MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

Chapter 863: The Sword Was The Sword

The Angel and the man moved like beings made for the sword. Beings born for the sword. Beings created for the sword. Every motion of their blades screamed perfection, accurate, elegant, deadly.

Sword technique met sword technique in endless succession, each feeding into the other’s motion and battle intent. Their eyes never left one another, locked as if they were falling in love, not with each other, but with the dance of blades, the artistry of war.

Slash. Cleave. Parry. Deflect. Dodge. Feint. Cut.

Every basic sword technique was employed without hesitation, without reservation, executed to perfection. While countless others across the expanse of the galaxy fought for home, for belief, for survival, these two were different. They had entered a contest of pure swordsmanship, a duel to discern who truly possessed the greatest knowledge of the blade.

Mana? Useless. Faith energy? Irrelevant.

The sword needed no external energy to reveal its true potential. The sword was the sword. The sword was ultimate. The sword was law. The sword was divine.

Their blades collided with the fury of a tempest, sparks flying as if the very air rebelled against the violence of their clash. Steel rang against steel, each strike a heartbeat of war, echoing like thunder across a storm-laden sky.

They danced in a deadly rhythm, swords flashing like lightning bolts torn from the wrath of a storm god. Each motion was a blur, weaving arcs of silver fire with the precision of duelists forged in legend.

Michael grinned widely as he moved. He held nothing back; his muscles strained, his feet danced across the surface of the star upon which he stood. He moved with frantic speed, attacking and defending in rapid, unrelenting intervals. He did not pause, did not blink, did not dare take his eyes from his opponent.

He felt it in real time, his body rejoicing as he pushed himself further and further. When had he last pushed himself to this extent? Three years ago? Five? Those moments were distant memories, shadows of the past. He needed the intensity of such a challenge constantly, a relentless river of battle to sharpen him further.

His blade flashed like a shooting star, swift and merciless, yet the Angel was no slow opponent. It raised its sword effortlessly, parrying Michael’s strikes with ease. But that only excited him, only confirmed the strength of his adversary, a worthy rival capable of keeping pace with his unrelenting speed.

The intensity of their clash escalated with every heartbeat. Battle intent surged to such magnitude that any onlooker nearby would have been flung away, shattered and obliterated by the shockwaves of their madness.

They moved like raging beasts, relentless, unbreakable. The sheer force of their battle made the air itself heavy with unspoken death. The void between them was consumed entirely by flashing steel and raw, uncontainable power. A single misstep, a single mistimed breath, and the duel would end in crimson and golden.

The Angel fought with extraordinary precision and efficiency. Its blade never wasted motion; every strike threatened to find its mark with unerring accuracy. It moved with the certainty of a sculptor chiseling perfection from marble, each slash measured, each thrust calculated to its inevitable conclusion. Its swordplay was an art of millimeters, a science of fatal precision.

One could not help but wonder: did this Angel place its unwavering faith in God, or in the sword itself? If forced to choose, which would it serve, the divine or the steel it wielded with such devotion?

It adjusted mid-swing, ensuring its blade landed exactly where intended. Its strikes left no room for resistance, moving as though guided by fate itself. Every attack was delivered without hesitation, timed to perfection, a manifestation of absolute mastery.

Yet, for all its perfection, Michael met every strike without faltering. Dodge? Please. To even suggest it would insult his name. As a man who lived for battle and who improved with each encounter, he met every blow head-on, unblinking. He blocked, parried, and deflected, his body a dance of fluid motion through void and space. Every cell, every fiber of muscle, screamed with exhilaration, urging him onward.

An attack too heavy to block? He tanked it. Adapted. Overcame. Nothing more, nothing less. He was a wall, immovable, unshakable. No matter what the Angel hurled at him, his hands and sword were already there in a blur to halt its motion.

He had not earned the title of Sword Saint for nothing.

Dragons, Titans, Elves, Vampires across the Blue Planet did not fear him for whim. He was a man who had carved his path through every stage, every trial, armed only with his sword. Human limitations? He had no knowledge of such constraints.

Augment himself with fire, mana, or other elemental forces? Never. The sword alone was absolute. If cultivation without the aid of mana were possible, Michael could reach the pinnacle with nothing but his sword and the strength of his human body.

But he was not here merely to defend. He was here to test his opponent, to see what they were truly made of, and to demonstrate why he bore the title of Sword Saint, and why he was the Father of the greatest anomaly and talent existence had ever witnessed.

With blinding speed, bordering on impossibility, Michael’s sword became the embodiment of swiftness and sharpness. His blade struck with the precision of a mathematician’s formula, perfect, infallible, flawless in its creation. As he moved, his speed increased in tandem with his strength, his every motion seemingly straining reality itself to contain the monster he had become.

He fought as if he already foresaw the outcome, and it always ended in his favor. His sword carved through the battlefield like a brush painting a masterpiece of blood. There was no glory in his battle, only the grim efficiency of a man who had mastered the art and epitome of the sword.

And so, the clash between divine and man continued. The galaxy itself seemed to sigh, its constellations ravaged by beings of impossible scale, beings defined by motion, power, and pure lethal artistry.

Slowly, a smile crept across the Angel’s face, a mirror to Michael’s own love and madness for the sword. In that shared passion, the duel continued, a testament to their devotion and skill. And for who truly loved the sword most, who understood it beyond technique or fame, this battle would decide who reigned supreme.