MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 1021: Crimson Irene’s Backstory

Crimson Irene remained motionless, as the Angels had ceased their assault. Her respiration was rhythmic and steady, and her posture was completely unblemished, her white robes remaining as immaculate as when she first arrived. Even though her crimson hair had whipped and lashed violently in the gale due to her blinding speed, it settled into flawless order the instant she froze in place.

A profound stillness engulfed the world once more, as Sylthorin Aethryx Solvarion and his detachment of twenty Eleven-Winged Angels stared on in utter astonishment. They were rendered completely speechless. For a heartbeat, they couldn't help but question if their intelligence on her was entirely fabricate, or if what they witnessed was merely a sophisticated illusion designed to trick them.

Ultimately, this woman, Crimson Irene, exhibited a combat aptitude that was far too advanced. It was not merely her raw power that left them shaken; she possessed a depth of battle experience that rivaled the most seasoned veterans who had endured millennia of ruthless conflict.

Crimson Irene was far from an ordinary healer.

She was unique, and the defining factor of that difference was her pedigree: the Crimson family bloodline.

The Crimson clan was renowned for an indomitable affinity for flame, a heritage that had birthed generations of formidable warriors. Yet, within such a fierce family, Irene manifested as a healer. To them, she was akin to a chicken hatched within a wolf den, a non-combatant dwelling among a household of killers.

Naturally, she suffered no mockery or harassment. Despite her awakening as a healer, her kin recognized that such individuals were rare and invaluable. Consequently, she maintained significant stature despite her divergence from the other members of the Crimson lineage.

However, there was one principle the Crimson family found entirely intolerable:

Weakness.

Despite her awakening as a healer, they forcefully instilled the art of war into her mind and frame. They inscribed martial discipline upon her very spirit. Indeed, she was a healer. She was unable to wield armaments effectively, nor could she cultivate Sword Intent as true swordsmen might. But she possessed her hands, her physique, and her sharp intellect.

Thus, she was thrust into the fray, repeatedly forced to endure tribulation so she might shatter the invisible shackles that bound healers. This ensured she would never rely on another simply due to her awakened class.

Therefore, while she had not awakened as a Martial Artist, she had been forged into one through relentless labor. Even following her marriage to Collins, she continued to spar with him in hand-to-hand combat to ensure her prowess remained razor-sharp.

Throughout all this, she ensured her exceptional innate talent for healing was never neglected.

The Crimson family threw her into dungeons repeatedly, compelling her to battle beasts that pushed her physical limits so she could accumulate combat mastery. When wounded, she would simply heal herself and return to the fray. When exhaustion pushed her to the brink, she would clench her teeth and drive forward.

She carried the prestige of belonging to one of the most imposing families in the Blue Planet’s human domain. Her birth as a healer did not mean the family’s ironclad rules would soften for her.

Mitchelle had undergone similar trials, but truthfully, everyone else had been granted a lighter burden than Irene. None of them were forced to train against the inherent nature of their awakened class. The Crimson family never pressured Mitchelle to master weaponry entirely incompatible with her role.

Irene, conversely, had to constantly wrestle against the inherent limitations of her own awakening.

Her history and her Crimson lineage had sculpted her into the woman she was today. Crimson Irene: a healer capable of clashing on even footing with veteran warriors in physical combat.

Admittedly, she was still outclassed whenever enemies utilized specific techniques linked to their combat-oriented classes. However, across a lifetime of adversity, and through her journey as a healer navigating a world ruled by warriors, she had forged her own unique style of combat.

Even in her youth, when healers were expected to linger safely behind, she had stayed at the rear. But when monsters breached the front lines, she never fled like her peers. Instead, she advanced to engage them with her bare hands.

Nevertheless, her greatest constraint had always been her own physical form. No matter her dedication, a healer’s physique could never truly match one awakened into a martial class. Consequently, she had relied heavily on counterattacks throughout her years, avoiding direct initiation.

But the situation had changed.

After consuming the fruit Anthony had gifted her, her body underwent a profound metamorphosis. A frame already honed to its natural zenith, yet hindered by class-based chains, had finally obliterated those invisible walls.

In terms of raw physical strength, she had entered a realm previously unknown to her. She began to bridge the vast chasm between her and veteran warriors concerning pure physical output. This was precisely why she could now move, react, and parry every strike from the surrounding Angels.

Yet, for all her breathtaking display, Crimson Irene was not foolish enough to believe she could defeat twenty Eleven-Winged Angels alone. At best, she could hope to drag several of them into death’s grip and face her end in a blaze of glory.

Knowing the struggle was poised to escalate, the ring upon her pinky finger suddenly pulsed as she triggered its effect.

The ring served one purpose: doubling all her physical parameters.

Instantly, Crimson Irene felt a surge of heat coursing through her as her power spiked. She felt more formidable than at any point in her existence. Her appearance remained unchanged—she grew neither larger nor more imposing—but the artifact performed its duty with cold efficiency.

Simultaneously, mana thrummed within her mana core and flooded her form, shielding her like invisible plate-mail and amplifying her might further. Her crimson hair danced in the wind, and her eyes burned with fierce resolve as she fixed her gaze upon the twenty Angels watching her.

Their expressions had shifted; the time for underestimating her was over. She would no longer be dismissed as a mere healer on this battlefield. From this moment, they would face the full fury reserved primarily for elite combat veterans.

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