaged, both of them sliding backward as though pushed apart by an invisible decree of the cosmos itself. They stared at one another from across the fractured expanse, the two of them seeming to have reached an impossible impasse, an equilibrium so absolute that reality itself hesitated.

They were each other’s perfect nemesis, equal in strength, equal in speed, equal in sheer devotion to the sword. Neither could overpower the other in pure swordsmanship or in raw physical prowess.

The two stood several meters apart, suspended in the quiet aftermath of their destruction, their previous clashes still echoing through the ever-stretching boundaries of the galaxy. Solar winds howled. Space trembled. The remnants of broken constellations drifted like shards of shattered stained glass. Though neither of them spoke, their battle intent remained unchanged, unyielding, unbroken, unshaken. They stood as they were: battle-ready in every fiber of their being.

Black eyes met golden eyes. Two grins, feral, exhilarated, curved across their faces, but beneath those expressions, their silent thoughts sang praises for one another.

Michael had never met anyone who could truly match him in swordsmanship. No one, not in all his journeys, all his battles, all his victories. Only Klaus had ever exceeded him, but Michael never counted Klaus, for Klaus was not a benchmark but an anomaly, enigmatic, unreachable, beyond logic. But now, for the first time in his life, Michael met someone who matched him blow for blow, slash for slash, step for step. And instead of fear, he felt something else, thrill. Pure, unfiltered, addicting thrill.

He had always suspected that his son, Anthony, might have surpassed him in pure swordsmanship, but he had no proof. Anthony refused sparring matches with him and would simply run away if Michael tried to force one. So Michael never knew for certain. But this Angel, this being of divine radiance and cosmic birth, had proven himself in every exchange.

The Angel, for his part, stared back with equal fascination. Across the Angelic Haven, across the full breadth of Divinora’s celestial order, he remained unmatched in the sword. He was the pinnacle, the apex, the highest point any Angel had ever reached. Even the Twelve-Winged Seraph, those who stood above him in hierarchy and divinity, could not defeat him in swordsmanship. They could only rely on overwhelming physical power to force him back.

But now, here stood a mortal, no, a human, who met him perfectly. Who clashed with him as though shaped from the same forge. And strangely, impossibly, the Angel felt something foreign blooming in its chest. Something warm. Something familiar.

Something like love?

“What is your name, lower be—” the Angel began, but halted mid-sentence. It was about to call Michael a lower being, out of instinct, out of habit, out of celestial pride, but to call such a swordsman “lower” would be an insult to the sword itself. “What is your name, Human?” the Angel corrected, its voice carrying respect rather than condescension.

Michael remained silent for a heartbeat. His grin softened into a calm, knowing smile as he spoke. “My name is Null Michael, Sword Saint of the Blue Planet.” His voice held a rare warmth, a tone he reserved for those he deemed worthy, worthy enough to hear his name, worthy enough to cross blades with him.

Michael did not ask the Angel for its name. By courtesy, by tradition, it was the Angel’s place to introduce itself now.

“I am Khaerion U’zaemar D’kazuriel. Through the Divinora Galaxy, I am known as the Sword Origin,” the Angel replied, its tone serene yet proud as it revealed its identity.

The moment their names were spoken, reality trembled. A quiver went through existence, as though the cosmos carved this moment into its deepest records, etching it into history, into memory, into eternity’s marrow.

“Shall we settle this, Sword Origin?” Michael asked, his voice eager, playful, yet filled with profound reverence.

“To the death, Sword Saint,” Khaerion responded, his smile stretching into a feral grin.

“For the Sword, O Sword Origin,” Michael declared, his tone rich with finality.

“For the Sword, O Sword Saint,” Khaerion returned.

And with those final words, reality paused, hesitated, then shattered into glittering fragments as an impossible wave of energy erupted from both beings. This was the moment they unleashed their Sword Intents.

This was the only way to settle their duel. They had been equal in everything before this point, but equality could not exist before pure Sword Intent. Sword Intent was the crystallization of their spirit, their understanding, their obsession, their love, their duty, their devotion to the blade. It was the truest manifestation of their will.

It was the sword given thought. It was thought given edge. It was edge given existence.

Their Sword Intents lashed out, devouring all things. The two beings became the literal embodiment of the sword. They were the slash. They were the cut. They were the thrust. They were the cleave.

The galaxy burned in cataclysmic brilliance. Beings of the olden ages would have gone blind had they dared to look at the two figures standing at the heart of that impossible radiance.

One Sword Intent burned silver, serene, cold, precise.

The other burned gold, fierce, divine, radiant.

Different colors. Different essences.

Yet both perfect personifications of the sword.

Their hands moved toward the scabbards hanging at their waists. Fingers curled around hilts as their Sword Intents flowed into their sheaths, saturating their blades long before either blade was drawn. Their knees bent ever so slightly, lowering their stances.

Tension mounted. Anticipation stretched infinitely.

Existence itself recoiled in a state of prophetic dread.

Then, in the next instant, reality blinked, and the two beings vanished. Not through speed. Not through movement. It was as if reality lost track of them. A heartbeat later, perception snapped to another location, and there the two stood.

Michael and Khaerion had closed the distance in far less than a fraction of a millisecond. They had surpassed that. Their motion skimmed the threshold of planck time, the smallest unit of existence itself.

Their bodies, minds, nerves, senses, every part of them had been elevated beyond all limits by their Sword Intent. In that moment, they ascended to a height that even dreams could not hold.

The sound of their blades leaving their scabbards split the air in a violent hiss, sharp enough to tear a star apart.

And then, in a catastrophic, sunderous clash, the two blades, one burning with silver Intent, the other blazing with gold, collided with abominable force. Existence halted. Order hesitated, as though uncertain whether it should allow the consequences of such a strike to unfold. But in the next heartbeat, the decision was no longer in its hands.

A titanic blast, vast, all-devouring, tore through the galaxy, screaming a single phrase into the bones of creation itself: The End.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE: You don’t have to tell me. I know it’s peak.