MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 1025: Guilt

Null Collins drifted with eerie poise, his expression a mask of raw fury as he cradled Crimson Irene’s blood-soaked form in his arms. The very fabric of time seemed to lock in place, leaving the eight remaining Eleven Winged Angels frozen in shock, their faces stiff with disbelief as they processed his sudden arrival.

Descending with silent, measured control, Collins touched his feet to the star’s surface as if it were solid earth. He kept his eyes locked on Irene in silence, his pulse hammering against his ribs, his veins throbbing, and his blood surging with volatile intensity.

He found himself speechless, paralyzed by a deluge of agonizing emotions—grief, guilt, and deep shame—all suffocating and heavy. He felt crushed that he had failed to shield his wife, nearly losing her to the fray.

He had pleaded with her to stay behind, knowing the danger if the situation soured; and indeed, things had spiraled into disaster.

Yet here he was, failing her when she needed him most.

His dark gaze swept over her as she panted, her chest heaving under the weight of sheer exhaustion. His eyes then darted toward the battlefield, where the lifeless husks of eleven Eleven Winged Angels lay scattered. The sight verified the truth: Irene had single-handedly executed every one of them before he even landed.

While he always knew of her prowess, he realized she lacked the base power to normally overcome such overwhelming odds. He deduced that she must have banked on the element of surprise, leveraging her mastery and hidden artifacts to bridge the immense gap in strength.

"You came," Irene voiced, her tone fragile yet clear. Despite utilizing her Vita Energy to mend her injuries and essence, her mana remained near empty, leaving her body battered from the grueling clash.

"I did," Collins responded, his voice hushed and restrained. After a heartbeat of heavy silence, he continued, "I am sorry I wasn't here sooner," his voice dropped, heavy with undeniable remorse.

Irene offered a weak, gentle smile as she shook her head. "Why do you apologize? I’m far from some delicate figurine to be coddled," she remarked, a trace of spirited defiance cutting through her fatigue. "Regardless, you are here. That is all that matters," she added, sliding from his grip to steady her own feet.

She harbored no resentment; why would she? No one understood him better than her. She recognized that Collins rarely socialized, spending every spare moment by her side. If he was absent, it meant he was busy with a burden only he could shoulder, and she knew he would always race to her the moment his task was complete.

With a flicker of intent, he retrieved a mana potion and a stamina tonic from his space ring. He handed them over, and Irene downed both without hesitation. Within moments, her vitality surged back, her skin shedding its pallor to regain a healthy, radiant glow.

With another mental command, a gentle pulse of mana flowed through her. Instantly, the gore and grime vanished from her person. Her disheveled crimson hair straightened and fell into place, restoring the image of the revered Saintess of the World.

"Thank you," she whispered, exhaling. Throughout the skirmish, those Angels had been relentless, giving her no window of opportunity to consume any recovery aids; naturally, no opponent would willingly allow such a reprieve.

Given Crimson Irene’s advanced mastery of healing magic, she could effortlessly restore the stamina, wounds, and mana of others, yet she could not apply that same efficiency to her own body. She was forced to continuously expend herself just to stay alive, pushing until she reached the brink of total collapse.

Collins merely nodded, his obsidian eyes drifting away from his wife toward the perpetrators of this carnage. The tenderness and shame in his eyes evaporated, replaced by something cold, distant, and infinitely more lethal.

He had no need to ask why she hadn’t reached out to him, their son Michael, or anyone else. Following the skirmish between Anthony and his companions, he had attempted his usual teleportation, only to find it blocked. The implication was clear: someone had meddled with reality and sealed off the space and void.

Without pause, he had activated a single-use artifact—an incredibly rare item specifically designed to bypass all movement restrictions, regardless of potency. They had possessed only one, and it had been entrusted to him for this exact scenario. Irene had insisted he keep it, wanting him to reach her whenever destiny dictated.

If they had been in possession of a second one, she surely would have used it to vanish from the conflict the moment it turned dire. She saw no reason to involve herself in such a fruitless, grueling endurance match.

Suddenly, Irene spoke up from beside him. "Remember when I warned you that today would be the biggest mistake of your lives?" Her voice regained its strength, a faint, confident smile touching her lips. "This is exactly what I meant."

Though she spoke with conviction, even she couldn't predict how Collins would fare against eight Eleven Winged Angels. The tactical advantages she had exploited wouldn't necessarily work for him; however, they had fundamentally underestimated her, a blunder that cost eleven of them their lives.

But she grasped a deeper truth.

Even among beings as powerful as the Eleven Winged Angels, vast discrepancies in combat prowess existed. Just as the Sword Origin stood head and shoulders above his peers, or how the Apexus Mana Rank within the Acarnis Galaxy hid immense disparities in skill and raw talent, these foes were not all equal.

Reacting to her words, the remaining Angels fixed their attention on Collins, their golden eyes icy, condescending, and brimming with disdain. They had already deemed him a corpse.

Only moments ago they had numbered nine, but the very instant this mortal appeared, one of them had been wiped out entirely, stripped of his life without a word of warning or a chance to resist.

Yet they remained silent, holding their formation with disciplined dread, waiting for a command from their superior—the Twelve Winged Angel.

High above, that entity hovered with detached indifference. Its presence was vast and overwhelming, its gaze trailing downward to witness the scene unfold. It offered no reaction, no inkling of concern, and no acknowledgment of the Eleven Winged Angels who had fallen.

To that entity, their demise meant absolutely nothing.