MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 1021: Crimson Irene’s Backstory

Crimson Irene came to a halt once the Angels ceased their onslaught. Her breath was steady and measured, and her white robes remained as pristine and immaculate as if she had never entered the fray. Despite her crimson hair having whipped and danced violently due to the immense velocities she had attained, it settled back into a flawless arrangement the very second she stopped moving.

A heavy silence descended upon the terrain as Sylthorin Aethryx Solvarion and his detachment of twenty Eleven-Winged Angels gazed at her in total disbelief. They were struck dumb, unable to even utter a word. For a fleeting instant, each of them questioned if the intelligence provided about her was entirely erroneous, or if what lay before their eyes was merely a sophisticated illusion designed to manipulate them.

After all, Crimson Irene displayed a level of combat proficiency that was far too advanced. It was not just her raw physical performance that left them shell-shocked; she possessed a depth of battle experience rivaling even the most seasoned veteran warriors who had bled through millenniums of brutal warfare.

Crimson Irene was far from your ordinary healer.

She was exceptional, and the primary factor behind this was her ancestry: the Crimson family bloodline.

The Crimson clan was celebrated for an innate affinity for flame, a lineage having spawned generations of formidable warriors. Within such a lineage, however, Irene had manifested as a mere healer. This reality was akin to a wolf pack welcoming a chicken into the fold—she was a non-combatant existing inside a home defined entirely by its capacity for war.

Naturally, she was neither subjected to bullying nor mockery. Even though she was a healer, the rarity and value of such individuals were well understood. Consequently, she maintained significant standing despite being the outlier of the Crimson household.

Yet, there remained one thing the Crimson family would never tolerate:

Weakness.

Even as a healer, they forcefully drilled the arts of combat into her mind and body; they etched martial discipline into her very soul. True, she was a healer. She was unable to brandish weapons with mastery, nor could she reach the heights of Sword Intent like genuine swordsmen. But she possessed her hands. She possessed her own physical form. She possessed her intellect.

She was cast into the fires of brutality, driven to confront adversity time and again, purposefully breaking the invisible chains often shackled to healers. This was enacted to ensure she never stood in need of others while in battle, simply because of her awakened class.

Thus, while she had not technically awakened as a Martial Artist, she had undergone a forging process that rendered her one through relentless training. Even following her marriage to Collins, she maintained a rigorous schedule of hand-to-hand combat to ensure her skills remained sharp.

She executed all of these demands without ever allowing her extraordinary innate talent for healing to languish.

The Crimson family repeatedly discarded her into dangerous domains, forcing her to clash with beasts and monsters equal to her physical rank so that her battle experience would accumulate. When deep wounds were inflicted, she simply mended herself and transitioned back into combat. When exhaustion clawed at her resolve, she gritted her teeth and forged ahead regardless of the toll.

She carried the prestige of belonging to one of the most formidable families in the human domain of the Blue Planet. Being born differently, or awakening as a healer, did not grant her an exemption from the stringent rules of her kin.

Even Mitchelle had endured similar trials. However, the truth was that everyone else had it far easier than Irene. None of them had to train in direct opposition to the nature of their awakened class. The Crimson family never suddenly compelled Mitchelle to swing heavy blades or master forms that were utterly incompatible with her specific talents.

Irene, conversely, had to struggle perpetually against the constraints imposed by her own awakening.

Her history and her Crimson lineage had hammered her into the woman standing there today. Crimson Irene: a healer capable of clashing on equal terms with veteran warriors when it came to hand-to-hand combat.

Admittedly, she was still outclassed whenever her foes employed advanced techniques strictly tied to their combat-focused classes. Yet, throughout a life defined by hardship and the navigation of a world ruled by warriors, she had forged her own unique style of combat, despite her non-combatant classification.

During her youth, while healers were relegated to the rear of the formations, she would stand with them. Yet, when monsters inevitably pierced the defensive lines and threatened the healers, she never fled. She would instead move forward, engaging threats with nothing but her own hands.

In the end, though, her body had always been her greatest hurdle. Regardless of the intensity of her training, a healer’s physique could simply never match the physical capabilities of an individual who had awakened as a true martial class. This was why, for many years, she leaned heavily on counter-tactics rather than direct initiation.

Today, however, things were different.

After Anthony bestowed that fruit upon her, her body underwent a radical transformation. A physique that had been honed to its absolute natural limit, but previously stifled by the shackles of her class, had finally shattered those invisible confines.

Regarding physical strength, she had entered a realm previously unknown to her. She had begun to bridge the vast chasm separating her from elite warriors in terms of pure physical parameters. This was exactly why, at this moment, she could maneuver, react, parry, and meet every strike launched by the surrounding Angels.

Even after such a display, Crimson Irene was not naive enough to believe she could triumph over twenty Eleven-Winged Angels single-handedly. Her best hope was to drag as many as possible to the grave with her, ensuring her final stand was a blaze of glory.

She recognized that the conflict was about to escalate significantly. As that realization solidified, the ring upon her pinky finger flared as she triggered its latent effect.

The ring served one solitary purpose: to double all of her physical parameters.

Immediately, Crimson Irene felt an intense heat surge through her veins as her power spiked. She felt more formidable than at any point in her existence. Yet, her outward appearance remained unchanged. She did not bulky up or expand; the relic performed its function perfectly without any visual manifestation.

At the same time, mana hummed within her core, cascading across her form to coat her like invisible armor, bolstering her strength even further. Her crimson hair fluttered in the breeze, her gaze burning with an intensity so fierce it gave the twenty Angels pause as they stared back at her.

Their expressions had shifted entirely. The time for dismissing her because of her class had passed; she would no longer be treated as a mere healer on this field of battle. From this moment forth, she would face them with the full, devastating force previously reserved only for the veterans of war.