MIGHT AS WELL BE OP-Chapter 435: Talk Too Much

"I'm extremely frustrated right now"

Reynold muttered, his voice low and edged with danger.

"I hope you don't die too easily"

With a single step, he vanished, lightning cracking violently in the space he left behind.

Before a blink could pass, he was upon Krag, his rapier shimmering with condensed aura and engulfed in brilliant Phoenix flames.

He lunged forward—

A thrust that tore through the air, his momentum erupting in a shockwave aimed straight for Krag's skull.

Krag sneered, unshaken.

"Stupid bird"

He growled, his claws igniting with chaotic aura as he brought them up in a flash to meet the strike.

Krag's claw collided with the rapier in a devastating boom that split the air.

But to his utter shock, the force didn't just stop there, it surged through him like a divine punishment.

His body was hurled backward like a broken doll, limbs flailing, helpless against the sheer momentum.

His once-proud claws were now mangled masses of flesh, torn, shredded, and dripping with blood.

But before he could even crash into the jagged spires behind him, his flight halted unnaturally, as if reality itself had bent.

Reynold blurred into existence beside him, silent and merciless.

His rapier descended, engulfed in blazing phoenix fire, gleaming like a divine spear falling from the heavens, a blow not meant to wound, but to end.

Sensing the incoming strike, Krag's eyes widened in alarm.

With no time to spare, he controlled his chaotic aura, condensing it into a dense barrier wrapped tightly around his chest.

A heartbeat later, the rapier struck.

The tip met the aura barrier with a deafening crack, and another shockwave erupted, this one fiercer, heavier, rippling across the battlefield like a scream of fractured space.

Krag was blasted downward like a meteor.

His body and barrier slammed into the earth with cataclysmic force, the impact carving a gaping sinkhole where he landed.

Dust and rock exploded skyward.

The ground shuddered violently as if rejecting the sheer violence of the blow.

At the bottom of the pit, Krag lay momentarily still, his aura flickering erratically, his heart still protected, but only just.

Before Krag could so much as twitch, Reynold slowly raised his free hand toward the sky.

The world responded instantly.

Mana roared in obedience, bending, twisting, screaming under the weight of his will.

The lightning that had danced across the storm-ridden sky suddenly converged, spiraling above him in a vortex of raw, celestial fury.

His lips parted.

And with a voice cold enough to freeze fire, he spoke

Drop

In that instant, the world turned blinding white.

A cataclysm of lightning crashed down from the heavens like divine judgment, furious and unrelenting.

Krag's instincts screamed.

He tried to move, tried to flee, but he couldn't.

Reynold had seized control of Krag's momentum.

His body betrayed him.

Not his arms.

Not his legs.

Nothing moved.

All he could do was pour every ounce of his aura into a final, desperate shield over his body.

But it was meaningless.

The moment the lightning struck, his barrier shattered like glass beneath a hammer.

The thunderclap was apocalyptic.

The bolt tore through Krag's body, bones snapping, flesh searing, his screams piercing the air... only to be consumed and drowned out in the storm's relentless fury.

And when the light finally faded.

Silence.

Smoke.

And a crater of molten earth where Krag once stood.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, destruction ensued as Seraphim clashed with Vexa.

"You pointy-eared bitch, I'll rip those ears off and hang them around my neck!"

Vexa snarled, her voice shrill with venom as she unleashed a violent storm of dark energy.

The blast tore through the air like a blackened maelstrom, but Seraphim had already moved.

With grace sharpened by years of battle, she sidestepped effortlessly, her figure gliding past the dark surge like moonlight through shadows.

She soared into the sky, rising above the chaos as spiritual energy gathered and coiled around her, elegant, radiant, and terrifying.

It shimmered in the air, then bent to her will, shaping itself into an arsenal of gleaming, spectral blades.

Floating above, her eyes locked onto Vexa, calm, cold, unbothered.

"Crawl back to whatever man's bed you slithered out from"

Her voice was like sharpened frost.

Then she pointed.

At her command, the sword constructs rained down like divine punishment, thousands of ethereal blades descending in unison, each one screaming with focused spiritual force as they hurtled toward their target.

Chaotic aura surged violently around Vexa's legs as she vanished into motion, a blur of wrath weaving through the storm of descending blades.

Each sword construct that missed her crashed into the earth with cataclysmic force, splitting the ground into deep ravines, sending shockwaves rippling across the battlefield.

Then, miscalculation.

One of the spectral swords embedded into the earth pulsed faintly, then detonated.

The eruption hurled Vexa backward like a ragdoll caught in a tempest.

She crashed against the jagged terrain, tumbling through shattered rock and scorched soil.

A thin crimson line marred her cheek.

Her fingers brushed the blood slowly, disbelieving.

Her face contorted.

