MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 866: Final -

The galaxy appeared to convulse the very moment those two blades met. A shockwave of uncontrollable power rippled through reality, blurring the cosmos into a heaven-blotting eruption of raw, unbridled Sword Intent. Every shade in existence, every measurable wavelength, and every celestial color ever conceived vanished as if wiped away by a god. Only two defiant hues remained, refusing to be extinguished: Silver and Gold. In that moment, nothing else was permitted to exist.

Stars? They were pulverized into dust too microscopic for any cosmic scale to measure.

Suns? They were erased instantly, their cores collapsing into silent, violent implosions.

Moons? They were devastated, their rocky surfaces shredded into a storm of meteoric debris.

Comets? They disintegrated into nothingness before they could even begin to melt.

Asteroids? They were reduced to a state so fine it couldn't even be classified as ash.

Like the tapestry of a true apocalypse, the suffocating surge of their Sword Intent swept across the universe. Every speck of matter, every fundamental law of physics, and every stubborn layer of reality that stood in its path was transformed into an absolute void. Those from the Divinora and Acarnis Galaxies who were unfortunate enough to be nearby were blinked out of existence; their atoms were unmade before their consciousness could even register the threat.

Across multiple star systems, inhabitants were struck blind by merely catching a glimpse of the explosive light from that clash. Others were deafened by the distant reverberations of the impact—a sound so colossal that the senses of lesser beings were shredded by its sheer magnitude.

But did the Sword Saint and the Sword Origin pay them any mind?

No. They certainly did not.

In their eyes, nothing existed but the Sword. Not the galaxies, not the countless lives, and not even the impending Galactic Invasion that loomed over them both. Every monumental event, every cosmic disaster, and every lingering duty could sink into the deepest pit of oblivion. In this singular moment, only the blade held meaning.

Michael and Khaerion moved like colliding galactic cores, each of their motions manifesting as a force of nature. Their Sword Intent—impossibly dense yet immeasurably vast—radiated with a power capable of erasing not just reality, but the very concept of being. Every strike, every technique, and every flaring burst of energy promised only one outcome: annihilation.

They struck without a hint of hesitation.

They defended without a shred of restraint.

They battled with nothing but pure instinct, honed over the course of millennia.

Their speed far surpassed anything they had achieved in their previous lives, transcending the boundaries of what they once thought possible. For a lesser being to witness even a fraction of their movement, divine sight and cosmic reinforcement would be required; for these two, it was simply their natural pace.

Sword Intent.

It was an energy both men commanded with a mastery so absolute it felt like divine authorship. They weren't merely wielding Sword Intent; they were molding it, commanding it, and crafting it as if they were the creators of the very concept of swordsmanship. Though they drew from the same cosmic wellspring, the manifestation of their power was distinct: Michael’s silver Sword Intent was razor-sharp, absolute, and clinical in its destruction. Khaerion’s golden Sword Intent was overwhelming, radiant, and hungry.

Michael’s hand became a blur of existence-rending motion, his form enveloped in a shimmering silver glow. His voice thundered through the vacuum like a cosmic decree:

[Silver Apocalypse].

This was a sword technique he had forged himself, one he rarely unleashed because so few were worthy of seeing it. But Khaerion was deserving. As Michael swung his weapon, billions of silver sword lines blossomed into being, each heavy with enough Sword Intent to tear the seams of spacetime apart. These countless slashes howled toward Khaerion, carrying the destructive weight of a void rupture.

Khaerion’s smile only grew wider. He did not flinch, nor did he attempt to defend or evade.

This was a duel between sword fanatics—between the Sword Saint and the Sword Origin. To flee was meaningless. To be cautious was a foreign idea. They would meet head-on, or they would perish with their blades in their hands.

Golden Sword Intent erupted from Khaerion with a force that shattered worlds. In that heartbeat, he looked less like an angel and more like a celestial predator intoxicated by infinite power.

[Golden Genesis].

The moment the name left his lips, his sword vanished from the physical realm. An uncountable number of golden slashes manifested, etched directly into the fabric of reality itself. Each stroke blazed with Sword Intent so dense that gravity warped in its presence.

The two techniques collided with a detonation that crumbled the universe. Constellations wept as they were snuffed out.

Space shrieked while being torn asunder. Even the deepest layers of the Void, usually beyond the reach of any force, cracked and trembled under the sheer pressure. Worlds offered prayers. Realms shook. The very laws of creation pleaded for someone to intervene.

The cosmic haze left behind by their apocalypse was stifling. it drowned out every sense, every thought, and every spark of light. To any bystander, nothing remained but white noise and suffocating dust.

However, Michael and Khaerion required neither sight nor hearing. Their instincts dictated their every move.

They charged through the thick haze once more, now soaked in their own blood. Their flesh was shredded, their bodies broken and scarred. Their sword techniques had reached a level where every strike inflicted existential wounds, damaging their very essence—injuries that no natural regenerative power could heal.

Yet, their hands did not pause. Their feet did not stumble.

Their blades did not waver, and their Sword Intent did not flicker. Their battle intent only grew more ferocious.

Anyone watching them would wonder: Could there possibly be a level beyond this? Could any being love the sword more than these two?

The answer was clear. Absolutely not.

Anthony? His affection for the katana was rooted in anime and novels—fictional dreams from a different world.

Lucian? It was the same; a passion born of stories rather than reality.

Neither had ever gripped a real blade before their reincarnation. Their love was a product of imagination.

But Michael and Khaerion were of a different breed.

They were the Sword Saint and the Sword Origin.

Their devotion wasn't sparked by fantasy; it was engraved into their souls before they even understood what a sword was.

The only man whose love for the blade even came close was Warlord Raelith from Military Alpha Base-9.

The conflict continued, each passing second drawing them closer to a conclusion that neither desired but both knew was coming. They traded their self-created sword techniques one after another, as if challenging the other to produce something even greater.

By this point, Michael had lost an arm, his right limb severed by one of Khaerion’s strikes. But such limitations had no meaning here. His left hand took up the dance, moving with flawless precision and power, his Sword Intent remaining rock-solid.

With a sickening sound of tearing flesh, Michael’s sword stabbed through Khaerion’s chest, spraying golden blood into the void. But he did not relent. His silver eyes blazed with resolve as he raised his blade again, sweeping upward in a glowing arc that devastated everything it touched.

Khaerion’s sword moved to block, golden light erupting on impact, but the sheer force sent him tumbling backward through the emptiness of space.

He didn't need to be told; he could feel himself weakening.

But Michael was fading too. They were planetary-tier entities, monsters of existence, but they were not inexhaustible.

And this duel was nearing its final Chapter.