MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 964: Boxer

Kingsley's form slammed into a mountain peak, ripping right through its fragile surface like mere soft clay, before smashing hard into a second one, then tumbling onto a nearby hill, until it finally halted with savage force at the foot of another towering ridge, the summit quivering and rattling fiercely from the lingering power of his immense speed.

At this moment, Kingsley had no idea how much blood he'd spilled, nor could he grasp the span of time trapped in that relentless loop of agony and recovery. His body had been ripped apart and mangled into fragments, only to be pieced back together as if existence itself spurned the wounds, as if the trauma never took place, as if his torment was ceaselessly wiped away and redone.

His lips parted as a heavy gush of blood surged from his mouth, the sharp metallic flavor flooding his tongue, his throat burning with fierce pain as if harshly signaling that he'd never endured such devastation since the instant of his birth.

Kingsley's right arm lifted gradually to press against his torso, and in a brief instant, his heart had nearly ceased its rhythm completely, Anthony's strike having blasted away the bottom portion in a horrific burst of tissue and skeleton, yet his heart pulsed on with unyielding resolve and rebuilt itself with eerie determination.

He required no explanation; he realized his survival hinged on Anthony restraining his full might, much like how his mind had suffered harm but not total ruin, left intact on purpose to mend, and though he boasted an absurdly tough build that verged on the inhuman, he recognized in his core that the Martial Rhythm could still shred him effortlessly like thin parchment.

'My core has never suffered such devastation,' he mused inwardly while struggling to stand, wounds weaving shut with subtle, nauseating noises, bones clicking back into alignment with crisp snaps, skin fusing seamlessly, sinews reattaching, his heart restoring to full vigor as if it hadn't been utterly demolished moments before.

Kingsley clenched his jaws until his face throbbed, 'I need to unlock this cursed Martial Rhythm,' he reflected silently, since he'd already absorbed so much punishment, and he sensed with icy clarity that further torment awaited. His golden gaze flicked ahead to the spot he'd just vacated, expecting Anthony to remain rooted there.

Yet Anthony was absent from that location; instead, he loomed right in front of him, the gap between them barely a meter wide, Kingsley's eyes flaring in raw, primal surprise as his breathing hitched, Anthony had positioned himself directly before him all along, so near, but Kingsley detected no presence whatsoever as if Anthony had materialized from nowhere, and had he not lifted his head precisely then, he could have overlooked him entirely.

But prior to any twitch from Kingsley, Anthony struck first, his fist slamming into Kingsley's torso with a thunderous eruption that rent the atmosphere, Kingsley's ribcage buckling inward with brutal force before bursting outward, shards of blood and bone flying apart, his frame lurching rearward as it collided with the mountain anew, the sheer velocity and impact surging into the rock itself, oddly, the peak stood firm as if an unseen force anchored it solidly.

Anthony offered no pause for Kingsley to recover his air or footing, launching straight into the follow-up with a left swing to the jaw that whipped the air upward and outward in a ferocious blast, yet momentum seemed to hesitate as if the laws of nature themselves recoiled from meddling. Anthony's grip seized Kingsley's throat, yanking him closer, his knee surging skyward before crashing into Kingsley's side with shattering power.

Anthony pressed on without mercy, in the next instant he transformed into a relentless fighter, bouncing nimbly for a beat, his steps gliding over the terrain with sharp accuracy as his fists hammered into Kingsley without pause, treating him like a battered training dummy designed to withstand infinite abuse.

A right swing to the side of the head, a left to the torso, chased by a right thrust to the breastbone, then a left to the face landed true, front and back upward strikes came in quick sequence, a twisting punch blasted forth with rotating might, followed by a forehead smash that rammed into Kingsley's skull, then instantly an overhead right, succeeded by an overhead left, every blow landing with escalating weight and ruthlessness.

Kingsley's frame kept bouncing off the mountain wall, each time Anthony's assault hurled him back, his spine would crash against the base and spring forward once more, his body clashing into Anthony's subsequent hit in perpetual chain, as if they'd fallen into some warped endless cycle, but the diverse shifts in Anthony's assaults revealed this wasn't mere redundancy, it was deliberate, intensifying savagery.

Kingsley's frame howled with torment, blending pain, torment, throbs, tenderness, misery, anguish, and dread into one overwhelming wave, bits of his tissue spraying and hitting the ground near his boots, crimson fluid cascading and gathering in thick flows below, his form plunging into a frenzied pattern of ruin and renewal, of harm and mending, of breakdown and revival.

His physique strained desperately to match the havoc and frenzy as Anthony ripped through his tissues so deeply that his bones flashed momentarily amid the carnage before fresh layers of sinew and skin cloaked them again, rebuilding him repeatedly like a macabre wonder.

Yet despite everything, Anthony refused to halt, every assault fueled by the Martial Rhythm, each motion blending flawlessly into the following with utter precision, he had already cautioned Kingsley about facing suffering beyond imagination, and now all he could do was strike and strike relentlessly until Kingsley's form adjusted, leaving it solely to Kingsley to stay aware amid the savage ordeal.

Thrust, double thrust, triple thrust, heavy thrust, quick thrust, Anthony appeared to deploy every variation of thrust from boxing lore with terrifying skill. He transitioned smoothly between fighter footwork and motion arts, tying them to each blow in flawless harmony as if he embodied the origin and architect of boxing, and given the wild fury he unleashed, he practically was.

At last, with a soaring strike that erupted directly into Kingsley's torso like an artillery shell, the mountain gave way at last, rocks and chunks tumbling down in an avalanche, Kingsley's body shredding fully through the crumbling mass as it disintegrated into myriad pieces.

Anthony gazed at the descending rocks and rolling masses but held his position without stirring, no reason to shift, for as soon as any neared him, they halted in mid-flight as Infinity engaged, protecting him with ease.

Even the blood from Kingsley that gathered at his soles failed to stain his footwear, the chunks of flesh ripped from Kingsley's frame didn't so much as graze him, though all his blows landed impeccably, no part of Kingsley's body made contact with him as if such a thing were an outrage, as if the world itself forbade it.

A swirling cloud of dust and grit whipped around him ferociously as he stayed rooted in place, still and quiet, as if intentionally granting Kingsley a brief respite to breathe, after all, no matter how absurd Kingsley's durability, if driven to utter limits it could either fail completely or spark a surge, but Anthony had no intent to overtax Kingsley's build more than required.

Amid the churning veil of powder and rubble, though his outline blurred in the chaos, his vivid sky-blue gaze pierced through as brightly as sunlight, shimmering softly in the turmoil like a hunter's stare in shadows, like a tiger stalking with patience under cover of darkness.