Previously on MIGHT AS WELL BE OP...
Michael and the Angel engaged in a brutal sword fight, their blades carving through reality itself. Michael, the Sword Saint, drew first blood, but the Angel's regenerative abilities quickly healed the wound. As the battle intensified, both fighters pushed past their physical limits, growing stronger with each clash. Despite Michael's injuries, he continued to meet the Angel's attacks head-on, refusing to yield.
Michael and the Angel abruptly broke their clash, sliding backward as if repelled by a cosmic mandate. Across the ruined void, they locked eyes, caught in a deadlock so absolute that the laws of physics seemed to falter.
They were perfect mirrors of one another—flawless rivals possessing identical strength, speed, and an unwavering obsession with the blade. Neither could gain the upper hand through pure swordsmanship or physical Cultivation.
Suspended in the silent wake of their devastation, they stood meters apart while the echoes of their previous strikes rippled through the expanding galaxy. Solar winds shrieked and space itself shuddered. Shards of destroyed constellations drifted like broken glass around them. Though no words were exchanged, their battle intent remained fierce and unshakable. Every fiber of their beings remained coiled and ready for the next strike.
Dark pupils met golden irises. Feral, joyous grins spread across both their faces, yet beneath the surface, their silent thoughts were filled with mutual admiration.
Throughout all his travels and triumphs, Michael had never encountered a swordsman who could truly stand as his equal. Klaus was the only one who had ever surpassed him, but Michael didn't count him; Klaus was an anomaly, an unreachable enigma existing beyond the boundaries of logic. Now, for the first time, Michael had found someone who could match him blow for blow and step for step. He felt no fear—only a pure, addictive, and intoxicating thrill.
He had long suspected that his son, Anthony, might have exceeded him in the Dao of the sword, but he lacked the evidence. Anthony always avoided sparring, fleeing whenever Michael tried to initiate a duel. Thus, he had never known for sure. But this Angel, a being of celestial birth and divine light, was proving his worth with every single exchange.
The Angel watched Michael with equal wonder. Within the Angelic Haven and the vast reaches of the Divinora Galaxy, he was the undisputed peak. He was the apex of his race, the highest point any celestial had ever attained in the art of the sword. Even the Twelve-Winged Seraphs, his superiors in divinity and rank, could not best him in a duel of blades; they could only use their massive physical power to force a stalemate.
Yet here was a human—a mortal—who countered him perfectly. It was as if they had been forged from the same soul. Incredibly, the Angel felt a strange, warm sensation blooming within its chest. It was a familiar yet alien emotion.
Could it be love?
"What is your name, lower be—" the Angel started, then cut himself short. Instinct and celestial pride nearly drove him to call Michael a lesser creature, but he realized that insulting such a swordsman would be a desecration of the sword itself. "What is your name, Human?" the Angel asked again, his voice now carrying the weight of genuine respect.
Michael paused for a second. His wild grin softened into a knowing, tranquil smile. "I am Null Michael, Sword Saint of the Blue Planet." His voice held a rare warmth, a tone he saved only for those he deemed worthy of his name and his blade.
Michael did not demand the Angel's name in return. By the laws of combat and tradition, it was now the Angel's turn to identify himself.
"I am Khaerion U’zaemar D’kazuriel. Known throughout the Divinora Galaxy as the Sword Origin," the Angel answered, his voice serene yet filled with pride.
As their names were spoken, the fabric of reality trembled. A shudder ran through existence, as if the universe itself were carving this encounter into the eternal records of history.
"Shall we conclude this, Sword Origin?" Michael asked, his tone playful yet brimming with deep reverence.
"To the death, Sword Saint," Khaerion replied, his expression twisting back into a predatory grin.
"For the Sword, O Sword Origin," Michael proclaimed with finality.
"For the Sword, O Sword Saint," Khaerion echoed.
With those declarations, reality seemed to hesitate before shattering. An overwhelming surge of energy erupted from both warriors as they finally unleashed their Sword Intents.
This was the only method left to decide the victor. They had been equal in all physical aspects, but equality vanished in the face of pure Sword Intent. It was the distillation of their spirits—their obsession, their love, and their total devotion to the blade. It was the ultimate manifestation of their will.
It was the sword given consciousness; thought given a lethally sharp edge.
Their Sword Intents exploded outward, consuming everything in their path. The two combatants became the living embodiments of the blade. They were the very essence of the slash, the thrust, and the kill.
The galaxy was set ablaze by a cataclysmic light. Any ancient being watching would have been struck blind by the radiance emanating from the two figures at the center of the storm.
One Sword Intent glowed silver—cold, precise, and tranquil.
The other blazed gold—fierce, radiant, and divine.
Though their essences and colors differed, both were the perfect personification of the sword.
Simultaneously, their hands moved toward the hilts at their waists. Fingers gripped the handles as their Sword Intents saturated their weapons long before the steel left the scabbards. They lowered their stances, knees bending slightly.
The tension reached a breaking point as anticipation stretched toward infinity. Existence itself seemed to shrink back in dread.
In a flash, both figures vanished. It wasn't merely speed or movement; it was as if reality had lost sight of them. A moment later, they reappeared in a different location.
Michael and Khaerion had bridged the gap in a span of time shorter than a millisecond. They had moved beyond that, skimming the very edge of planck time—the smallest unit of existence.
Their bodies and minds had been pushed beyond all mortal and divine limits by their Sword Intent. In that heartbeat, they ascended to a realm beyond dreams.
The sound of their blades being drawn hissed through the vacuum, a noise sharp enough to cleave a star in two.
Then, with a thunderous, world-shaking impact, the two blades—one silver, one gold—slammed together with terrifying power. Order itself hesitated, as if the universe was unsure if it should allow such a collision to occur. But the choice was no longer up to the laws of nature.
A massive, all-consuming explosion tore through the galaxy, screaming a single truth into the very marrow of creation: 