MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 962: Pain

Seeing Kingsley's posture, Anthony just grinned, the Martial Rhythm enveloping his hand fading briefly. Unlike Kingsley, he skipped entering any stance—no need for it. After all, he was Null Anthony.

Then, he surged ahead in a flash, accompanied by a thunderous roar, the ground under his feet exploding violently as dirt and rocks erupted like a gushing fountain, fissures spreading out like a web across the terrain, as if thunderbolts had ravaged the earth. He reached Kingsley's side in an instant, his punch hurtling at Kingsley's temples with sledgehammer might, the air howling and ripping apart near his fist.

Kingsley's response came in a flash, shaped by endless fights and guided by pure gut feeling over logic, and he acted without delay, his elbow whipping toward Anthony's torso while abandoning all protection, diving fully into assault with total determination, favoring bold strikes over careful defense.

Yet just as his elbow neared Anthony's chest, Anthony vanished, Kingsley's strike slicing only through a lingering image Anthony had left behind. He reappeared at Kingsley's rear like a stealthy shadow in the night, his aura so subtle it bordered on illusionary. Without a second's pause, his fist shattered the air's resistance and sonic limits alike, both shattering against Kingsley's back with cannon-like power, the blow warping the atmosphere and twisting reality from its raw ferocity.

Kingsley sensed a cosmic explosion crashing into his spine, his backbone fracturing, bones crumbling into shards of their former strength, skin splitting wide, muscles shredding as scarlet blood sprayed outward like splashed ink on a scroll. Momentum took over right away, ruthless and unyielding, hurling his form ahead until he crashed into a distant structure, where cement and metal crumpled around him like flimsy sheets under a mallet.

Agony burst through his thoughts, a torment he could normally shrug off now screaming for attention, gnawing at his nerves and overwhelming his awareness until his mind felt on the verge of shutdown. He hacked up blood from deep within, warm and tasting of iron, while the edifice he'd hit tumbled down on him in a roaring avalanche of debris and clouds of grit.

'Such devastation from one blow—the Martial Rhythm is indeed perilous and unique,' he mused inwardly while struggling upright, his sight blurring but his determination unshaken. That single hit had apparently turned his frame into a pulp of flesh and shattered bones, a horrifying distortion of the human form.

Yet true to form, his regeneration kicked in rapidly, a new spine locking into position with a sharp snap, wounds sealing as if they'd never existed, tissue mending seamlessly, fibers linking back up, veins rebuilding with eerie accuracy, his healing bordering on the macabre in its speed.

Even as he first encountered the Martial Rhythm, he realized Anthony was restraining himself immensely to help him grasp and ignite it; that was the spar's true aim, a savage tutorial masked as a fight, an ordeal through agony designed to spark evolution via raw survival.

The instant he stood, Anthony loomed right there, his front foot blasting at Kingsley's torso with comet-like velocity. But Kingsley reacted with lightning speed, his instincts blaring warnings, and he vaulted skyward to dodge completely, barely escaping the strike. Anthony's kick sailed past, slicing through air and the spot where Kingsley's chest had been, the resulting shockwave demolishing far-off edifices and towers as if they were mere dust piles, the cityscape quaking from the leftover energy.

Kingsley's retaliation struck without delay, for while enduring hurt was key to unlocking the Martial Rhythm, that didn't stop him from launching his own assaults; they could miss, but it was irrelevant—he'd strike believing each blow could shift the battle, that every action counted, that any pause meant certain loss.

His punches exploded like sonic booms, the bursts howling at Anthony's rear while he hung in the air. Anthony showed no response; upon landing, he dissolved from sight like a ghost, as if he'd never occupied the space at all, his form flickering and weaving through Kingsley's barrage with seamless accuracy, each footfall deliberate, each shift economical and flawless.

In an eye's wink, he'd bridged the gap, materializing in front of Kingsley, who kept pressing his offensive unaware of when Anthony had spanned the divide. Anthony wasted no time, Martial Rhythm sheathing his fist, and with a battlefield drum's resounding boom, he drove it straight into Kingsley's abdomen, the collision echoing like rolling thunder.

Reality froze for a beat, time suspending the scene as all went blank, quiet devouring every sound, until abruptly it resumed, and the energy unleashed with frenzied power. Kingsley's soles lifted from the soil as the force yanked him skyward in a savage pull, a circular gale surge bursting from his rear and lacerating all in its path.

Blood erupted from his mouth as his internals failed, his vital fluid arcing toward Anthony, but Infinity triggered, repelling it across the void before it pattered harmlessly to the ground. This time his body rocketed aloft, piercing the breeze, crimson streaks marking his path as his belly had ruptured from the hit, his guts nearly spilling free while gravity tugged insistently.

With a deafening thud, he smashed onto a rooftop, the building shuddering to its core. Kingsley perceived his surroundings spin, endured suffering beyond any prior experience—even the Executioner from the Fragmented World hadn't inflicted such agony. Blackness tugged at his awareness, vision dimming at the borders, but he resisted, grinding his jaws, compelling wakefulness, for passing out might mean no more such chances from Anthony.

Thus, he stirred, regeneration mending his skeleton and form even as he pushed forward without delay, and right then Anthony's soles hammered his spot, the roof caving like elastic before erupting in ruin as levels from the topmost down to the base crumpled in a disastrous domino fall.

Anthony paid no mind to the destruction, merely trailing Kingsley with a serene smile, composed and at ease, akin to a teacher gauging a pupil's advancement. As soon as he neared, Kingsley hurled a vehicle his way, which Anthony vaulted over via a smooth flip, light and elegant. While inverted in flight, Kingsley rushed in, his punch charging at Anthony's skull with frantic velocity and deadly purpose.

Anthony's azure gaze locked onto the approaching strike as if it crawled in sluggish motion, each aspect vivid, each gesture foreseeable, and with a sly grin, he evaded as if physics bowed to none but him, as if existence itself yielded to his command.