MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

Chapter 864: Broken Limits

Michael’s blade tore forward as he closed the distance between himself and the Angel in a burst of speed so violent and sudden that the very air screamed in protest. His hand, his body, his entire being moved faster than light itself. The Angel responded instantly, his blade surging forward with equal ferocity as he met the incoming attack with a mixture of glee and long-suppressed expectations. Their eyes locked for a brief, electrifying heartbeat, golden irises clashing against obsidian black, and without another word, they both moved in a blur beyond mortal comprehension.

Their blades carved through space, slicing through the void, splitting reality, severing the thin fabric of time and the fragile concept of existence. Nothing survived the wake of their swordplay. Nothing mattered.

If it existed, if it dared take form, their blades cut through it as easily as scissors through fabric.

Michael’s attacks were heavy yet swift, dangerous yet flawless, ridiculously precise to the point of absurdity. His slashes came from every known direction and every conceivable angle, forming a storm of movements that defied order or logic.

Left. Right. Below. Center. Above. Behind.

All sides at once.

He was a tempest given flesh, a beast wearing human skin, a mere mortal who had been born for the sword and nothing else.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Boom! Boom!

Their clashes echoed like deranged thunder, a rhythm with no pattern, no end, no mercy. Michael’s blade moved with a blitz of erratic speed, his target the Angel’s neck, but the Angel parried effortlessly, keeping up with the rapid, ferocious momentum without a single sign of struggle.

Michael recalibrated in an instant. His sword carved toward the Angel’s shoulder with no hesitation whatsoever, undeterred by his earlier failure. The Angel adapted yet again, but Michael was already shifting, his shoulders, waist, and feet moving in perfect synchronicity as the tip of his blade snapped upward toward the Angel’s chin.

The Angel’s head snapped aside just barely, avoiding the strike, but even in that perfect motion a thin line appeared across his cheek. Golden skin tore open. A single drop of radiant blood fell, only for the wound to seal itself a heartbeat later. Small, shallow, insignificant as it was, it did not change the truth:

Null Michael, the Sword Saint, had drawn first blood.

Yet neither warrior reacted. Neither acknowledged it. They were immersed too deeply in their shared madness, too enraptured by the rhythm, the momentum, the sheer intoxication of the clash. Their presence spiked with every collision, every parry, every slash, every technique unleashed.

Michael’s speed skyrocketed. His strength climbed alongside it. He became faster, fiercer, deadlier. The Angel, who had kept up so effortlessly at first, began to fall behind, subtly, gradually, but undeniably. Each incoming strike felt heavier, faster, more ferocious than the one before. Still, the Angel said nothing. He simply moved, acknowledging silently that a battlefield was ever-changing, unpredictable, and merciless.

’To think a mere human would be this good with the sword,’ the Angel mused as he deflected another thunderous blow. Already five wounds had marked his body throughout the battle, though each had snapped shut instantly thanks to his innate regenerative grace.

’He even broke through his physical limits,’ the Angel thought, pivoting as Michael’s blade sliced through the space where his shoulder had just been.

A wide smile stretched across the Angel’s face. At last, finally, after countless years, he had found someone who understood him. Other Angels prayed. They worshipped. They devoted themselves wholly to their God. He believed too, of course. But his devotion to the sword rivaled even his faith. No one in his entire home galaxy had ever provided him with a real, worthy clash of blades.

Now, here it was, the dream he had chased for decades, centuries, millennia.

This was no spar. This was life and death. But did he care? Absolutely not. What meaning did the sword have if one never risked their existence for it?

His angelic heart thrashed in excitement and indescribable joy. Something he had searched for across eras finally stood before him. How could happiness not erupt through his veins?

Even as he was pressured back, he cared little. What mattered was this moment, the sword, the opponent, the outcome.

With that thought, his battle intent erupted outward in a menacing explosion. His muscles strained, fibers tearing and reknitting in an endless rapid sequence as though his holy physique was being rewritten from the inside out. But the Angel hardly noticed. He was entirely consumed by the long-awaited moment he had sought his whole existence.

Then, with a cataclysmic impact, he met Michael’s blade again, force colliding with force, speed melding with speed. Both combatants wore wild grins that replaced their facial features and expressions entirely.

Both had shattered their limits, both growing stronger through the clash itself, feeding off each other’s madness.

The Angel’s sword collapsed downward from above like a judge’s gavel delivering a divine verdict. Its speed surpassed both thought and light, the cosmic winds screaming in agony as the strike descended. Michael was ready. He raised his blade, meeting the heavenly blow head-on. The impact collapsed the solar ground beneath them, the tremor so heavy that sound itself seemed to distort.

Michael’s feet sank into the burning solar surface. The tremor tore through his body. Muscle split. Skin ruptured. Crimson blood splattered across the glowing terrain. Yet Michael didn’t react to the pain. His eyes were razor-sharp, unblinking. Nothing, not agony, not injury, could break his focus.

The Angel did not pause. Not for a heartbeat. He retracted his sword and launched another slash at blistering speed, aimed directly at Michael’s side. The reasonable choice would be to dodge and counter.

But who was Michael? Dodge? That notion insulted his very name.

He shifted his weight subtly, his sword blurring as he met the attack head-on. The galaxy itself drowned beneath the explosion of force their collision produced. They were titans given mortal form, gods in their own right, celestial and divine by sheer will.

The blow sent Michael flying. The sheer force twisted his body as he skidded across the solar surface, burning trenches into the star beneath them. Blood bubbled from his lips as his body tumbled. His head snapped up just in time to see a golden blade filling his vision, growing larger with every millisecond.

Instinctively, he raised his weapon, refusing yet again to dodge. The collision blasted him backward once more, fracturing his left arm beneath the weight of the blow. He could feel it: the Angel had surpassed him in raw physical might. Michael had broken his limits first, yet the Angel had pushed even further.

But Michael cared for none of it.

He knew his body. He knew himself. He grew during battle. After battle. Through battle. That was his nature. That was how he had become who he was.

His grin widened as his fractured arm snapped back into place, regeneration syncing perfectly with his instincts. His entire body burned, overheating as though entering an unstable overdrive, but Michael was Michael. This heat meant something different to him.

The Angel closed the distance once more, not giving him a breath of space. But Michael did not need space. He never had. He never would. With eclipsing speed and strength that tore past anything he had ever achieved before, he met the Angel head-on again.

This time, he was not pushed back. He stood firm. He had shattered yet another limit.

And so, the Angel and the human continued their unending river of beautiful, exhilarating, cataclysmic madness.