MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 1018: Garden

In the expansive reaches of the Acarnis Galaxy, located billions of light-years distant from where Anthony and his companions engaged in their casual bout, a woman sat in serene isolation. Mana drifted softly and steadily across this world, following a harmonious, almost musical rhythm as it wove through the air like an invisible song.

Throughout the land, birds sang gently while soaring through peaceful heavens, butterflies fluttered carefree in the breeze, and blossoms covered every spot with vivid hues and subtle scents.

This world was the domain of a woman recognized across the Blue Planet as 'The Everlasting One' or 'The Saintess of the World'.

Crimson Irene, spouse of Null Collins, parent to Null Michael, and grandparent to Null Anthony.

This spot served as her retreat whenever she sought solitude, often following exhausting bouts of healing that sapped her mental and spiritual energies. At present, away from her kin, she chose to linger here, savoring the calm offered by this concealed haven.

Just her spouse, her child, and her child's partner were aware of this site. Not even the Crimson clan, her original family from the Blue Planet, knew of it. Anthony himself remained unaware of its existence.

In a sprawling garden brimming with an array of blossoms, Irene rested tranquilly with closed eyes, clad in a billowing white gown that matched her esteemed title flawlessly. The garment gleamed softly beneath the gentle sky glow, as if infused with inherent peace.

Her locks shone in vivid red, the hallmark of the Crimson lineage, tumbling smoothly down her back like liquid silk. She positioned herself with profound composure and immobility, as if her mind ventured into profound realms. Mana swirled around her form like a soft stream, circulating leisurely and in sync, eager to blend into her essence. The ambient air appeared to echo her aura, like the planet acknowledged and embraced her quietude.

For a spell, all stayed hushed, yet abruptly, her contemplation ceased.

A subtle hint of bewilderment surfaced on her features, faint but evident. Her lids lifted gradually, revealing her ruby-hued gaze to the world once more, radiating serene insight and profundity.

Her mouth opened just a bit as she uttered, her voice even and composed, 'There is no need to hide. Show yourselves.' Her manner stayed mild and utterly unperturbed, with the fleeting puzzlement on her face dissolving in an instant.

She detected an abrupt aura, an unexpected force, which sparked her prior disquiet. No one should have known of this sanctuary. Its hidden nature had held firm for years, unbroken.

However, now that it was found, delaying served no purpose; facing the trespasser directly proved wiser. Should it be a wanderer who chanced upon this realm, or a seeker of aid or treatment, she would mend them and then relocate her planet elsewhere in the Acarnis Galaxy.

Issue resolved.

Once her words escaped, the trespasser—or intruders—answered her call.

The very fabric of reality flickered, the void undulated as if existence had been jostled, and moments later, twenty Eleven-Winged Angels materialized hovering over the garden. Their enormous wings stretched wide, as if destined to dominate the skies, emanating a commanding aura. Their forms shimmered in pristine white and gold, exuding a sacred energy that saturated the heavens with intense celestial might.

Still, not one of these twenty Eleven-Winged Angels uttered a word; in fact, they dared not, for guiding them was an entity that surpassed all their potential in might.

A Twelve-Winged Angel.

In a fleeting instant, Irene's countenance shifted, but solely briefly; soon after, her demeanor restored to perfect composure.

Naturally, she was familiar with the Angels. Naturally, she knew of the galactic conflict her child, her grandchild, and her spouse had waged just days prior. Reports of that clash spread rapidly across the immense Acarnis Galaxy.

She skipped that gathering because her spouse, Collins, warned it could turn hazardous. And truly, it had escalated to perilous heights.

'Oh Lower Being, Rejoice, For You Are Now Under The Presence Of I, Solvarion Sylthorin Aethryx. You May Kneel Before Me As I Address You, Oh Lower Being.'

The Twelve-Winged Angel declared in a serene voice laced with haughtiness yet oddly kind, as if he viewed his statement as gracious rather than presumptuous.

Irene showed no response; she stayed put in the garden, poised and detached.

Yet that poise was merely external, for in her thoughts, myriad ideas and strategies swirled swiftly. Schemes took shape quickly, scenarios played out in sequence.

Like, how did these Angels locate this haven?

That inquiry alone troubled her deeply, yet the core concern weighing on her was another matter. The link she attempted to forge with her relatives failed to link up.

Not a single time.

She wasn't naive enough to misinterpret the implication. Evidently, these Angels had severed all channels of contact, probably via some obscure power or sacred relic. Thus, she found herself isolated here, encircled by foes.

Noting Irene's lack of response to their superior, the other Eleven-Winged Angels scowled. Their once-pious faces and soft grins faded swiftly, contorting into clear fury and outrage. After all, how could an inferior entity disregard a Twelve-Winged Angel? One who reigned at the pinnacle of their galaxy.

'What are you here for?' Irene inquired at last, her voice neutral, disinterested, and wholly unaffected by her predicament, as if dread and mortality meant nothing to her soul.

And indeed, they held no sway. Though no fighter or frontline combatant, Irene had beheld innumerable demises over her years. She had seen souls depart in her embrace, despite her desperate efforts to preserve them.

Moments arose where patients perished mid-treatment. Instances where her power fell short. Those belonged to her novice phase, as she grasped the essence of healing. She couldn't just arise one morning with the skill to rescue all who sought her aid.

She wasn't divine; she was simply mortal.

Nevertheless, she felt sure the Angels arrived with intent. They wouldn't single her out idly. Yet she anticipated their motive already.

It stemmed from her son Michael or her grandson Anthony. Both possessed a talent for stirring chaos no matter their path.

'How Dare You Question An Apex Of The Divinora Gala—' An Eleven-Winged Angel started ranting in fury, his speech brimming with wrath and scorn.

Yet prior to completing his outburst, the Twelve-Winged Angel, Sylthorin Aethryx Solvarion, merely lifted a hand—a minor, casual motion that promptly hushed the subordinate.