MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 1028: Void Vortexs

Across millions of kilometres in the Acarnis Galaxy, devastation reigned supreme. Stars were extinguished, suns crumbled, solar systems were eradicated, and comets were obliterated into nothingness. A suffocating, endless veil of cosmic smoke and dust obscured everything in the vicinity.

Amidst this carnage, traces of Constellation energy hummed like dying embers. The very fabric of space had been shredded; yet, reality fought to mend itself, fractures closing with an unsettling, clinical precision.

A heartbeat later, mana surged through the cosmic expanse, carving out a massive void that devoured the surrounding chaos. Standing within this vacuum was Collins, his appearance perfectly pristine, his breathing steady, and his demeanor radiating an absolute, chilling dominion over his surroundings.

The Angels, however, were not so fortunate. While they had managed to parry Collins’ spell at the final second, they remained battered. Their divine forms were fractured, white skin marred by rents, and their expansive wings were mangled beyond recognition. Their holy armors were on the verge of disintegration, spiderwebbing with cracks that threatened to shatter at any moment.

As they glared at Collins with eyes burning with fury and disbelief, the Angels panted heavily. Their ranks had dwindled to three, as one of their kin had been erased instantly by the force of that last strike, denied even the dignity of a struggle.

Suddenly, their regeneration manifested. Bones snapped back into alignment, flesh knit together with supernatural efficiency, and golden blood circulated once more through their vessels. In moments, their divine forms were restored, all physical trauma wiped clean.

Collins was unsurprised by this recovery. Why wouldn't beings who stood at the summit of their galaxy be capable of such feats? They belonged to the rarest echelon of power, towering over countless others.

Yet, one anomaly struck Collins as peculiar: none of these Angels seemed capable of true resurrection. Not once had he seen it displayed.

Usually, beings of this stature possess at least one method to assure rebirth after demise. While such techniques are often useless against True Death, the absence of any resurrection—even during the prior invasion—was a notable irregularity.

Although the thought crossed his mind, Collins did not dwell on it. It held no bearing on his primary objective.

Why ponder it further? The answer was simplistic. If his adversaries lacked the ability to return from the afterlife, the task of eradicating them became far less burdensome. Had they been able to resurrect, Irene would have faced mortal peril, as those Angels she had slain would have returned to finish her without a second thought.

What Collins failed to realize was that their inability to resurrect was rooted in a single concept: Faith.

To these beings, Faith was the absolute core of their existence. Faith in HIM, in HIS worship, HIS power, HIS will, HIS mercy, and HIS love. Faith was the foundation of their purpose.

They served their LORD and GOD willingly, ready to slaughter, shed blood, and die in HIS name without a shred of regret or hesitation.

For an Angel to resurrect would be the ultimate blasphemy—a sacrilege that insulted their divine principles. It was an unforgivable defiance, a betrayal of their very creed.

Any celestial who dared to pull themselves back from death merely signaled that they had never truly harbored faith in HIM. If they were unwilling to die for their LORD, they were unworthy of their station.

In their view, only HE held the authority to grant or rescind life as a reward for service. No being, least of all themselves, possessed the right to transgress that divine border.

Despite the catastrophic magnitude of the previous explosion, the Twelve Winged Angel remained undisturbed. He had tanked the attack with naught but his own body, not even deigning to block, yet not a single strand of hair was out of place. He exuded an aura of crushing superiority.

His condescending gaze seemed to remind his subordinates that failing to eliminate a mere lower being was a disgraceful failure, unworthy of their service to HIM or a return to the Divinora Galaxy.

Aside from the Angel, the lightning cocoon safeguarding Irene remained perfectly intact, shielded by Collins’ precise and masterful control.

With a flicker of thought, Collins transported himself and the cocoon away. This was not a retreat, but a strategic repositioning; the immediate battlefield was collapsing into void vortexes that threatened even his own formidable defenses. Remaining amidst such instability was an unnecessary risk.

The Angels pursued instantly, moving in golden blurs, wings flapping with celestial ferocity as they streaked through the void.

Moments later, they descended upon a pristine region of the Acarnis Galaxy, as yet untouched by the conflict. Collins carefully placed the lightning cocoon on a nearby moon, ensuring Irene’s safety before turning back to face his enemies without distraction.

His cold, dark eyes locked onto the trio. Deep within, he craved to tear these winged, golden specimens apart—to rip out their tongues and gouge their eyes in a slow, agonizing display of vengeance for the harm they had dared to inflict upon his wife.

He could have captured them for such a fate, but there was no time. A far greater, more dangerous threat awaited him once these weak fools were dealt with.

Therefore, he would settle for their execution, even if such a swift end fell far short of sating the seething, destructive fury burning within him.