MIGHT AS WELL BE OP-Chapter 328: Morvain
A sword flashed, an arc of pure annihilation cleaving through the ocean's surface.
The sea roared as its depths were split apart, a gaping chasm forming where the blade had passed.
The water did not rush back immediately; for a fleeting moment, an abyssal trench stretched across the ocean, revealing the seafloor beneath.
Then, with a deafening roar, the waters collapsed inward, erupting into a tidal surge that soared miles into the air.
Shockwaves rippled outward, turning the once calm sea into a battlefield of chaos.
Towers of water spiraled into the sky, torn apart by invisible forces as Sword Intent carved through them like a sculptor shaping marble.
The air itself vibrated, unable to contain the sheer presence of the warriors locked in combat.
Each swing of their blades distorted reality, bending the atmosphere into shimmering waves of raw destruction.
One sword descended, and the ocean trembled.
A force defying understanding struck, sending a pulse of energy so violent that the very curvature of the horizon wavered.
The sea convulsed, forming massive whirlpools that swallowed entire stretches of water, their centers glowing with residual energy from the collision.
Thunderous cracks echoed as unseen pressure crushed the air, forming concussive bursts that flattened everything in their wake.
Two figures clashed amidst the carnage, their blades moving faster than light itself.
The sea beneath them was no longer a surface to stand on, it had become a maelstrom of pure destruction.
Water, air, and energy merged into an unrecognizable storm, a swirling vortex of ruin that spread for miles.
One figure blurred, vanishing only to reappear in the sky, his sword cleaving downward with such force that the ocean split once more.
The other twisted, deflecting the blow, yet the aftershock alone sent waves surging in every direction.
The sky darkened, unable to withstand the presence of these two titans.
The clouds, once high above, were now torn apart, shredded into nothingness by the mere aura surrounding the battle.
A flicker.
A shift.
Then—impact.
The force of their collision shot them skyward, a streak of devastation left in their wake.
The air cracked apart, forming concentric shockwaves that shattered the sound barrier multiple times over.
The sea, left in their absence, struggled to recover.
The massive trench where they had fought remained gaping, the water slow to reclaim its place.
The very laws of nature had been defied.
Higher.
Faster.
Their battle knew no boundaries.
They shot past the atmosphere, their swords clashing amidst the void of space.
Each exchange sent out pulses of power that carved through the vacuum, leaving behind trails of destruction that extended beyond sight.
Planets trembled in the distance, their orbits subtly shifting as remnants of the battle's power reached them.
Then came the moon.
A stage born of stone and silence, its surface barren, untouched, until now.
The first impact shattered craters, sending debris scattering into the void.
The second cracked the lunar crust, forming jagged fissures that stretched for miles.
Sword Intent surged outward, carving canyons deeper than the trenches of the sea they had left behind.
The two figures weaved through the destruction, their swords clashing faster than thought, their movements eluding all explanation.
Then, a shift.
A change in momentum.
A single step forward, a single arc of the blade, and the moon split in half.
The stroke was silent.
There was no explosion, no grand eruption of force.
It was simply a cut, perfect in its execution, absolute in its finality.
For a moment, the moon did not move, did not react, then, an invisible force took hold.
The two halves began to drift apart, their separation marked by a luminous fracture, a scar of unimaginable depth.
The galaxy itself seemed to pause, acknowledging the weight of the strike.
Stars flickered in distant space, as if in reverence to the sheer mastery of the blade.
The battlefield had shifted, the very heavens now bearing witness to a duel beyond the grasp of reason.
And yet, even as the moon crumbled, the battle raged on.
Neither combatant faltered.
Neither slowed.
They moved between the drifting halves of the celestial body, their swords weaving through the debris with precision that transcended logic.
Stone the size of mountains shattered upon contact with their blades.
Each strike sent waves of destruction that traveled for eternity, never fading, never ceasing.
The battle had surpassed the realm of men.
It was no longer a clash of warriors.
It was the embodiment of absolute power, of swordsmanship so refined that it had become something beyond mere technique.
