MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

Chapter 619: The Domains

Around the world, the very fabric of existence trembled with madness, as though the Blue Planet itself convulsed in its orbit.

Across various domains, rivers of blood ran unchecked, buildings toppled like children’s toys, and the oceans roared in rebellion. Destruction spread in every direction, unrestrained and absolute, plunging the world into utter chaos.

There was no warning, no foreboding announcement, only devastation. Clouds of smoke swelled into the heavens, blotting out the sun, while the unending chorus of screams rang through the air, echoing like the tormented wails of souls condemned to hell by Lucifer himself.

Shockwaves and earthquakes tore through the domains, the ground itself groaning beneath the strain. Orders blared from every communication device, from every pair of lips capable of command.

Adventurers marched forward, private soldiers from every domain advancing with grim resolve. The world had been united by a singular, unshakable purpose, KILL.

Hidden bases, long thought secure, were uncovered one after another and mercilessly annihilated. No prisoners were taken. No interrogations conducted. Mercy was a forgotten word. Every life encountered was extinguished without hesitation; all met the same grim fate, death.

Explosions erupted from every corner of the globe, the elements themselves flaring into deadly life. Blades clashed, spells ignited, and corpses rained to the earth with sickening thuds as the forces of the Forsaken Cult and their demonic allies were cut down.

They fought back, but it was futile. The military had prepared for this day with meticulous care, ensuring no intelligence leaks and no chance for their enemies to mount a coordinated counterattack.

Fathers fell. Mothers perished. Children died. Siblings were no more. None of them would return to the arms of their families. But it was deemed a necessary sacrifice, for the survival of the world, for the unity of the domains, for the preservation of hope, and for the fragile dream of peace.

From every battlefield, war cries erupted, defiant, infusing the warriors with the morale they needed to press forward.

In the Human Domain, the very foundations of civilization shook. Buildings swayed, some crumbling into heaps of rubble, crushing those trapped within. The destruction was not always deliberate; sometimes it was the collateral consequence of shockwaves from nearby clashes.

Guilds and mercenary bands rushed into action, striving to contain the situation, to save as many lives as possible. The world was drenched in the power of aura, mana, and countless varieties of killing intent as warriors blurred across the terrain, moving with speeds that defied mortal comprehension.

Clips, shaky short videos, and full-length recordings flooded the internet, citizens documenting whatever chaos they could capture. But one truth was undeniable, the death toll would only rise from here.

In the Vampire Domain, the sky had transformed into a crimson canopy, the color of fresh blood. Here, every citizen was born with an innate command over blood, regardless of their natural talent.

Their entire domain seemed to drown in it, the iron scent thickening the air to the point of suffocation. But it did not bother them; it was the essence of their existence.

Constructs of hardened blood took form, blades, spears, arrows, and surged toward every Cultist in sight. No mercy was offered, no hesitation allowed.

High above, Elara Bloodmoon, the Vampire Queen, observed it all with cold, silent eyes. Using blood as her medium, she traced every single Cultist across the battlefield, not missing even one.

She did not strike herself, such prey was far beneath her notice. As a being whose power rivaled that of a Supreme Monarch, she had no need to dirty her hands. Yet she would not permit even the faintest chance of escape for her enemies.

Far to the east, the Elf Domain stood tall and proud, its heart anchored by the colossal World Tree, which pulsed with an ocean of spiritual energy.

Arrows rained from the treetop cities, each one loosed with deadly accuracy. There was no hesitation in killing fellow Elves who had pledged themselves to the darkness. They were traitors, and traitors were to be erased without pity.

Nature itself answered the call of the Elves. Trees uprooted themselves to strike down foes, walls of stone surged up to block attacks, and the wind became a screaming blade that tore through enemy lines.

Rare spirits, beings of ancient, untamed magic, were summoned in numbers unseen for centuries, each bringing destruction upon the Cultists as calamity swept through the domain.

From branch to branch, Elven warriors moved in graceful blurs, chasing down any who dared flee. The corpses of the fallen piled high, an unending testament to the slaughter.

Aeltharion Moonwhisper, the sage-like Elf King, floated above the World Tree. His reverence for it kept him from perching upon its sacred branches; such an act would have been blasphemy.

In the Dragon Domain, the battle was waged on an even grander scale. Almost every dragon had assumed its true form, colossal and awe-inspiring. The air was so saturated with mana that it had nearly replaced oxygen itself.

Thunderous roars, millions strong, shook the heavens as they unleashed their fury. Breath attacks of every imaginable element filled the skies, ice, fire, molten magma, venom, water, searing light, shadowy darkness, and crackling lightning.

The Dragon Domain had become a titanic furnace of magic, elements colliding and detonating in magnificent yet catastrophic displays.

The dragons cared little for the destruction or the cost of rebuilding; their pride demanded that they unleash their full might.

High above, Iserios Von Deathwrath floated in human form, his expression calm, even pleased. Despite the carnage, despite the oceans of blood, his smile did not waver. Pride glimmered in his eyes as he watched his kin dominate the skies, their massive bodies blotting out the sun like drifting islands.

In the Titan Domain, the war was brutally simple. Giants with skin like blackened stone or earthen brown towered over the battlefield. They wore no armor, carried no weapons, and called upon no elemental forces, their fists were all they needed.

With each thunderous step, earthquakes split the ground, ravines tore open, and sinkholes yawned wide. When their punches landed, they crushed everything infused with chaos energy into dust.

They were the embodiment of raw, unrestrained power.

See an enemy? Punch it.

Enemy still moving? Punch again.

Enemy blocking? Punch harder.

Their martial prowess shook the battlefield as they demonstrated their mastery of hand-to-hand combat without reservation.

Above them, Gorath Storm, the Titan patriarch, hovered with battle-hungry eyes. He watched his people revel in the fight of their lives, but his own overwhelming strength left him unable to join.

Were he to participate, the battle would be over in moments. His power, in this rare instance, had become his disadvantage.

Across the Dwarf, Phoenix, and Demi-Human Domains, the same story played out. Young and old, weak and strong, regardless of status or wealth, every citizen stood united. The world was aflame, and no one could remain a bystander.