MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 1025: Guilt

Null Collins drifted with a deceptive stillness, though his countenance burned with unfiltered fury while he cradled the blood-soaked form of his wife, Crimson Irene. Time appeared to seize, leaving the remaining eight Eleven Winged Angels frozen. They stared at him in a state of catatonic shock, their expressions rigid with the impossibility of his sudden appearance.

Collins settled toward the ground, his movement silent and controlled, until his boots kissed the surface of a star as if it were solid earth. He peered down at Irene in silence, his heart hammering against his ribs, veins throbbing with the violent surge of his shifting blood.

Words failed him. He was a vessel of agony, regret, and shame—an suffocating deluge of emotion that threatened to crush him. He had failed to shield his wife; he had nearly witnessed her end.

He had begged her not to join the family outing, fearing the potential perils, and his premonitions had proven agonizingly accurate.

Yet, at her hour of greatest need, he had been absent.

His obsidian eyes watched her shallow, rapid breaths as the exhaustion claimed her. His focus drifted momentarily to the nearby battlefield, where the lifeless husks of eleven Eleven Winged Angels lay scattered. The sight spoke volumes: Irene had dispatched them all before his intervention.

While he was well aware of her capabilities, he knew she lacked the sheer, overwhelming might required to dismantle such a force so completely. He deduced she must have relied on strategic brilliance, arcane mastery, and rare artifacts to bridge the vast chasm between their strength.

"You arrived," Irene murmured, her voice thin but retaining its clarity. Though she had utilized her Vita Energy to mend her physical form, she remained drained, her mana pools bone-dry from the grueling ordeal.

"I did," Collins responded, his voice low and dampened. After a brief pause, he added, "Forgive me for my tardiness," his tone heavy with profound remorse.

Irene offered a weak, soft smile and shook her head. "Why seek pardon? I haven't been crafted from fragile glass," she replied, her words carrying a flicker of her usual spirited defiance. "Regardless, your presence is all that truly matters." She slid from his arms, finding her footing once more.

In truth, resentment had no place in her heart. She understood him with an intimacy that bordered on the divine. She knew that beyond herself, he kept his circle tight; his absences were always dictated by heavy burdens that only he could shoulder. She possessed the unwavering certainty that he would always race to her side the instant his duty reached its conclusion.

With a mere flicker of thought, he retrieved a mana potion and a stamina draught from his space ring. She accepted them without hesitation, chugging them down. Almost instantly, her vitality returned, the pallor of her skin retreating to make way for a healthy glow.

A brief exertion of her own will caused her mana to pulse with vitality. In the blink of an eye, the gore vanished from her body, and her disheveled crimson hair smoothed itself out. Once again, she stood as the revered Saintess of the World.

"My thanks," she sighed softly. During the heat of the clash, the Angels had been relentless, denying her even a fleeting second to consume a potion; no adversary would willingly grant such an advantage to an enemy.

Given her incredible mastery of healing arts, Irene could restore others to peak condition, yet that proficiency faltered when applied to herself. She had been forced to expend her essence on continuous self-mending, pushing herself to the precipice of oblivion.

Collins acknowledged her with a curt nod, his gaze shifting from his wife to the Angels responsible for her state. The warmth he displayed moments ago evaporated, replaced by an icy, lethal detachment.

He felt no need to ask why she hadn't signaled for him, their son Michael, or their kin. After his training bout with Anthony and his companions, he had attempted to teleport, only to find the path obstructed. Someone had woven a seal across space and the void itself.

He had immediately deployed his sole remaining, one-time-use artifact—a relic crafted to bypass all environmental restrictions and spatial anchors. It was the only one of its kind in their possession, a fail-safe he had kept specifically to reach her under any conditions, despite Irene’s insistence that he not waste it on her behalf.

Had they possessed more than one, she would have long since fled, seeing no honor in engaging in a protracted, senseless slaughter.

Suddenly, Irene’s voice cut through his thoughts. "Do you recall my warning that today would be the costliest error of their lives?" Her tone was steady now, infused with returning confidence as a faint smile touched her lips. "This is exactly what I meant."

Though she projected total confidence, she remained uncertain how Collins would contend with eight Eleven Winged Angels simultaneously. Her own tactics had relied on the element of surprise—a fatal complacency her enemies had shown her, which had cost them eleven of their own.

Yet, she recognized a deeper truth.

Even among beings of the same wing count, massive disparities in martial prowess existed. Just as the Sword Origin towered over his peers, or how the Apexus Mana Rank held varying degrees of power within the Acarnis Galaxy, true strength could not be measured by wings alone.

Stung by her words, the remaining Angels turned their full focus toward Collins. Their golden gaze was cold, disdainful, and focused on his execution. To them, he was already a ghost.

There had been nine enemies moments earlier, but the very instant this mortal manifested, one had been erased from existence without a struggle or a sound.

They remained mute, hovering in a disciplined formation, awaiting the next command from their master, the Twelve Winged Angel.

High above, that entity hung in the void with chilling indifference. Its presence was titanic, its downward gaze witnessing every development without reacting to the demise of its subordinates.

To such a being, the death of these Eleven Winged Angels meant nothing. Utterly nothing.