MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 1020: Combat Healer

The Twelve-Winged Angel signaled with a majestic wave of his hand. Instantly, the Eleven-Winged Angels surged forward, their golden forms blurring as they descended upon Irene, their wings beating with furious intensity like moths drawn to a beacon.

Irene remained remarkably composed while they converged. The first attacker lunged, his sword whistling toward her neck with lethal speed. She didn't falter; with a subtle, fluid shift, she sidestepped the strike effortlessly.

No sooner had she evaded the first blow than another aggressor struck from the side. Irene’s movements accelerated into a faint blur. Her footwork was a display of exquisite, precise technique. The Angels, however, ignored her grace, filling the air around her with a relentless barrage of weapons from every possible angle.

At that moment, she appeared less like a traditional healer and more like a battle-hardened goddess. Her expression remained unchanged; her movements were smooth and confident, bordering on the surreal. Attacks whizzed past, missing her by a mere hair’s breadth while her white robes fluttered like silk in the breeze.

She eventually halted kilometers away, having successfully danced through twenty consecutive strikes. The Angels stood frozen in frustration and disbelief. Their intelligence reports labeled her a weak healer, and everyone knew that healers occupied the lowest rungs of battle prowess.

Crimson Irene clasped her hands behind her back, her demeanor that of a mentor reprimanding unruly students. Her gaze drifted toward the garden she had tended, now a scene of ruined petals and crushed stems.

These were the fruits of her own labor. She had cultivated them manually, eschewing mana and techniques, preferring the honest feel of soil and sand between her fingers.

Though years of care had been obliterated in the chaos, she felt no rage. Fury was a liability that clouded judgment better left for cooler heads. They were merely flowers, after all. She could always grow more—provided she survived the day.

Without pause, the twenty Eleven-Winged Angels rushed her again, moving like bullets from a divine chamber. Irene no longer remained passive. With a single, forceful step, she launched herself to meet them like an artillery projectile.

A thunderous collision echoed as her fist shattered against an Angel’s divine armor. The force sent him hurtling backward. Ignoring him, she struck toward another Angel’s temple with a swift elbow blow.

The Angel reacted by stepping back, but Irene halted the strike mid-air. Her other hand surged forward with cannon-like power, detonating against the Angel’s waist.

‘A feint!’ the Angel realized, terror dawning too late.

He was forced to absorb the impact through his gear. Before he could retreat, Irene clamped onto his ankle, nullifying his momentum. Swinging him like a flail, she slammed him into a third Angel, sending both plummeting backward from the kinetic force.

Crimson Irene ignored their plight. Her instincts flared, warning her of imminent danger. Obeying without looking, she shifted sideways as if gifted with supernatural perception.

A golden arrow streaked through the space her head had just occupied. To her narrow eyes, the projectile curved, tracking her. She recognized the technique easily; it was a staple among elite archers.

Her hand flickered, catching the arrow mid-flight. Without missing a beat, she launched it back at a descending Angel, forcing him to raise his broadsword in a desperate parry.

Thought gave way to pure, mechanical efficiency. She moved with an instinctual, lethal precision that defied her perceived status and her awakened class.

While veterans of brutal invasions struggled to fell even one, she stood firm, weathering the assault of twenty high-ranking Angels.

As a killing thrust targeted her head, she tilted slightly, letting the blade miss by a whisker. Her left hand clamped onto the attacker’s wrist, while her right palm smashed into his elbow, snapping the bone with a sickening crack.

Before the Angel could choke out a cry, she flung him aside like a pebble. His rapier fell from his mangled grip.

Before the blade reached the soil, she struck the hilt with her toe, sending it spinning toward another closing Angel, forcing him to abandon his charge to defend.

As he committed to the defensive pivot, Irene vaulted forward, closing the distance in a blink.

With a brutal knee strike, she drove into the Angel’s throat, shattering his defenses with overwhelming power. Golden blood misted the air as his broken body was propelled backward, firmly subject to the laws of physics.