MIGHT AS WELL BE OP-Chapter 428: Shock
Two streaks of light darted across the landscape at world blinding speed, their feet scarcely grazing the ground before vanishing and reappearing in another location.
Fists clashed.
Palms struck.
Legs collided.
Knees met with thunderous force.
Each movement unfolded in a relentless sequence, an elegant, yet lethal dance of precision and power as their bodies connected in a storm of devastating blows.
Neither of them drew upon any form of energy.
No mana.
No chaos.
No spiritual force.
And yet, they matched each other with absurd ease, effortless, unrelenting.
Space fractured with every sudden appearance.
The wind howled in protest.
The very air ripped apart.
But they did not falter.
They did not blink.
Their gazes locked, sharp, unflinching.
In one, amusement flickered like firelight.
In the other, a chilling stillness reigned.
With another sickening boom, their strikes collided once more.
Cracks spread across the earth like spiderwebs, fracturing in all directions.
The walls convulsed, groaning under the strain of containing such monstrous force.
Windows exploded into shards.
Ravines tore open in the ground.
Yet the room, their battlefield, repaired itself in real time, frantically trying to keep up with the sheer devastation.
Seraphim, Dale, and Reynold stood clustered at one end of the room.
A shimmering barrier of spiritual energy, conjured by Seraphim, enveloped them, an act of sheer necessity rather than strategy.
They couldn't hope to intervene in a battle of such magnitude.
Even breathing in the presence of those two was a struggle.
The barrier existed solely to shield them from the overwhelming shockwaves tearing through the space.
Yet despite its strength, cracks splintered across its surface.
Still, Seraphim pressed on, pouring more spiritual energy into the construct, willing it to hold, for just a little longer.
They couldn't follow the battle with their eyes; even their heightened senses were incapable of keeping pace.
The only thing they could grasp was the deafening roar of each strike, explosions of sound marking the relentless clash between these two titans.
Yet, even the echoes of their movements betrayed them.
The afterimages vanished before they could even be perceived, for the speed of sound itself lagged far behind their blinding pace.
By the time the sound erupted, they had already moved on.
High upon the ceiling, Kingsley and the Executioner clashed, fist against fist in a storm of raw force.
In the next instant, they were on one of the four corner walls, standing sideways as if gravity were beneath their notice.
Then, they vanished again, reappearing midair, suspended in defiance of all logic.
Their fists blurred, impossible to track, each strike a flash of motion too swift for the eye to follow.
Kingsley's expression remained cold, unshaken, unreadable.
His fists moved with eerie precision, as though guided by fate itself.
He struck without hesitation, each blow timed to the exact beat of a heart.
What he displayed was no longer battle, it was execution.
He parried not with brute force alone, but with intent, effortlessly redirecting momentum, unraveling his opponent's rhythm.
Every muscle fiber in his body pulsed with raw, refined strength.
They strengthened.
They rearranged.
They adapted.
They mimicked.
Each attack from the Executioner was read in real time, understood, dismantled, and countered in the very same breath.
His movement technique, Pulse Step, made him absurdly fast.
He flickered in and out of existence, as though reality itself struggled to hold him in place.
But—
The Executioner was no ordinary being.
He hailed from a higher galaxy, a realm where power redefined possibility.
He was a man whose age surpassed a million years, yet his presence burned with undiminished vitality.
His fists were not his primary weapon, his true blade still floated untouched in the air, humming with dormant power, as if awaiting a reason to be drawn.
He carried with him an unfathomable weight of battle experience, wars etched into his bones, centuries carved into his gaze.
The smile on his face never wavered.
It lingered, unchanging, like that of a predator watching its prey make a final, desperate struggle, fully aware it stood no chance of survival.
He was a monster, even in his true form.
A being that stood beyond the limits of ordinary existence.
And though he viewed Kingsley as prey, he did not fight carelessly.
He observed.
He studied.
He calculated Kingsley's movements before they even happened.
He twisted Kingsley's own strikes against him, turning each opening into an opportunity.
He didn't aim for where Kingsley was, he struck where Kingsley would be.
His movements were as precise as a mathematician's formula, every step a calculated piece of an intricate design.
His control over his own body was absolute, his form a seamless extension of his will.
It mattered not that Kingsley could adapt.
It mattered not that Kingsley could mimic.
The depth of the Executioner's martial prowess was too vast, too profound, to be exhausted in a single battle.
His attacks flowed like a symphony of destruction, each motion a note in a perfect orchestral arrangement.
He fought with the effortless grace of one who had long since mastered the rhythm of war.
He moved through the battlefield with the tranquility of a drifting petal, untouched by the chaos around him.
Each strike was a dialect of its own, spoken in the effortless language of dominance and precision.
His presence transformed the battlefield into a stage, one upon which he performed with flawless perfection.
He fought as if the outcome were already certain, his victory an inevitability etched in steel.
And indeed, his victory was already written in the cold, unshakable metal of fate.
With a fluid, serpentine kick, his leg lashed out, his heel connecting with Kingsley's jaw in a brutal, decisive strike.
Kingsley's body shot sideways, the air around him torn as he was sent spiraling.
Blood erupted from his mouth, teeth shattered, his body crashing violently against the earth before careening into a wall with bone-shaking force.
The room trembled, vibrating under the immense weight of the impact.
Yet Kingsley did not flinch.
His body, forged in the crucible of countless battles, seemed to absorb the pain, to adapt to the wound.
His muscles twisted and spasmed as they mended, the injury sealing itself in mere seconds.
Without a word, Kingsley rose to his feet.
He didn't speak.
But his presence, quiet, yet undeniable, grew, expanding like an inexorable storm.
He fixed his gaze on the Executioner, who remained poised, floating with his hands behind his back, exuding the calm air of a master overseeing a lesson, as if Kingsley were merely a pupil to be corrected.
"It seems this lowly galaxy is home to some truly fascinating individuals. Anthony, and now you... I'm impressed. It would be worth exploring further once I leave this prison"
The Executioner's voice was calm, almost detached, as he gazed down at Kingsley, his words dripping with an unsettling sense of superiority.
Not a single mark of battle marred his skin or armor.
He was simply that skilled.
"I would have relished taking your body"
He continued, his gaze shifting slightly as if contemplating the idea.
"But it seems, due to some... unforeseen circumstances, you're unable to harness any form of energy. What a shame"
He spoke without urgency, savoring the moment, his gaze still fixed on Kingsley.
He wasn't in a hurry to claim his prey.
After all, what was a battle between predator and prey without the theatrics?
But Kingsley didn't respond.
He was a man of few words.
His cold eyes spoke volumes, silently communicating what needed no verbal expression.
He raised a fist, poised to unleash his attack.
But then—
A shift.
A subtle nonexistent shift in the air.
Kingsley didn't sense it.
Neither did the Executioner.
Then, in the most fleeting moment, a tickle of instinct brushed against the Executioner's awareness.
It wasn't a scream. It wasn't a warning.
It was merely a whisper, an understated notification of an impending nuisance.
Before the Executioner could react, a sword, coated with intent and slicing through the very fabric of the moment, cleaved through his neck with the precision of death itself.
Blood flowed from the wound, but it was little more than a drop.
The attack, despite its perfection, barely grazed him.
The Executioner turned toward the new threat, his expression shifting, if only for an instant.
For the first time, something beyond amusement flickered in his eyes.
Shock.
