MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

Chapter 866: Final Chapter

The instant the two swords collided, the galaxy itself seemed to convulse. Reality rippled outward in an uncontainable shock, and the cosmos blurred into a heaven-blotting explosion of pure, unrestrained Sword Intent. Every color that had ever existed, every wavelength on the visual spectrum, every celestial hue seen or theorized, vanished as though erased by an unseen deity. Only two colors remained, refusing to bow to obliteration: Silver and Gold. Nothing else dared to exist.

Stars? Shattered into particulate dust too small to register on any cosmic scale.

Suns? Erased, their cores ruptured into silent implosions.

Moons? Ravaged, their surfaces torn into meteoric shrapnel.

Comets? Disintegrated before they could even melt.

Asteroids? Reduced to nothingness so fine it could not even be called ash.

The all-consuming surge of their Sword Intent moved across the cosmos with the tapestry of a true apocalypse. Every fragment of matter, every law of physics, every stubborn piece of reality that dared stand in the way was reduced to absolute void. Those from the Divinora Galaxy and the Acarnis Galaxy, unfortunate enough to be standing even remotely close, were erased entirely, their atoms unmade before their minds could comprehend what killed them.

People across several star systems went blind just from the faintest corner of their eyes brushing against the explosive light of that clash. Others went deaf simply from hearing the distant echo of the collision, a sound so immense that lesser beings’ senses tore apart under its magnitude.

But did the Sword Saint and the Sword Origin care?

No. No, they did not.

To them, nothing existed except the Sword. Not the galaxies. Not the lives. Not even the looming Galactic Invasion that threatened both of them. Every grand event, every cosmic crisis, every lingering responsibility could fall into the deepest pit of oblivion, for in this moment, only the blade mattered.

Michael and Khaerion moved like twin galactic cores colliding, each motion a force of nature. Their Sword Intent, both impossibly dense and immeasurably vast, radiated with the power to erase not just reality, but the concept of existence. Every collision, every technique, every flaring burst of power carried only one result: annihilation.

They attacked with no hesitation.

They defended with no restraint.

They fought with nothing but pure instinct sharpened through millennia.

Their speed eclipsed anything they had ever achieved in their lifetimes, transcending everything they once believed possible. For lesser beings, even glimpsing a fraction of their movement would require divine sight and cosmic reinforcement; for the two of them, it was merely their natural rhythm.

Sword Intent.

An energy both men wielded with mastery so complete it bordered on divine authorship. They were not simply using the Sword Intent, they were shaping it, commanding it, crafting it as though they were the very beings who created the concept of swordsmanship. They drew from the same cosmic source, yet the manifestation of their power differed: Michael’s silver Sword Intent was sharp, absolute, clinical in its destruction. Khaerion’s golden Sword Intent was overwhelming, radiant, and ravenous.

Michael’s hand blurred with an existence-rending motion, his entire body cloaked in shimmering silver radiance. His voice echoed through the void with the tone of a cosmic decree:

Cosmic Sever.

It was a sword technique he had crafted personally, one he ever hardly used, because no one had ever deserved to see it. But Khaerion was worth it. As Michael swung his blade, billions of silver sword lines bloomed into existence, each heavy with Sword Intent potent enough to slice apart the seams of spacetime. The countless slashes roared toward Khaerion, carrying the force of void rupture itself.

Khaerion’s grin widened. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t defend. He didn’t evade.

This was a battle between sword fanatics, between the Sword Saint and the Sword Origin. Escape held no meaning. Caution was a foreign concept. They would fight head-on, or they would die with their swords in hand.

Golden Sword Intent burst out of Khaerion with earth-shattering intensity. In that instant, he appeared less like an angel and more like a celestial beast drunk on endless power.

Original Apocalypse.

The moment he spoke the name, his sword vanished entirely from perception. An uncountable number of golden slashes materialized, etched directly onto the fabric of reality. Each stroke burned with Sword Intent so dense it warped gravity around it.

With a universe-crumbling detonation, the two techniques collided. Constellations cried as they died.

Space screamed as it ripped apart. Even the inner layers of the Void, normally untouchable by any force, shuddered, cracked, and trembled under the sheer magnitude. Worlds prayed. Realms quaked. And the very laws of creation begged for intervention.

The cosmic haze from their apocalypse was suffocating. It blocked every sense, every thought, every flicker of light. To any observer, all that remained was white noise and choking dust.

But Michael and Khaerion didn’t need sight. They didn’t need hearing. Their instincts guided everything.

Through the dense haze, they tore forward again, this time drenched in their own blood. Their flesh was torn apart, their bodies ravaged, their body scarred. Their sword techniques had reached such a state that each attack dealt existential wounds, damaging their very essence, wounds no innate regenerative power could mend.

Yet their hands did not stop. Their feet did not falter.

Their swords did not hesitate. Their Sword Intent did not dim. Their battle intent only intensified.

Anyone witnessing them would ask: Could there possibly exist a level above this? Could anyone love the sword more deeply than these two?

The answer was obvious. Absolutely not.

Anthony? His love for the katana came from anime and novels, fictional fantasies from another world.

Lucian? The same; passion born from stories, not reality.

Neither had ever touched a true blade before reincarnation. Their love was born from imagination.

But Michael and Khaerion were different.

They were the Sword Saint and the Sword Origin.

Their devotion wasn’t inspired by fantasy, it was carved into their souls before they even understood what a sword truly was.

The only man whose love for the sword came close was Warlord Raelith from Military Alpha Base-9.

The battle raged on, each moment inching closer to an ending that neither wanted but both knew was inevitable. They unleashed their personally crafted sword techniques one after another, as if daring the other to produce something superior.

At this point, Michael had lost an arm, his right severed by Khaerion’s strike. But limitations had no place here. His left hand simply continued the dance, moving with unblemished precision and strength, his Sword Intent unwavering.

With a nauseating, flesh-ripping sound, Michael’s blade pierced through Khaerion’s chest, splattering golden blood into the cosmos. But he didn’t stop. His silver-lit eyes burned with determination as his blade rose again, slashing upward with a luminous arc that ravaged everything in its path.

Khaerion’s sword flashed into position, golden light blooming as he blocked, but the force sent him hurtling backward through the void.

He didn’t need to be told: he was weakening.

But so was Michael. They were planetary-level beings, monsters of existence, but they were not infinite.

And this battle was approaching its final Chapter.