MIGHT AS WELL BE OP - Chapter 872

Capítulo 872: Drunken Madness

The war between the Acarnis Galaxy and the Divinora Galaxy continued with utmost intensity. At this moment, both sides fought and died proudly for their respective homes, without a single thought of retreat. Blood flowed like milk and honey across the void of the galactic expanse, staining the endless darkness with crimson. Corpses drifted freely through space, floating as though they had become a new and grotesque Astra constellation. Organs of every kind, brains, lungs, kidneys, eyes, were scattered without order, while severed body parts followed suit: limbs, heads, torsos, all tumbling silently through the vacuum.

The galaxy itself had become a painting of death, a mural of horror so overwhelming that it defied proper description. Everywhere one looked, destruction reigned as though it had replaced reality itself. It was as if Order had been erased entirely, leaving apocalypse to stand unchallenged as the new natural law.

Stars crumbled into dust, their condensed energies exploding outward in devastating concussive bursts. Moons tore themselves apart, erupting in violent cascades of lunar energy. Suns imploded under their own overwhelming mass, releasing searing heat that scorched everything in their vicinity. Planets shattered before they could even complete a single orbit around their dying stars. Entire constellations and Astra bodies collapsed beneath the catastrophic collision of these two opposing cosmic forces.

Various forms of energy hung thick in the void, saturating space until it felt almost tangible. Mana energy, chaotic energy, faith energy, star energy, blood energy, vitality, each flowed freely, overlapping and colliding. Each type of power served a different purpose, yet all were bent toward the same singular cause: war.

Death itself hung heavy in the air. A cosmic battle of this magnitude flooded the Death Realm with uncountable souls, overwhelming its very foundations. The death toll was literally incalculable, especially when one considered the billions, no, trillions, of lives lost on the planets that had been annihilated during the conflict.

If heaven and hell truly existed, then without question, they would have been filled to the brim at this very moment.

At this point in time, the Angels and Aliens of the Divinora Galaxy had been completely wiped out. They were slaughtered without mercy, eradicated by the races of the Acarnis Galaxy. Victory had been achieved. Battle cries rose into the cosmic sky, reverberating across the void as pride and battle intent flooded the surroundings. For this fleeting moment, there was unity, racial discrimination, internal strife, and segregation vanished entirely beneath the overwhelming weight of shared victory.

Many warriors stood injured, their bodies broken and their essences damaged, yet none spared even a glance for their wounds. They knew they could recover later using healing potions. At their level of existence, such potions were exceedingly rare, their materials scarce beyond reason and their prices exorbitant. But at this moment, none of that mattered.

In a war of Galactic Conquest, they had emerged victorious. That singular fact eclipsed everything else.

Soon after, warriors began looking toward their kin, those of the same race, those from the Old Generation who had fought beside them for countless eras.

When the battle cries finally faded and the rush of adrenaline drained from their veins, reality came crashing down upon them with crushing force. Their gazes fell upon the corpses of friends, family members, lovers, and even strangers who had fought shoulder to shoulder with them. Deep down, they had always known that no war could exist without sacrifice, but that knowledge did not make the pain any easier to bear.

Most of the fallen belonged to lower and mid-tier races. Some had seen their entire Old Generation wiped out in a single battle. Others, such as the Vampire race, possessed undying and stubborn bloodline abilities that allowed many of them to resurrect even after death. Though some vampires had fallen permanently, the majority survived, clawing their way back from the brink once more.

Many members of the various races hardened their expressions, forcing stoicism upon their grief. Some shed silent tears for lost loved ones, while others stared blankly at the remains of fallen comrades. The loss cut deeply into nearly everyone present. Hatred burned within their eyes, and killing intent erupted from their bodies, flooding space itself. Before, they had merely looked down upon the Divinora Galaxy for daring to invade Acarnis, but now, the conflict had become personal.

Members of the Old Generation tore through the ruined galaxy, collecting bodies, fragments, and whatever remnants of their comrades they could find. Those who had fallen had died with honor, and they would be granted proper burials worthy of their sacrifices.

Above it all floated the Overseer, a member of the Voidwalker race. A wide grin stretched across his face as he hovered with his arms spread wide. Although two of the five Voidwalkers from the Older Generation had perished, it meant nothing to him.

His eyes burned with something deep and twisted, as though he were lost in his own private world. In this moment, he was relishing everything, the chaos, the destruction, the death, the pain, the agony. He had always loved battle. He had always loved war and carnage. And now, the galaxy itself had gifted him one, a battlefield of unprecedented scale and magnitude.

And the best part?

This was not the end.

He knew they would return. He knew that the famed Twelve-Winged Angels had yet to step onto the stage. Even their so-called God had not revealed himself, nor made an appearance as an enemy.

‘So many enemies,’ he thought, euphoria coursing through his body as it trembled with excitement. His blood boiled at the thought of how much more carnage was yet to come, of how much blood would still be spilled before this war truly reached its conclusion.

The remaining Voidwalkers glanced at the Overseer and shook their heads with weary sighs. He had always been like this, ever since they could remember. They simply ignored him, allowing him to revel in his own peculiar, drunken madness. Warriors from other races did the same, choosing not to acknowledge him.

No one disturbed him.

After all, he possessed the power to back up his arrogance and madness. He was a being who had battled Eleven-Winged Angels alone, and won. A feat so absurd that it normally required at least two beings of similar caliber working together.

Time blurred as hours passed. Across the devastated galaxy, survivors continued to gather the corpses of their kin and racial brethren, preparing rites for the dead amid the ruins of a universe forever changed.