MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

Chapter 867: Sword Origin’s Final Moment

Khaerion’s body tore through the void and smashed into the surface of a blazing star before he finally came to a halt. The celestial inferno beneath him rippled like a living sea in response to the force of his impact. He coughed up a spray of golden blood, each droplet evaporating instantly in the star’s heat.

His angelic body, normally pristine and untouchable, was battered beyond recognition. His once-perfect skin was torn with countless thin, razor-sharp cuts, each one a signature carved by the artistry and precision of a master swordsman. These wounds were not random; they were a meticulous tapestry documenting a duel between two beings who had ascended past the realm of comprehension.

He attempted to rise. His will screamed, his mind commanded, his pride thundered, but his legs refused him. He had driven his body far beyond its limits, stretched every fiber of his being to the brink of collapse. His spirit urged him onward, yet his flesh bowed beneath the weight of exhaustion. In the end, all he could manage was a kneeling posture upon the star’s burning crust.

With a thunderous boom, Michael arrived. His form crashed down upon the same star with devastating force, the cosmic surface rippling beneath him. His body, though upright, trembled under the strain of a battle that had surpassed all logical thresholds. His blazing silver eyes shifted toward his opponent. He approached without haste, his steps deliberate, and came to a stop only when he stood directly before the kneeling Angel.

For a long moment, neither spoke. They simply stared at one another, two warriors who had long since abandoned the boundaries of mortality, two beings whose very existence at that moment was held together only by stubbornness and willpower.

Even now, even without swinging their swords, their Sword Intents clashed violently between them, hurling silent shockwaves into the void. The message was clear: Khaerion had not surrendered. He had merely been betrayed by his body. His battle intent remained whole, unbroken, untamed.

”So this is it... O Sword Origin.” Michael’s voice was calm, steady, though the air around him vibrated with the remnants of his power. His gaze remained locked on the Angel who had pushed him further than any opponent before.

”It seems so... O Sword Saint,” Khaerion replied. Speaking alone forced another mouthful of shimmering golden blood to spill from his lips. His body could no longer sustain even the simplest action. Still, he offered no excuses. He had fought for the Sword, for the purity of the clash, and he had lost, he accepted this truth with dignity.

Michael did not move. He simply remained standing, watching, waiting... for something.

”Don’t insult me, O Sword Saint,” Khaerion said sharply, his voice strained but brisk. He understood instantly what Michael was waiting for. ”Do not insult my name by expecting me to drink a Divine Elixir. Do not reduce me to such a degrading level.” His tone was flat, yet sharp

Michael remained silent. Indeed, he had been waiting. Their battle had been for the Sword, yes, but it had also been a matter of life and death. In the shadow of death, even the proudest warriors could reach for desperate measures. Michael had simply needed to know whether the Sword Origin would cling to life through an elixir or face the end as a swordsman should. And now he understood.

Khaerion would rather die with honor than live in shame.

”If there is an afterlife,” Michael murmured, lifting his silver sword slowly into the air, ”or some deeper truth to reincarnation... then in that life, let us be brothers.”

Khaerion’s lips curved into a faint smile. He closed his eyes, his Sword Intent still burning fiercely even as he embraced his death. His battle intent did not dim; it continued to roar within him like a sun refusing to collapse.

’It seems I must pay with my life to fulfill my oldest and deepest desire,’ he thought. His heart held no regret. He had always sought someone capable of pushing him to the edges of transcendence of the sword, someone worthy. For countless ages, he had searched the Divinora Galaxy and found nothing. Not one being had been able to bring out the true depths of his Sword Intent. But Michael had done it. For that alone, Khaerion would have traded his life a thousand times over.

In his final moment, no memories played before his eyes. No images of childhood, past triumphs, comrades, or even his God flashed through his mind. There was only the Sword. There had only ever been the Sword.

Michael’s blade descended without hesitation. His Silver Sword Intent tore through Khaerion’s Golden Sword Intent in a single apocalyptic burst, then sliced through the Angel’s neck with effortless precision.

Khaerion U’zaemar D’kazuriel’s head lifted into the air, spinning slowly before landing upon the star’s surface. It rolled like a mere pebble before coming to a gentle stop. His holy body toppled forward with a muted thud.

Thus perished Khaerion U’zaemar D’kazuriel, the Sword Origin of the Divinora Galaxy.

Had this been another foe, Michael might have collected their body and granted them a proper burial. But this was an Angel, a being forged from a foreign galaxy. Michael could not predict what curses, anomalies, or celestial consequences might arise if he buried such a corpse. The unknown was too dangerous.

His own strength finally abandoned him. Michael collapsed to his knees, the star’s heat scorching across his armor, his body giving out completely now that the duel had ended. He had been standing through sheer will alone.

With a sickening twist in his stomach, he vomited a mouthful of blood. Crimson droplets sizzled and evaporated immediately upon contact with the star’s surface.

He summoned a healing potion and a stamina potion from his space ring with a simple thought. Without hesitation, he drank both. This was still a galactic warzone; hesitation meant death.

Vitality surged through him, snapping bones back into place. His torn flesh stitched itself together in real time, as though reversing the damage with meticulous precision. Stamina poured into his limbs, filling him with renewed strength. With a slow exhale, he pushed himself upright.

For a moment, Michael stood motionless, his eyes closed. He replayed every instant of the battle with the Sword Origin, every clash, every revelation, every sliver of enlightenment. Then his eyes snapped open. His Sword Intent and battle intent faded completely, like a flame extinguished by its own completion.

He turned toward Khaerion’s corpse.

Even in death, the Sword Origin’s body radiated undying golden Sword Intent. It pulsed with raw, sacred power, defiant even in stillness.

Michael raised his sword. Various silver flashes cut through the air. In that instant, Khaerion’s body was reduced to absolute nothingness, obliterated entirely. It was the only burial worthy of the man who had opened the door to a new realm of power for him.

When Michael swept his gaze around, he saw numerous Angels watching from afar. None dared approach. And he, in turn, did not advance toward them.

He had achieved something higher. To follow that with battles against weaklings, beings who could not withstand a single stroke, would have cheapened everything. And so he turned away.

His footsteps faded into the burning heat of the star, the silent witness to the Sword Origin’s final moment.