MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 867: Sword Origin’s Final Moment

Khaerion’s form sliced through the emptiness of the void, crashing onto the surface of a radiant star before his momentum finally ceased. Beneath him, the celestial fire surged and rippled like a restless ocean, reacting to the sheer impact of his fall. He coughed, spitting out a mist of golden blood that vanished instantly, scorched away by the star’s intense heat.

His angelic frame, once a symbol of untouchable perfection, was now mangled and broken. Countless fine, lethal lacerations covered his skin—each a testament to the surgical precision of a supreme swordsman. These were no accidental strikes; they formed a complex record of a duel between two masters who had surpassed the limits of mortal understanding.

He struggled to stand. His mind roared with command and his pride demanded action, yet his legs failed to obey. He had pushed his physical vessel far beyond its breaking point, straining every fiber until it reached the edge of ruin. Though his spirit burned to continue, his flesh succumbed to the crushing weight of fatigue. Ultimately, he could do nothing more than remain in a kneeling position upon the star’s glowing crust.

With a deafening roar, Michael descended. He slammed into the same celestial body with world-shaking force, causing the star's surface to buckle. Although he remained standing, his body shuddered under the stress of a conflict that defied all logic. His glowing silver eyes locked onto his rival. Moving with heavy, deliberate steps, he closed the distance and halted only when he stood directly over the kneeling Angel.

Silence stretched between them for a long interval. They merely observed one another—two warriors who had discarded the shackles of mortality, held together in that moment only by sheer stubbornness and an iron will.

Even without the clashing of blades, their Sword Intents collided fiercely in the air, sending silent ripples of power into the vacuum. The message was undeniable: Khaerion had not conceded. His body had simply failed him. His battle intent remained vibrant, unbroken, and fierce.

"So this is the end... O Sword Origin." Michael’s tone was composed and steady, even as the atmosphere hummed with the lingering traces of his strength. His eyes never left the Angel who had pushed him harder than any foe in existence.

"It appears so... O Sword Saint," Khaerion answered. The mere effort of speaking forced another spray of shimmering golden blood from his mouth. His physical form was no longer capable of even basic functions. Yet, he offered no excuses. He had fought for the sake of the Sword and the purity of the duel; having lost, he embraced the outcome with honor.

Michael stood motionless, observing and waiting for a specific sign.

"Do not insult me, O Sword Saint," Khaerion spoke sharply, his voice ragged but firm. He instantly grasped the reason for Michael's hesitation. "Do not dishonor my name by expecting me to consume a Divine Elixir. Do not force me down to such a pathetic level." His words were cold and biting.

Michael offered no reply. He had indeed been waiting. Their clash was a pursuit of the Sword, but it was also a struggle for survival. In the face of death, even the most legendary warriors might grasp at desperate lifelines. Michael needed to confirm if the Sword Origin would cling to life through medicine or meet his end as a true swordsman. Now, he had his answer.

Khaerion chose a dignified death over a shameful life.

"If an afterlife exists," Michael whispered, slowly raising his silver blade into the air, "or if there is truth to the cycle of reincarnation... then let us be brothers in that next life."

A small smile played on Khaerion’s lips. He shut his eyes, his Sword Intent still radiating with heat even as he welcomed his demise. His fighting spirit did not flicker; it roared within him like a sun that refused to go dark.

'It seems I must trade my life to satisfy my oldest and deepest craving,' he mused. He felt no remorse. He had spent an eternity searching for someone who could push him to the pinnacle of sword transcendence—someone worthy. For eons, he had scoured the Divinora Galaxy to no avail. No soul had been capable of drawing out the true essence of his Sword Intent. But Michael had succeeded. For that gift alone, Khaerion would have sacrificed his life a thousand times.

In his final seconds, no nostalgic memories surfaced. He saw no visions of his youth, his victories, his allies, or even his God. There was only the Sword. There had never been anything else.

Michael’s sword fell without a hint of doubt. His Silver Sword Intent shattered Khaerion’s Golden Sword Intent in a violent explosion of power, before his blade passed through the Angel’s neck with effortless fluidity.

The head of Khaerion U’zaemar D’kazuriel rose into the air, spinning slowly before hitting the star’s surface. It rolled like a common stone before coming to rest. His celestial body slumped forward with a dull thud.

And so ended Khaerion U’zaemar D’kazuriel, the Sword Origin of the Divinora Galaxy.

Against any other enemy, Michael might have retrieved the remains for a respectful burial. But this was an Angel, a creature born of a distant galaxy. Michael could not foresee what curses or celestial ripples might be triggered by burying such a corpse. The risks of the unknown were far too great.

His own vitality finally gave out. Michael dropped to his knees, the star's heat biting into his armor. With the duel concluded, his body finally collapsed; he had been standing only through the force of his will.

A wave of nausea hit him, and he vomited blood. The crimson fluid hissed and evaporated the moment it touched the star.

With a thought, he retrieved a healing potion and a stamina potion from his space ring. He drank both immediately. This was still a battlefield of a galactic war; any delay was an invitation to death.

Life force surged through his veins, snapping his broken bones back into alignment. His shredded skin fused back together instantly, as if the clock were being turned back on his injuries. Energy flooded his muscles, restoring his strength. With a long breath, he stood up once more.

For a moment, Michael remained still with his eyes closed. He mentally reviewed every second of the fight with the Sword Origin—every strike, every moment of enlightenment. Then, his eyes snapped open. His Sword Intent and battle aura vanished entirely, like a fire that had consumed all its fuel.

He looked toward the remains of Khaerion.

Even in death, the Sword Origin’s corpse emitted a persistent golden Sword Intent. It throbbed with a raw, holy power, refusing to be extinguished even in silence.

Michael lifted his weapon. A series of silver flashes sliced through the air. In a heartbeat, Khaerion’s body was reduced to nothingness, completely erased from existence. It was the only funeral fitting for the man who had shown him the path to a new realm of power.

Scanning the horizon, Michael saw many Angels watching from the distance. None dared to move closer. And he, in turn, made no move toward them.

He had reached a higher state of being. To follow such a duel by slaughtering weaklings who could not survive a single blow would only tarnish the experience. Thus, he turned his back on them.

His footsteps disappeared into the searing heat of the star, the lone witness to the final moments of the Sword Origin.