MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 872: Drunken Madness

The conflict between the Acarnis Galaxy and the Divinora Galaxy raged on with terrifying ferocity. On both fronts, warriors fought and perished with honor for their homelands, refusing to even consider the possibility of retreat. Across the vacuum of the galactic void, blood spilled like milk and honey, painting the eternal dark with a crimson hue. Drifting aimlessly through the stars, corpses floated as if they had formed a new, macabre Astra constellation. A chaotic mess of organs—brains, lungs, eyes, and kidneys—was strewn about, accompanied by a silent parade of severed limbs, heads, and torsos tumbling through the cold vacuum.

The galaxy had been transformed into a canvas of slaughter, a mural of such profound horror that words could hardly capture it. Destruction ruled every corner of vision, becoming the new foundation of reality. It appeared as though Order itself had been extinguished, leaving the apocalypse to reign as the sole natural law in the universe.

Stars disintegrated into fine dust, their compressed energies detonating in catastrophic shockwaves. Moons shattered, erupting in violent torrents of lunar energy. Under the weight of their own mass, suns imploded, emitting searing heat that incinerated everything nearby. Planets were pulverized before they could finish a single trek around their failing stars. Under the weight of these two clashing cosmic powers, entire constellations and Astra bodies collapsed into ruin.

The void was thick with various energies, saturating the silence until the space felt heavy and tangible. Mana energy, chaotic energy, faith energy, star energy, and blood energy mingled with vitality, overlapping and crashing against one another. While each power possessed a unique nature, they were all channeled toward a single, grim purpose: war.

The presence of death was suffocating. This monumental cosmic struggle flooded the Death Realm with a sea of souls, threatening to overwhelm its very core. The number of casualties was impossible to calculate, especially considering the trillions of lives snuffed out on the various planets annihilated during the carnage.

If heaven and hell truly existed, they would surely be filled to capacity at this very moment.

By this time, the Angels and Aliens of the Divinora Galaxy had been utterly wiped out. They were butchered without pity, purged by the various races of the Acarnis Galaxy. Victory was theirs. Cries of triumph rose into the cosmic heavens, echoing through the void as pride and battle intent saturated the air. In this brief window of time, internal conflicts, racial prejudice, and segregation vanished, replaced by the heavy significance of their collective triumph.

Numerous warriors stood with broken bodies and damaged essences, yet they ignored their agony. They knew that recovery was possible through the use of healing potions. At their level of Cultivation, such medicines were incredibly rare, crafted from materials that were nearly impossible to find and priced at exorbitant rates. However, in this moment of glory, such costs were irrelevant.

They had emerged as the winners in a war of Galactic Conquest. That fact alone overshadowed all other concerns.

Eventually, the fighters began to seek out their kin—those of the same blood and members of the Old Generation who had stood by them through countless eras of struggle.

As the cheers of victory died down and the adrenaline faded from their systems, the weight of reality hit them with a crushing force. Their eyes landed on the remains of friends, family, lovers, and even the strangers who had fought bravely by their side. In their hearts, they had always understood that sacrifice was the price of war, but that realization did not dull the sharp edge of their grief.

The majority of the dead were from the lower and mid-tier races. Some groups saw their entire Old Generation extinguished in this single engagement. In contrast, the Vampire race utilized their stubborn and undying bloodline traits, allowing many to rise again even after falling. While some vampires were lost forever, most managed to crawl back from the edge of oblivion once more.

Many survivors masked their sorrow with stoic expressions. Some wept quietly for those they had lost, while others stared despondently at the fragments of their comrades. The pain of loss was universal. Hatred simmered in their gazes, and a thick killing intent radiated from their forms, filling the surrounding space. While they had previously looked down on the Divinora Galaxy for the invasion of Acarnis, the feud had now become deeply personal.

Members of the Old Generation moved through the wreckage of the galaxy, retrieving bodies and fragments of their fallen brothers. Those who had perished had died with immense honor, and they would receive burials befitting their noble sacrifices.

Hovering above the devastation was the Overseer, a member of the Voidwalker race. A massive grin split his face as he floated with his arms wide open. Even though two of the five Voidwalkers from the Older Generation had died, the loss meant nothing to him.

His eyes glowed with a twisted intensity, as if he were trapped in a private trance. He was currently savoring every detail: the chaos, the ruin, the agony, and the death. He had always been a lover of battle. He lived for war and slaughter. Now, the galaxy had provided him with a gift—a battlefield of unprecedented scale.

And the most exciting part?

This was only the beginning.

He was certain they would return. He knew the legendary Twelve-Winged Angels had not yet graced the battlefield. Even their supposed God had failed to show his face or appear as an antagonist.

’So many foes,’ he mused, a sense of euphoria washing over him as his frame shook with anticipation. His blood boiled at the prospect of the carnage yet to come, thinking of how much more blood would be shed before this conflict reached its true end.

The surviving Voidwalkers looked at the Overseer and sighed with exhaustion, shaking their heads. He had been this way for as long as they could remember. They simply ignored him, letting him indulge in his own brand of intoxicated madness. The warriors of other races did the same, choosing to pay him no mind.

No one dared to bother him.

After all, he had the strength to justify his madness and pride. He was a powerhouse who had engaged Eleven-Winged Angels in solo combat and emerged the victor. It was a feat so ridiculous that it usually took two beings of his caliber to achieve.

Hours slipped away as time became a blur. Throughout the ruined galaxy, the survivors continued to gather the remains of their racial brethren, preparing funeral rites amidst the wreckage of a universe that would never be the same.