MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 868: Sexist And Misogynistic
Previously on MIGHT AS WELL BE OP...
"Don’t you have an Angel to fight or something?" Mitchelle questioned. Her blue eyes narrowed slightly as she observed the man, who appeared far more interested in her than the galactic conflict raging across the stars.
"Well," the Pervy Sage replied, stroking his long white beard. He attempted to look sagely, though the gesture felt entirely theatrical. "These eleven-winged pigeons are far too powerful. We must engage them in pairs, just like everyone else is doing." His voice carried the serene wisdom for which he was renowned, even if his actual motives were far from noble.
After studying him for a long, silent moment, Mitchelle remarked, "If you are weak and require protection, just admit it. There is no reason to mask your cowardice behind a facade. Out of everyone here, you seem to fear death the most."
Azarion’s expression faltered as his lips twitched. She had essentially insulted him by calling him a coward to his face. However, he could not ignore the truth. While the top ten races were undeniably formidable, many still needed to work together to challenge even a single eleven-winged Angel. Not everyone possessed the monstrous strength of Anthony, Aura, Lucian, Aaaninja, or Kingsley—individuals who could treat their enemies like children. Those people were anomalies, walking impossibilities of power.
Even Michael, the Sword Saint, despite his nearly infinite power, had only defeated the Sword Origin at a devastating price, sustaining injuries that ravaged his body and essence.
Azarion looked back at Mitchelle. He knew she was terrifyingly strong, but was she capable of facing an eleven-winged Angel alone? He was skeptical. Unless her Cultivation had surged again in the last three years, which seemed improbable. At their level of power, advancement was not a simple feat; strength was forged through life-and-death crises and tribulations, not sudden leaps.
While they could slaughter ten-winged Angels without a second thought, the eleven-winged variety belonged to an entirely different realm of existence.
Nevertheless, Azarion StarWeaver had his pride. In reality, he was a misogynist who believed women were created solely for his pleasure. Throughout his vast lifespan, he had encountered many powerful women who could match or even kill him, yet none had ever altered his twisted worldview.
Even his decisive defeat during a duel with Mitchelle had not shifted his mindset. He remained the type of man who invited every beautiful woman he saw into his harem. Yet, Mitchelle was unique. Despite being a mere Human, her presence had a sharpness that his ego couldn't overlook, only intensifying his desire for her.
Paradoxically, he had never been with a Human before, considering their bodies beneath his "divine" flesh. Mitchelle, however, had sparked a curiosity in him. None of his past experiences compared to the fantasies he had of having Mitchelle beneath him.
'Tsk. I hope her idiot husband dies in this war,' Azarion thought with bitterness, clicking his tongue. To him, Michael was simply the barrier blocking his path to paradise. He had seen the Sword Saint’s power three years prior. Azarion was arrogant, but he wasn't a fool; he knew he couldn't beat Michael then, and he certainly couldn't now.
"I shall handle an eleven-winged pigeon by myself then," Azarion declared suddenly, his voice firm. His pride wouldn't permit him to stand idle while a woman fought an eleven-winged Angel alone while he sought help.
As the words left his mouth, his presence erupted, sending ripples through the star-filled void. The ten rings on his fingers glowed brilliantly. Each served as a massive reservoir of mana, allowing him to fight indefinitely without worrying about his reserves.
"I may have been defeated by you once, Crimson Mitchelle," he proclaimed with pride, "but I will demonstrate why they call me the Sage of the Stars." His body began to glow with cosmic energy, every word dripping with arrogance.
Mitchelle remained silent, watching the pervert's posturing. Though they had once engaged in a lethal struggle, she held no grudge. That battle had ended in her total victory without her taking a single scratch. During the meeting of the older generation, he had constantly pestered her with nonsense and propositions, acting like an annoying cosmic insect. Yet, she found his behavior somewhat comical. He was irritating, but she tolerated him for now. If he ever truly crossed the line, she would remind him of his place.
As if responding to his surging battle intent, an eleven-winged Angel charged through the void toward him with incredible speed.
"Good luck then, Sage of the Stars. I'll be watching," Mitchelle said softly. A small smile touched her lips before she vanished upward in a blur of shimmering light.
Azarion smirked, the image of her smile burned into his mind. 'She’ll be watching,' he repeated to himself, his smirk widening into a grin.
Unfortunately for him, the delusional fantasies he harbored regarding Mitchelle would never become reality. The world did not revolve around him. He was merely a side character among countless beings, nothing truly special in the vast fabric of the universe.
But to a man consumed by lust, reality was irrelevant.
With Mitchelle’s voice lingering in his thoughts, he unleashed his first spell.
His voice shook the void as a massive wave of mana poured from the enchanted ring on his finger. Under the crushing pressure, space itself began to warp and tremble around him.
Then, the howling started.
From the vacuum of space, wind manifested—not as a breeze, but as a harbinger of the apocalypse. The cosmic air spiraled violently, forming enormous curved blades of wind that vibrated with enough power to split worlds. Each arc pulsed with a dark intent that spoke of total destruction. Then, they flew.
Moving with blinding velocity, the arcs sliced through space, leaving jagged scars in reality as they flew toward the approaching Angel.
So began the suicidal struggle of Azarion StarWeaver, the Pervy Sage. He fought not for duty or honor, but in a hopeless attempt to impress a woman he could never possess. He was a man trapped in a dream he could never reach, his goals as distant as the stars he claimed to rule.