MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

Chapter 652: Parasol

Anthony’s team continued talking and laughing amongst themselves while the rest of the soldiers went about the tedious duty of cleanup. But, despite the largeness of the task, not a single soldier dared to complain.

After all, these were no ordinary men, they were literally the comrades of a person who could toy with life and death itself as casually as others toyed with dice on a gaming table.

Who would dare voice dissatisfaction in the shadow of such an individual?

Besides, the task at hand was nothing too strenuous. It was merely the labor of moving corpses and abandoned aircraft, grim work to be sure, but hardly the most perilous or demanding duty for seasoned soldiers.

All across the perimeter of the Abandoned Desert of Ruins, barriers and domes of elemental and non-elemental power shimmered in place. These were raised to hold back the masses of citizens and curious onlookers who had already rushed toward the infamous battlefield.

After all, StreamGhost had mentioned the exact location in his livestream, and once the feed cut off, there was only one thing left for the fervent masses to do, flock to the place where their savior had stood.

With Anthony’s victory now legendary, millions converged, their voices a relentless tide.

Mercenaries and adventurers alike had been contracted to maintain order, hastily constructing roadblocks and rails to hold people back. But, their efforts were ultimately futile.

After a while, they simply gave up, no longer resisting the tide of frantic citizens who pressed against the glowing barrier. The people screamed Anthony’s name over and over, their voices swelling with desperate devotion.

Normally, mercenaries and adventurers of this caliber would have threatened, injured, or even killed those who dared approach so recklessly, for this was a world where strength alone governed law. But with Anthony present, no one dared raise a hand.

How could they?

In his presence, they could not risk brutality, for his influence was both shield and blade.

Anthony, of course, heard every chant, every cry of his name echoing through the heated air. But he paid it no heed. He was not about to wander about like some vain celebrity signing shirts, papers, or even foreheads.

Such frivolities were beneath him.

Meanwhile, the military carried out the solemn duty of collecting the bodies. They could not simply abandon the corpses of demons and Forsaken Cult members to rot in the sands and then retreat back to their bases.

To do so would have been reckless.

The Forsaken Cult may have been annihilated this day, but those in high command were far from naive. They knew too well that such malevolence was never permanently extinguished. If history was any guide, another cult, or something equally vile, would rise again in decades, perhaps centuries. To leave corpses lying here could only hasten that inevitable resurgence.

Moreover, the danger lay not merely in ideology but in temptation. The world was anything but perfect. Men and women would seize upon the corpses of demons or cultists in their mad desire to push past their limits.

Even if they knew the pursuit was futile, the allure of greater power, extended lifespan, and transcendent existence was simply too enticing to resist. The dead themselves became vessels of forbidden promises.

Blood magic users, vampires by nature and a handful of gifted soldiers from other races, employed their innate abilities, manipulating streams of blood across the desert sands. It rose into the air like a vast crimson sphere, pulsing grotesquely like a world unto itself, before it was frozen into shards of lifeless red crystal or incinerated into nothingness.

Time dragged on, the work methodical, each soldier moving with mechanical efficiency. This was no new ordeal. For them, this was routine, an all-too-familiar ritual etched into the endless wars of their world. Every man and woman here was at least of Sergeant rank, hardened veterans well-accustomed to the grim duty of cleansing battlefields.

During all of this, Anthony and his companions remained utterly detached. He lounged beneath the shade of a parasol, reclining on a beach-style chair, a pair of dark sunglasses resting lazily on his face.

The image was surreal, he looked not like a warrior fresh from battle but a nobleman on vacation. Though the sun could do no harm to his body, he still reclined beneath the umbrella, indulging in a rare moment of tranquility. The battlefield, drenched in blood just hours ago, might as well have been some distant memory.

”This is pretty relaxing,” Reynold remarked from nearby, his voice carrying a tone of calmness at their peculiar situation. He too sat in a recliner, shaded beneath his own parasol, his sunglasses gleaming.

”Indeed. Connections are truly a blessing,” Dale added with a smirk, stretching languidly in his chair. ”No cleanup duty for us today.”

It was true. Ordinarily, none of them would have dared skip such responsibilities. Warlords were not known for their leniency. But, through Anthony’s presence and the strength of their bonds with him, those fears had evaporated.

Such were the privileges of standing close to greatness.

Though they all thrived in battle, the clash of steel, the roar of explosions, the swirling torrents of mana and elemental force, this part, the aftermath, was never enjoyable.

Cleaning corpses was a far cry from the thrill of combat.

”Who would have imagined such a day?” Seraphim murmured, stretching her lithe frame lazily on her chair. ”To sit back, to relax on a battlefield... it’s absurd. And yet, now I finally understand why Dale is so obsessed with connections. Life truly is easier when you wield influence.”

”Seraphim,” Vega interjected sweetly, her tone carrying playful hint. She rested with feline ease, her perfectly shaped head lying atop Anthony’s chiseled chest. ”I hope you don’t let Dale corrupt you with ways.”

”Says the one enjoying herself most of all,” Dale shot back, clicking his tongue in mock frustration.

”Hmph. If you envy me so much, then perhaps you should have one of your wives save the world,” Vega replied coolly, turning her face away.

The remark earned a chuckle from Dale, who leaned forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes. ”Speaking of my wives, perhaps it is time I entertained the thought of... an intensive night of activity with all of them together. Whichever of them gives birth to a son first, I shall name him Anthony.”

Reynold’s brows lifted in realization, and a grin spread across his face. ”Ah... clever. If the Captain is as blessed by the heavens as the people say, then surely even sharing his name would bring fortune. To name your son Anthony would make him special in ways ordinary children could never hope for.”

”I knew you would understand me,” Dale replied with a chuckle of satisfaction.

”Would you do the same, Reynold? Would you name your child Anthony as well?” Dale pressed with a sly grin.

Reynold let out a sigh, his expression turning weary. ”Children are... a burden, honestly. They cry through the nights, demand endless patience. True, they are bundles of joy, but I think I will wait a few decades before subjecting myself to that chaos.”

Anthony listened to their banter with mild amusement but did not interject. It wasn’t as though his name was unique. Across the vast expanse of the Blue Planet, numerous others answered the name ”Anthony.”

Their conversation was little more than background jokes. Instead, he continued to stroke Vega’s silky purple hair, his hand moving gently as she relaxed against him.

From the periphery, other soldiers cast envious glances toward Anthony’s team, Spectre, Clement, Kingsley, and the rest.

Beneath their parasols, sipping relaxation as if it were fine wine, they seemed untouchable. The ordinary soldiers could only dream of such luxuries. But dreams were not enough.

They had lives to earn, duties to perform, and above all, two Warlords whose eyes loomed from above. Envy was a luxury they could not afford to indulge.