MIGHT AS WELL BE OP - Chapter 868

Capítulo 868: Sexist And Misogynistic

Mitchelle floated within the vast expanse of space, her figure suspended effortlessly amid the cosmic chaos. Her gaze rested on the man drifting beside her, she remembered him all too well. The Pervy Sage. Azarion StarWeaver. The Eclipsian. A man as gifted as he was insufferable.

“Don’t you have any Angel to battle or whatever?” Mitchelle asked, her blue eyes narrowing slightly as she regarded the man who seemed more captivated by her presence than the galactical war unfolding around them.

“Well,” the Pervy Sage replied, stroking his long white beard with a motion that was meant to appear sagely but only made him seem more theatrical, “these eleven-winged pigeons are too strong. We need to battle them in pairs, just as everyone else is doing.” His tone exuded the calm wisdom and serenity he was famous for, even though his intentions were anything but pure.

Mitchelle stared at him for a long, assessing moment before she intoned, “If you are weak and need saving, just say that. There is no need to hide your fears behind a veil. After all, you seem to fear death more than anyone here.”

Azarion’s lips twitched, his expression momentarily cracking. She had, in essence, called him a coward straight to his face. Yet he could not deny the truth in her words. Although the top ten races were undeniably powerful, some of them still required teamwork to face even a single eleven-winged Angel. Not everyone was Anthony, Aura, Lucian, Aaaninja, or Kingsley, monsters who could toy with their opponents as though they were children. Those individuals were anomalies, walking impossibilities.

Even Michael, the Sword Saint, despite all his unfathomable power, had defeated the Sword Origin at an immense cost, suffering wounds that tore at his body and dug into his essence.

Azarion’s eyes drifted back to Mitchelle. Yes, he knew she was powerful, terrifyingly so, but powerful enough to match an eleven-winged Angel alone? That, he doubted. Unless her strength had once again increased within these past three years, which he found unlikely. At their level, advancement was not something easily attained. Their power was carved through tribulation and crisis, not random leaps.

Though they could slaughter ten-winged Angels without hesitation, the eleven-winged were a different existence entirely.

Still, Azarion StarWeaver possessed his pride. In truth, he was sexist, deeply misogynistic even, believing women existed solely to serve him in pleasure. He had met countless powerful women throughout his long life, those capable of standing toe to toe with him, some even capable of killing him, yet none had ever shifted his warped ideology.

Even after his duel with Mitchelle, a duel he had lost decisively, his mindset had not changed. He remained the man who invited every beautiful woman he encountered into his bed and harem. But Mitchelle… Mitchelle was different. Special. Unique. Despite being a mere Human, her presence lingered with a sharpness his ego could not ignore. And that only made him desire her more.

Ironically, he had never lain with a Human before, deeming their bodies unworthy of his so-called divine flesh. But Mitchelle had made him curious, curious enough to entertain the idea. None of the sex he’d with humans, however, compared to the fantasies his mind imagined having Mitchelle beneath him.

‘Tsk. I hope her stupid husband dies during this battle,’ Azarion thought bitterly, clicking his tongue. To him, Michael was the obstacle that denied him paradise. He had witnessed the Sword Saint’s power three years ago. Azarion was arrogant, but he was not foolish, he knew he could not defeat Michael. Not then. Not now. Most likely, not soon.

“I will take on an eleven-winged pigeon myself then,” Azarion said suddenly, voice calm and resolute. His pride would not allow him to stand by while a woman fought an eleven-winged Angel alone, while he required assistance to face another.

Before the words even fully left his lips, his presence exploded outward, rippling through the star-littered void. The ten rings on his fingers flared with brilliance, each acting as a reservoir of mana, allowing him to engage in endless battle without the slightest concern for mana conservation.

“I may have lost to you, Crimson Mitchelle,” he announced proudly, “but I shall show you why I am known as the Sage of the Stars.” His body brightened in response, radiating with cosmic energy, pride dripping from every syllable.

Mitchelle floated silently, merely watching the pervert posture before her. Although they had once fought in a life-and-death struggle, she bore him no grudges. The battle had ended in her victory without her sustaining a single wound. During their time at the meeting at the old generation meeting, he had persistently hovered around her, spouting nonsense, offering propositions, and generally being an irritating cosmic mosquito. Yet she found his presence oddly comedic. Annoying, but tolerable, for now. Should he ever overstep, she would not hesitate to remind him of his place.

As though reacting to his rising battle intent, an eleven-winged Angel tore through the void toward him with blinding speed.

“Good luck then, Sage of the Stars, I will be watching” Mitchelle said lightly, a faint smile touching her lips before she shot upward in a shimmering blur of light.

Azarion smirked as the image of her smile replayed in his mind. ‘She will be watching,’ he repeated inwardly, his smirk stretching into a full grin.

Unfortunately for him, whatever delusional fantasies he had spun about Mitchelle would never come to pass. Reality did not bend for him. He was merely an extra, one among countless beings, nothing extraordinary in the grand tapestry of existence.

But reality mattered little to a man lost in desire.

With Mitchelle’s voice echoing in his mind, he cast his first spell.

[Wind Magic: Howl of the World Ender]

His voice thundered through the void as an enormous surge of mana erupted from the enchanted ring on his finger. Space warped and quivered around him beneath the devastating pressure.

Then the howling began.

From nothingness, the wind materialized, not as breeze, nor storm, but as an apocalypse. The cosmic air twisted violently, condensing into massive curved arcs of wind, each one vibrating with enough force to sever worlds, each one pulsing with a malignant intent that whispered endings. And then they struck.

With blinding speed, the arcs shot forward, cleaving through space itself as they raced toward the incoming Angel, rending reality in jagged scars.

And thus began the suicidal battle of Azarion StarWeaver, the Pervy Sage, fighting not for honor, nor duty, but in a desperate, doomed effort to impress a woman he could never have. A man hopelessly lost in a dream he could never reach, his desires as unreachable as the stars he claimed mastery over.