MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

Chapter 732: Orchestra

As the team remained drinking in the happiness of the moment, several hours drifted by before Anthony finally rose to his feet, his posture calm and composed, as though the concept of drunkenness simply did not exist in his dictionary. His demeanor contrasted sharply with the others, who were still lost in laughter and clinking glasses, celebrating as though tomorrow would never come.

“Where are you headed?” Seraphim asked, her gaze settling on him as she saw him rise with quiet purpose.

“To meet the Warlords,” Anthony replied, his voice calm and unhurried, carrying an almost serene undertone that contrasted with the festive atmosphere around him.

Seraphim nodded her head in understanding, saying nothing further. After all, she knew the Warlords had been waiting for Anthony for quite some time now. His presence was not something easily requested, and when they called for him, it was rarely without significance.

“Why don’t you finish drinking with us first?” Dale slurred, his face flushed and his words heavy with intoxication. He raised his glass with unsteady hands, the liquid within nearly spilling over the rim as he laughed heartily.

Anthony merely smiled faintly, his expression gentle yet distant. “I’ll be back soon,” he intoned softly, his tone making it clear that his mind was already elsewhere.

With a mere thought, he activated Authority of Severance. In an instant, reality flipped upon itself, the vibrant room and drunken laughter twisted into a world woven from countless luminous threads. Space, time, and perception unraveled into intricate lines stretching infinitely before his eyes.

‘They aren’t in the same location,’ Anthony thought calmly, his gaze scanning the threads of existence themselves. Without hesitation, he reached out and pulled one. There was not even the faintest spatial ripple or distortion, the world simply folded around him, and he vanished soundlessly from his room, leaving his teammates to their celebration.

When Anthony reappeared, he stood within the familiar training chamber of Warlord Raelith, the Human Warlord of Military Base Alpha-9. The air in the room was thick with pressure and intent, as though the space itself acknowledged the man within it.

Anthony did not announce himself. Instead, he activated concealment instantly, his presence dissolving into nothingness as he leaned casually against the wall. He simply watched in silence.

Before him stood Warlord Raelith, his figure radiating composed strength. The man’s posture was steady, his focus unshakable. In his hands rested a katana, its katana reflecting a muted glimmer under the chamber’s light. With a calm breath, Raelith raised the weapon above his head and slashed downward, a single, elegant motion executed with absolute precision. The air split apart with a sharp whistle, the wind shrieking from even such a minor swing.

Anthony didn’t disturb him. He remained silent, absorbed by the man’s dedication. It wasn’t that Anthony sought to learn anything at that moment; rather, he found a rare kind of peace in watching someone so wholly consumed by their art.

Time blurred. Raelith’s feet remained rooted in place; he did not step, nor sway. Only his arms, waist, and shoulders moved, forming a perfect harmony of motion. His upper body flowed like water, while his lower half remained solid and grounded, an unmoving anchor. Sweat glistened on his skin, dripping steadily onto the wooden floorboards below. But the moment the droplets made contact, they evaporated, cleansed by the rune formations embedded within the chamber.

Gradually, Raelith began to move. His strikes transitioned from simple downward cuts to seamless horizontal slashes, his movements evolving into a dance of lethality and grace. The runic patterns carved into the walls began to glow faintly, expanding the space within the chamber as if stretching reality itself to accommodate a being of his magnitude.

Then, his form vanished into motion, a streak of blinding speed that sliced through the air like lightning incarnate. Each swing of his katana carried lethal rhythm, every movement exact, every cut absolute. There was no hesitation, no doubt, no second-guessing. Raelith believed in his katana, and the katana, in turn, believed in him. They were one. Man and katana, dancer and rhythm, existence and motion.

His shoulders and arms moved in perfect harmony with his knees and feet. Every shift, every turn, every exhale seemed divine in action. He wasn’t merely training; he was communing, worshiping the path of the katana. He seemed lost, drowned, enamored by the art itself. The man didn’t just wield a katana; he lived it.

The world beyond faded. The military base ceased to exist. His title as Warlord, his duty to the Supreme Monarch, the burden of command, all of it burned away like paper before a dragon’s fire breath. At this moment, there was no soldier, no leader, no warrior, only a man who lived for the katana.

The air thrummed as his katana tore through it, splitting sound and space with mesmerizing grace. His movements were so refined that reality itself struggled to register them. Even his footsteps left no echo, as though the world held its breath in reverence.

The katana was his ballad, and he was its dancer.

Anthony watched silently, his expression unreadable. He couldn’t tell who was more obsessed by the art, Raelith or Spectre. Both were bound by their devotion to the katana, their obsession carved into every swing, every breath. Anthony, for all his love for the katana, couldn’t compare to such singular obsession. He admired it, but he did not belong to it. Those two existed in a realm entirely of their own making.

‘He’s made progress,’ Anthony thought, a faint glimmer of approval flickering in his eyes.

He had sparred with Raelith before, taught him, corrected him, and even guided his flow.

‘He’s also advanced with his general movement,’ Anthony mused. ‘I suppose the Planetary-level battle video did help.’

Raelith had indeed made astounding progress after sparring with him and studying the battle recording Anthony had shared with the Warlords. His evolution was remarkable, every movement now carried refined intent, forged through endless practice.

Anthony didn’t interrupt his rhythm. He simply stood there, allowing the man’s momentum to continue uninterrupted. Diagonal slashes bled seamlessly into horizontal cuts; horizontal transitions became vertical cleaves, forming one breathtaking sequence that seemed less like combat and more like art.

‘With talent like his, it’s no surprise he’s one of the few Human Warlords among them all, and the youngest of the entire order,’ Anthony reflected. His gaze softened, admiration mingling with quiet satisfaction. He stood as if watching an orchestra, with Raelith at its center, the lone conductor, guiding every note with the swing of his katana.

Anthony’s hands twitched slightly, the urge to join him flickering in his chest. His fingers itched to draw his own katana and step into the rhythm, to match Raelith stroke for stroke, breath for breath. But he restrained himself. This was not his moment, not his stage.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, the faintest sigh escaping his lips. His sky-blue eyes remained fixed upon the katana-obsessed warrior before him. He had already decided, he would not interrupt. He would simply watch, in silence, until Warlord Raelith brought his own performance to a close.

And so, he stood there, silent, calm, unseen, witnessing the song of a man and his katana, a devotion that transcended battle itself.