"You dared to scar my face"

Her voice trembled with incandescent rage as her eyes ignited, glowing a blood-red hue that lit the gloom like dying embers before a wildfire.

Her gaze snapped skyward, locking onto Seraphim.

But Seraphim simply hovered above it all, radiant and still, her hair drifting like silk in the wind, her smile calm… taunting.

She said nothing.

As Vexa opened her mouth to snarl another threat, her instincts screamed — too late.

A warmth trickled down her neck.

Confusion crossed her face.

Her fingers trembled upward, brushing against wetness.

Blood.

Her blood.

A thin, precise slit marked her throat, crimson spilling down her chest like a velvet ribbon.

Staggering, she turned with sluggish disbelief.

There, just behind her, stood Seraphim.

Silent.

Composed.

A dagger-shaped construct shimmered in her hand, still glowing with ethereal energy.

Vexa's gaze snapped upward toward the sky where Seraphim still floated, but the figure there flickered, then dissipated like mist under moonlight.

An illusion. A clone. A trap.

"You talk too much"

Seraphim whispered, her voice as cold as polished steel.

Those words were the last Vexa heard before her body crumpled lifelessly to the ground with a heavy, final thud.

On Kingsley's side of the battlefield, silence reigned.

He stood still, calm, composed, facing Drek with arms casually crossed over his chest, as if the battle had nothing to do with him.

He made no move.

It was as though he was inviting Drek to strike first.

Drek obliged without a word.

No taunts. No theatrics.

Just pure violence.

His massive black broadsword came crashing down from above, swung with terrifying force.

The air shrieked and tore apart in its path, a sonic scream trailing behind the blade.

The strike aimed to split Kingsley in two perfect halves

But finally, just as the blade closed in, Kingsley moved.

A limb.

A hand.

A finger.

BOOM

The impact cracked the air like thunder, but nothing else.

Kingsley's outstretched finger stopped the broadsword mid-swing.

The weapon vibrated violently, frozen in place, its force completely nullified.

The earth beneath Kingsley's feet didn't shift.

No dust stirred.

Not a single crack formed.

He hadn't even budged.

He had tanked the entire blow, with one finger.

And his face?

Still expressionless.

"Nice sword"

Kingsley said, his tone indifferent, almost bored.

His single finger turned to two, the broadsword now caught between his index and middle finger like a fragile twig.

Drek's eyes widened.

He gritted his teeth, muscles bulging beneath his demonic flesh as he tried to yank the sword free.

He poured more strength into it, chaotic aura flaring, veins pulsing.

But it was useless.

The sword didn't budge.

It was as though the weight of the world pinned it down.

Then—

With a lazy flick of his fingers, Kingsley moved.

CRACK.

SHHHRRRRIIIIIIIINNNKKKK!!!

The broadsword shattered.

It exploded into a storm of metal shards, fragments spinning and spiraling in every direction like a disintegrated relic.

Alarms blared in Drek's mind.

His instincts screamed.

Before he could fully process, his body reacted.

Blur.

Drek disappeared in a flash, his form a streak of black as he leaped backward, desperate to create distance between himself and this unnervingly calm human.

Since Kingsley activated Zero Displacement against the Executioner, he has yet to deactivate it.

Unlike others, he possesses the rare ability to maintain his skills indefinitely.

With Zero Displacement and every single skill of his, he required no additional energy or resources to keep them active, allowing him to retain their effects for as long as he desires.

The moment Drek appeared in a new location, the world seemed to twist.

Kingsley was already there.

Right behind him.

And then…

Drek felt it.

Two distinct touches.

A hand pressed gently against his shoulder.

Another clasping his skull.

His body froze.

The weight of those hands.

It felt like the universe itself had placed its hand upon him.

His aura flared desperately, erupting with the might of a hundred storms, desperate to break free.

But it was futile.

With no effort at all, Kingsley's fingers tightened, his grip an unyielding force.

In a single, effortless motion, he tore Drek's head from his neck.

The headless body crumpled to the ground with a wet, sickening thud.

Blood sprayed through the air like a crimson fountain.

But not a single drop touched Kingsley.

He was already gone.

Dale didn't waste time engaging in close combat with Morn.

He didn't need to.

With a mere thought, he tapped into the blood beneath Morn's feet, his control absolute, his mastery terrifying.

Blood surged.

The earth beneath Morn's body convulsed as jagged blood spikes erupted from the ground, skewering his form in a violent storm of crimson.

The spikes tore through him in every direction, each one finding its mark with brutal precision.

His heart, lungs, liver, every organ was pierced, shredded, and ravaged by the onslaught.

Morn couldn't even react.

He barely had time to scream.

The blood-red spikes didn't withdraw, leaving his body hanging, suspended like a grotesque effigy.

A twisted crucifixion.

Dale didn't even look back.

He simply turned, walking away, leaving Morn's ruined corpse behind.