MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 1024 - 0.01 Second

Irene did not hesitate when the solar barrage headed her way. She shifted, her frame becoming a blur of motion as she broke away from the star she had plunged into. Her arm cocked back like a taut bowstring, fist Balled tight, and she threw a punch without reservation, her blue-tinted fist colliding directly with the sun.

A cataclysmic impact ensued as the two forces slammed together. The star shattered entirely under the sheer magnitude of her strike, sending a massive, scorching crimson wave of heat tearing through the void in a thunderous detonation of fire. Space itself warped and melted wherever the shockwave traveled, the vacuum rippling violently under the crushing temperature and pressure.

The female Angel leading the assault dove through the heat, appearing before Irene clad in divine armor like a bolt of golden lightning. A skill was activated, her voice ringing out through the cosmic expanse.

Faith Energy surged from her core, flowing outward like liquid brilliance. An instant later, an enormous golden hexagon inscribed with divine runes manifested beneath Irene’s feet. Within a heartbeat, towering walls ignited from the edges of the shape, forming a radiant prison designed to lock Irene in place.

Irene didn’t falter. She triggered her skill again and vanished from her position, narrowly evading the barrier before it could fully seal around her.

The second she flickered back into existence at another coordinate, a different Angel lay in wait, her blade whistling toward Irene’s throat with world-tearing velocity. The movement was far too sudden; the assailant had seemingly read her arrival like a script. Irene could not even track the incoming strike.

Although caught off-guard, Irene’s combat instincts remained razor-sharp. Her body snapped into motion, attempting to pivot away from the lethal arc of the blade, but she was just a fraction too slow. The edge kissed her skin, followed by the sickening wet sound of flesh being severed effortlessly. Crimson spray erupted into the cosmic void, drifting away like a bloody mist.

Irene reappeared in a different sector. While she had survived, the evasion was incomplete. She had saved her neck only at the cost of her arm.

Blood flowed from the jagged stump on her shoulder, individual droplets floating weightlessly through the vacuum. Yet it made no difference. An instant later, her Vita Energy and innate regeneration flared, cauterizing the wound as fresh tissue rapidly knitted itself back together.

Her face remained a mask of indifference; at this point, the sensation of pain had vanished entirely.

While her expression stayed calm, her mind raced, dissecting every facet of the skirmish. She immediately deduced how the Angel had predicted her movements. The teleportation art she relied upon originated from a skill book; it was not a technique she had mastered through her own Dao or genuine understanding. Consequently, every activation left faint spatial ripples at her departure and arrival points, ripples that could be tracked and anticipated.

Despite being a healer, her combat experience allowed her to think with the tactical depth of a veteran warrior. Her intellect continued to calculate and adjust despite the lethal odds.

However, her teleportation was now compromised. Once the weakness was exposed, the Angels had adapted in real-time.

As this realization sank in, the Angels swarmed once more, their forms burning through space with terrifying speed. Irene gritted her teeth, trying to retaliate, but it proved futile. Every skill she deployed caught them off-guard only once. By the second use, they adjusted seamlessly, leaving her unable to surprise them again.

Eventually, even initial uses of her skills failed to provide an advantage. The Angels now operated under the conclusion that any ability might be used at any moment, treating every twitch of her form as a potential hazard.

They could not comprehend how Irene possessed such a vast array of diverse techniques. The concept of skill books was completely alien to their kind, as no such methodology existed within the Divinora.

In truth, the concept was foreign even to the majority of inhabitants in the Acarnis Galaxy. It was a unique path to strength found primarily on the Blue Planet and a few billion other scattered worlds.

Meanwhile, Irene’s wounds accumulated, growing in frequency and depth. At one moment, she was sliced vertically from crown to crotch; the next, sheared in half at the waist, then nearly decapitated. She lost limbs more often than she could track, yet every single time, her Vita Energy surged into overdrive, stubbornly restoring her essence and form to peak condition.

Irene was battered and drained, her skin slick with a mixture of sweat and gore. Her crimson hair, usually elegant, hung disarrayed and unkempt, drifting wildly, and the graceful demeanor she once held had completely vanished. Her pristine white robes were now saturated in the iron-scent of her own blood.

She knew the reality: she was only alive because she kept moving. She could no longer keep pace with them, yet a fierce fire burned in her eyes.

Her thoughts turned to her husband, her son, her daughter-in-law, and her grandson; at this finality, she missed them dearly.

She could have easily retreated earlier, but the Twelve-Winged Angel had already locked down all forms of spatial travel. Every escape route had been cut off, yet she smirked. If she were destined to fall here, she would drag them into the void with her.

As the Angels closed in like predators toying with their kill, the pendant dangling from her neck flickered as she pumped her mana into it.

The instant she did, the universe ground to a halt for precisely 0.01 seconds. The Angels froze mid-strike. Their movements, their consciousness, and even the flow of their Faith Energy held fast under the artifact’s overwhelming suppression.

Irene seized the window of opportunity, her body blurring into a streak of blue, closing the distance in a fraction of that frozen instant. Her hands became spears, piercing the brains and hearts of ten Angels with lethal, surgical precision.

Each strike was efficient; every movement was calculated for maximum lethality. By the time reality snapped back, ten bodies went limp, golden ichor splattering across the battlefield as lifeless husks drifted into the dark.

The count of her enemies had dropped from twenty to nine.

The artifact around her neck shattered into dust, its power spent, having been a single-use treasure all along.

The survivors did not hesitate. One lunged forward with a killing blow, a massive hammer swinging toward her torso with burning wrath, aiming to atomize her entire existence before she could produce another trick.

Irene watched the incoming weapon, her crimson eyes drifting shut. As the hammer collapsed toward her, a hand materialized in the space between her and the weapon.

The hand halted the assault as if it were a childish gesture. Before the Angel could even widen its eyes in confusion, white lightning—tearing through space with burning vengeance—crashed down from the heavens.

The bolt struck true, instantly erasing the Angel from existence. The figure who arrived stood over six feet tall, his hair a shock of white matching his thick beard. Though he appeared to be in his forties, the crushing power manifesting from his aura revealed him to be far older than his visage suggested.

Lightning crackled around his form, and he cradled his wife with tender care.

Null Collins, the Lightning God of the Blue Planet, had made it just in time.