MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 1020: Combat Healer

With majestic ease, the Twelve-Winged Angel gestured forward without a hint of hesitation. Following the signal, the Eleven-Winged Angels surged ahead like golden blurs. Their brilliant wings beat with immense power as they descended upon Irene, driven by an impulse as relentless as moths seeking a flame.

Irene stood her ground with an air of indifferent calm, observing as they encroached upon her. When the first Angel drew near, a blade slashed toward her neck with blinding speed and lethal intent. She remained unbothered. With a fluid, seemingly effortless motion, she sidestepped the strike completely.

Scarcely had she evaded that blow than another assailant attacked from her flank. Irene’s speed intensified, her form becoming a hazy blur as she maneuvered away with exquisite, precise footwork. The Angels lacked any appreciation for her grace; they simply filled the airspace with a dense barrage of attacks from all angles.

At this moment, Irene resembled a battle-hardened martial goddess far more than a typical healer. She operated without strain or hesitation, maintaining an expression of absolute calm. Her movements flowed with a confidence that felt bordering on insane. Every strike missed her by the narrowest of margins, grazing her form by merely a hair. As she moved, her white robes danced in the wind, rhythmically tracing her path.

Eventually, she drifted to a halt several kilometers from her original position, having successfully dodged twenty continuous attacks. The Angels faltered, their faces betraying frustration and subtle surprise. Her effortless evasion was unexpected, especially since their intelligence indicated she was nothing more than a healer—a class notoriously lacking in combat prowess.

Crimson Irene stood with her hands clasped behind her back, her posture tranquil as if she were a mentor overseeing a group of unruly children. Her crimson gaze drifted toward the garden where she had sat earlier, now nothing more than a landscape of shattered petals and ruined foliage.

She had nurtured those plants herself. Without relying on mana or special techniques, she had labored like a true gardener, embracing the soil and stone with her own hands.

Though years of dedication had been obliterated by the chaos of the fray, she felt no anger. Rage served no purpose on the battlefield, as it only served to cloud one's judgment. They were just flowers, after all. She could always grow more—provided she survived.

Without a pause, the twenty Eleven-Winged Angels lunged once more, resembling bullets fired from a divine trigger. This time, Irene did not remain on the defensive. She surged forward, her body launching like a projectile from a heavy cannon.

A thunderous impact occurred as her fist struck the divine armor of an Angel, sending the figure hurtling backward through the air. Ignoring him entirely, Irene pivoted toward her next opponent, her elbow snapping out to strike his temple with lethal accuracy.

The Angel reacted with immediate reflexive retreat, but as he stepped back, Irene halted her strike mid-motion. Her other hand surged forward with the force of an explosion, slamming into the Angel’s waist.

”A feint,” the Angel realized with a jolt of panic.

It was too late. He was forced to absorb the full weight of the blow through his armor. Before he could be sent flying, Irene seized his ankle, slamming his momentum to a halt. Effortlessly, she pivoted and swung him like a weapon, colliding him into a third Angel. Both were hurled back by the sheer force of the impact.

Crimson Irene didn’t look back. Her instincts screamed for her to shift position, and she obeyed instantly. Without turning, she darted to the side as if she possessed eyes in the back of her head.

A golden arrow pierced the air at that precise moment, passing through the exact space her forehead had occupied a heartbeat prior. Even as she dodged, the arrow curved, pursuing her once more. Her crimson eyes glinted with sudden comprehension; she had identified the nature of the technique after a single glance. It was an ability not uncommon among elite archers.

Her hand blurred into motion, catching the arrow in mid-flight before it could strike her. Without hesitation, she flung the projectile back at another Angel, who was forced to raise his broadsword in a desperate defensive block.

Irene allowed herself no time for reflection. She operated with mechanical efficiency—her movements dictated by pure instinct and raw speed—defying the constraints of her awakened class.

Yet, here she remained, holding her ground against twenty Eleven-Winged Angels, while the elder warriors, fresh from grueling invasion battles, struggled to fell even one.

A thrust aimed for her head arrived from the front. She merely tilted her neck, letting the steel whistle harmlessly past her ear. Her left hand clamped onto the Angel’s wrist, while her right palm surged upward, shattering the opponent’s elbow with a single, brutal impact.

Before the Angel could cry out, she hoisted him and tossed him away like a pebble. As his rapier fell toward the ruined garden, Irene delivered a sharp kick to the hilt, sending the weapon spinning toward another incoming foe, forcing him to scramble into a defensive posture.

Capitalizing on that split-second lapse in defense, Irene appeared directly before him. Her left foot left the ground, and her knee slammed into the Angel’s throat with devastating force. Golden blood misted the air as the Angel’s form was catapulted backward, following the laws of physics as if they were mere mortal men.