MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 863: The Sword Was The Sword

The Angel and the man moved as though they were entities forged from the very essence of the blade. They were beings born for the sword, created for the sword, and destined for the sword. Every flick of their wrists and swing of their arms radiated absolute perfection—precise, graceful, and lethal.

Sword technique collided with sword technique in a ceaseless flow, each move feeding the other’s momentum and bloodlust. Their gazes remained locked, as if they were falling in love, though not with one another, but with the lethal choreography and the sheer artistry of combat.

Slash. Cleave. Parry. Deflect. Dodge. Feint. Cut.

The most fundamental sword techniques were utilized without a shred of hesitation or restraint, executed with flawless mastery. While countless souls across the galaxy’s reach fought for their homelands, their faiths, or their very lives, these two stood apart. They had entered a realm of pure swordsmanship, a duel meant to determine who possessed the ultimate understanding of the blade.

Mana? It was useless here. Faith energy? Entirely irrelevant.

A sword required no external energy to manifest its true power. The sword was the sword. The sword was the ultimate truth. The sword was the law. The sword was divine.

Their weapons clashed with the violence of a hurricane, sending sparks flying as if the atmosphere itself revolted against their fierce collision. Steel shrieked against steel, every impact a heartbeat of war that rumbled like thunder across a sky heavy with storms.

They danced in a fatal rhythm, their blades shimmering like bolts of lightning snatched from the hands of a wrathful storm god. Every movement was a blur, weaving arcs of silver fire with the pinpoint accuracy of duelists born of legend.

Michael wore a wide grin as he fought. Holding nothing back, his muscles strained as his feet danced across the surface of the star that served as their arena. He moved with frantic velocity, alternating between offense and defense in rapid, relentless bursts. He did not pause, he did not blink, and he dared not avert his eyes from his foe.

He experienced it all in real time, his body singing with joy as he pushed himself to new heights. When was the last time he had been forced to this limit? Three years ago? Five? Those days were mere distant memories, shadows of a bygone era. He craved the intensity of such a trial constantly—a relentless tide of battle to further sharpen his edge.

His blade streaked like a falling star, swift and cold, yet the Angel was no sluggish opponent. It raised its weapon effortlessly, parrying Michael’s blows with ease. Rather than discouraging him, this only fueled his excitement, confirming that his adversary was a worthy rival capable of matching his unrelenting pace.

The ferocity of their exchange intensified with every passing second. Their battle intent swelled to such a degree that any nearby observer would have been blown away, shattered and destroyed by the shockwaves of their sheer madness.

They fought like predatory beasts, relentless and unbreakable. The sheer power of their struggle made the air thick with the scent of unspoken death. The space between them was swallowed by flashes of steel and raw, uncontrollable force. A single error, a single mistimed breath, and the duel would conclude in a spray of crimson and gold.

The Angel fought with staggering precision and economy of motion. Its blade never strayed; every strike threatened its target with unerring accuracy. It moved with the confidence of a master sculptor carving perfection from stone, every slash measured and every thrust calculated toward its inevitable end. Its swordplay was a craft of millimeters and a science of fatal exactness.

One had to wonder: did this Angel place its absolute faith in God, or in the sword itself? If forced to choose, which would it truly serve—the divine heavens or the steel it wielded with such religious devotion?

It adjusted its trajectory mid-swing, ensuring the blade bit exactly where it was intended. Its strikes left no room for defiance, moving as if guided by the hand of fate. Every attack was delivered without doubt and timed perfectly, a physical manifestation of total mastery.

Yet, despite this perfection, Michael met every blow without wavering. Dodge? The very idea was an insult to his reputation. As a man who lived for the thrill of the fight and who evolved with every clash, he met every strike head-on. He blocked, parried, and deflected, his body a fluid dance through the void of space. Every cell and every muscle fiber screamed with delight, propelling him forward.

An attack too heavy to parry? He simply tanked it. He adapted. He overcame. It was nothing more and nothing less. He was an immovable wall, unshakable and firm. No matter what the Angel unleashed, his hands and sword were already there in a blur to halt its progress.

He had not earned the title of Sword Saint by accident.

Dragons, Titans, Elves, and Vampires across the Blue Planet did not fear him without reason. He was a man who had carved his own path through every stage and every trial, relying on nothing but his blade. Human limitations? He recognized no such boundaries.

Augmenting himself with fire, mana, or other elemental powers? Never. The sword alone was absolute. If Cultivation without the assistance of mana were possible, Michael would have reached the peak using only his blade and the raw strength of his human form.

But he was not there merely to defend. He was there to test his foe, to see their true nature, and to prove why he held the title of Sword Saint—and why he was the Father of the greatest anomaly and talent that existence had ever known.

With a speed that defied possibility, Michael’s sword became the very definition of swiftness and lethality. His blade struck with the logic of a mathematical formula—perfect, unerring, and flawless. As he moved, his velocity increased alongside his power, his every action seemingly warping reality to contain the monster he had become.

He fought as though the outcome was already foreseen, and it always ended in his favor. His sword sliced through the battlefield like a brush painting a masterpiece in blood. There was no quest for glory in his combat, only the grim efficiency of a man who had mastered the art and the epitome of the sword.

And so, the struggle between the divine and the mortal raged on. The galaxy itself seemed to tremble, its constellations disturbed by beings of impossible magnitude, defined by motion, power, and lethal grace.

Slowly, a grin spread across the Angel’s face, mirroring Michael’s own obsession and madness for the blade. In that shared fervor, the duel continued, a monument to their devotion and prowess. As for who truly loved the sword more, and who understood it beyond mere technique or reputation, this battle would decide who stood supreme.