And still, Michael was faster.
Stronger.
His blade carried dominance with every stroke, pushing his opponent further and further toward the inevitable conclusion.
The war of steel and will continued, unrelenting, unyielding, until the galaxy itself could bear no more.
And the final strike descended.
The final strike did not land, at least, not yet.
Instead, it carved through the void, its force so immense that space itself seemed to ripple in its wake.
The split moon groaned as gravity fought to reassert itself.
The two halves shuddering under the influence of the residual Sword Intent still lingering in the celestial wound.
Morvain twisted mid air, evading by the barest margin, yet the aftershock alone sent him hurtling across the lunar wasteland.
His body collided with the surface, cratering the moon even further.
Jagged chasms spiderwebbed outward from the impact, entire sections of the terrain breaking apart and drifting into the abyss.
There was no respite.
Michael was already there.
He descended like a vengeful god, his blade a streak of silver against the blackness of space.
The sheer velocity of his approach sent tremors through the vacuum itself, distorting light, bending the fabric of reality.
The shattered remains of the moon's surface were pulled into the wake of his movement, caught in the gravitational pull of his speed.
Morvain barely had time to react.
He wrenched himself free from the debris and met the incoming strike with all the force he could muster.
Their swords collided once more, and the resulting impact sent a concussive blast so powerful that the lunar fragments in orbit were vaporized instantly.
The force of it sent them both careening away from each other.
Michael barely shifted, stabilizing mid-air with the sheer force of his presence.
His gaze locked onto Morvain, who struggled to halt his trajectory, carving through floating boulders with desperate slashes to regain control.
Blood trailed behind him, subtle, nearly invisible in the void, yet undeniable.
Morvain exhaled, steadying himself.
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He had known from the beginning that he was at a disadvantage.
Every exchange, every clash of steel, had confirmed it.
Michael was not just stronger.
He was faster.
More precise.
More refined.
His Sword Intent was a force surpassing all reason, each strike containing an authority that warped existence itself.
But Morvain did not break.
The next instant, he vanished.
No, not vanished—accelerated.
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He shot forward, his blade wreathed in raw, untamed intent, carving through the void in an attempt to reclaim momentum.
The space between them closed in an instant, and this time, he was the one to attack first.
His blade lashed out, a strike aimed not at Michael, but at the very concept of his existence, a cut meant to distort the flow of battle itself.
Michael's eyes flashed.
He answered the strike not with evasion, but with overwhelming force.
His counter came faster than thought.
His blade meeting Morvain's in a collision that sent arcs of pure destruction spiraling outward.
The void screamed as rifts formed in space, slashes that did not fade but remained, eternal scars upon the battlefield.
They moved.
Not through normal space, not through the constraints of reality, but through sheer force of will.
The battle was no longer bound by the moon, nor even the solar system.
Their swords clashed, and with each exchange, they were flung into different corners of existence.
One moment, they dueled upon the drifting remains of shattered asteroids.
The next, they were carving through the dense storms of a gas giant, their movements parting the turbulent clouds with each strike.
Then, they struck with such force that they were flung into the heart of a dying star.
Fire, molten chaos, and raw nuclear fury surrounded them, yet neither flinched.
The star itself began to crack, its structure unable to withstand the devastation of their battle.
A single slash tore through the inferno, and the star, an entity that had burned for millennia, began to collapse.
Yet the battle did not stop.
Morvain pressed forward, defying his disadvantage, refusing to concede.
He moved through the collapsing star as if it were mere air, his blade weaving between the streams of collapsing plasma, turning the destruction to his advantage.
For the first time, Michael shifted, not in hesitation, but in acknowledgment.
Morvain was still there.
Still fighting.
Still defying inevitability.
The galaxy trembled as they clashed once more, their battle far from over.
At this moment, they existed in a realm of their own.
Untouched by ruin.
Beyond the reach of words.
Impervious to all but their singular purpose.
Only the fall of the other could shatter this state.
And both were resolute in ensuring it came to pass.
