MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 966: Heavenly

Kingsley experienced a divine bliss. He struggled to put into words the sensation overwhelming him; it resembled immersion in an ideal harmony, transforming him into an impeccable whole, positioned superiorly with the rest of creation lingering far inferior. The transparent radiance enveloped his fist during the clash with Anthony's onslaught, the atmosphere fracturing nearby akin to brittle crystal, fragmenting and splitting amid a muted vibration that appeared to undulate across the void, as if the fabric of existence had momentarily lost its integrity under his assault.

Neither Kingsley nor Anthony stirred. He remained frozen in place, like someone still absorbing the sequence of events, his mind wandering while retaining acute consciousness, caught in the tension between realization and skepticism.

In the following instant, Martial Rhythm surged from his palms, winding upward until it sheathed his whole form, the power gliding like animated satin, twisting and encircling his extremities with graceful intent. For a fleeting second, the surroundings hazed before sharpening again, yet in that short span, he sensed the pulse of the cosmos, felt the world's exhalation brushing his flesh, soothing and constant, as if the structure of being itself recognized him.

Anthony refrained from striking; instead, he faded back several paces to create separation from Kingsley, his features lighting up with a broad grin upon halting, at ease and nearly triumphant. Kingsley had ignited the Martial Rhythm successfully—their objective fulfilled—truthfully, Anthony had anticipated a more prolonged ordeal and intensified agony, prompting his relentless assaults and inflicted wounds regardless of how near Kingsley edged to demise each round, compelling his frame toward advancement via raw ferocity.

Yet following Kingsley's Physique advancement, the individual's form had promptly triggered the Martial Rhythm upon that initial clash and authentic torment, as if it had merely awaited clearance to surpass the barrier.

Anthony positioned himself upright, arms clasped behind, resembling an instructor pleased by a disciple's accurate grasp of his instruction, his stance regal, serene, and subtly content, the light wind pulling at his attire as if the atmosphere itself honored him.

Kingsley's frame rang out in protest, his very cells appearing to celebrate as the full Martial Rhythm draped his physique in transparent luminescence. His pulse quickened, his sinews tightened then eased, his veins expanding and contracting like the Physique itself exulted in frenzied delight from the Martial Rhythm, as if each strand of his being had at last obtained the longing it harbored from origin. Each inhalation grew profound, weighty, abundant, as though he drew in not mere atmosphere but vitality pure, thick and revitalizing.

'Stunning,' Kingsley mused inwardly, pondering if this mirrored the essence of Enlightenment, for in that instant he transcended, buoyant yet grounded, aloof yet intensely vigilant. Moments later, the encompassing Martial Rhythm dissolved from his form as if his command had faltered, the sheen dissipating like vapor beneath rays, retaining just a subtle heat as evidence of its prior manifestation.

Kingsley's perceptions reverted to baseline, his consciousness anchoring to the present as his golden lashes quivered apart, unveiling his aureate gaze. He lifted his palms, gazing upon them in wonder, as if he had scaled the pinnacle of combat prowess, as if those very hands had emerged renewed into superior, mightier, exquisitely honed versions.

"Congratulations, again," Anthony's tone emerged from the front, jolting him from reverie and admiration, "I guess your Physique is more ridiculous than even you seem to know, after all, you adapted to the pain and achieved the next level of your Physique, then awakened the Martial Rhythm the next moment, a back-to-back achievement." A faint grin curved his mouth while he uttered this, his true delight for Kingsley evident, the assurance in his voice clear.

Kingsley paused briefly before his mouth opened to reply, "Thank you, Brother," his expression and tone brimming with appreciation and honesty, pure and direct, as if he were a pure youth he might have dissolved into sobs right then. Even presently, a tender pressure built in his torso, on the verge of spilling, an alien sentiment he had ages ago ceased to navigate.

To this day, he remained unclear on the true nature of Martial Rhythm, yet it didn't trouble him. Across his existence, he had served as his sole mentor, with no one adopting him or abruptly bestowing a concealed prohibited method or similar. He had tested alone, stumbled, retried, faltered, persisted, and ultimately prevailed. Every triumph demanded blood, each enhancement etched from torment, every progress forged by unyielding resolve over mentorship.

His Concept of Destruction, his combat techniques, his powers, and everything stemmed from his solitary efforts. Through his days, he had embodied solitude, traversing a route invisible and incomprehensible to others, a lone trail constructed from shattered frames and quiet conquests.

He owed thanks to none save the Universe that had graced him upon his demise over a hundred years past, and now, he harbored profound thanks toward Anthony. For the first occasion in eras, his core thrummed irregularly from authentic concern bestowed by another, that basic comfort more alien than any conflict or foe he had encountered.

Anthony held his tongue, observing quietly, his All Seeing Eyes piercing Kingsley's sentiments, another slight smile gracing his features. He recognized the heavy load Kingsley bore, the figure occasionally shrouded in a dark aura, not from malice, but from his self-imposed seclusion, barricaded by barriers denser than iron.

Yet at present, that dark aura, which had gradually withdrawn since their encounter, nearly vanished entirely as an unseen aureate radiance enveloped Kingsley, detectable solely by his vision, soft and comforting, akin to dawn's initial light after perpetual darkness.

Anthony rarely concerned himself with outsiders, focusing solely on comrades and kin, thus he advanced to aid a companion in apparent distress, a deed that for him resounded beyond any lofty proclamation.

"You are welcome," he responded steadily, neither advancing nor retreating, fixed in his spot, scrutinizing Kingsley's evolution, noting each minor shift with subdued curiosity.

Though so faint that Kingsley overlooked it, the instant he ignited the Martial Rhythm, his physique appeared to initiate yet another phase of alteration, similar to his prior physical leap. However, this round proved too understated to detect, as even Anthony sensed he might have overlooked it without his All Seeing Eyes and Sense Dome, the shifts unfolding profoundly in bone and tissue, concealed below like gradual continental drifts.

Typically, such an occurrence defied norms; no one ought to gain lasting enhancement right upon igniting the Martial Rhythm, yet Kingsley's Physique steadily underwent enduring transformation in the moment, advancing, purifying, and fortifying as if animated by its own intent.

Such was the extraordinary essence of his Physique, a presence that subtly challenged logic and universal order, a form that rejected adherence to the governing principles of its realm.