MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

When they reappeared, their weapons blurred through the air with unfathomable speed.

Then, their blades clashed.

There was only one word to describe it.

Apocalyptic.

The very fabric of the world trembled beneath the force of their first strike, as if on the brink of annihilation.

This was no mere duel, it eclipsed every battle that had come before.

Then they moved.

But this time, they did not blur.

They moved so fast that even afterimages failed to form, their speed defying perception itself.

When they clashed, it was not with the chaos of a storm but with its sheer, unrelenting force.

There was no hesitation.

No probing for weaknesses.

Their blades wove through the air in an intricate, ceaseless dance, an endless cycle of attack and counter, striking like the twin edges of a relentless scissor.

The very atmosphere trembled, charged with the sharp hum of steel meeting steel, as each strike carried the precision of a master's final stroke.

The battle intent surrounding Aaaninja surged, an invisible force distorting the very air around him as he moved through space with unparalleled fluidity.

His body flowed with an elegance never seen before, while his closed eye flickered beneath the lid, scanning and tracking Anthony's every motion with an uncanny awareness.

There was no reliance on Aura, both had cast aside such trivial augmentations.

They had ascended beyond that, delving straight into the realm of Sword Intent.

Then, with a thunderous boom that shattered the heavens, their blades met.

The sky itself was torn asunder, ruptured by the sheer force of their wills colliding.

Their weapons did not merely clash; they resonated with the raw, unyielding determination of their wielders, each strike driven to its absolute limit.

Anthony's muscles coiled like steel springs, his piercing blue eyes locked onto Aaaninja's unreadable, closed gaze.

For a moment, they were more than opponents.

They were reflections of one another, two warriors mirroring each other's every move.

Every motion in perfect harmony.

Every swing an echo of the other.

Then, as if bound by an unspoken command, they both shot into the sky simultaneously.

The earth beneath them shattered, crumbling into dust under the sheer force of their departure.

Aaaninja's Sword Intent was astonishing, razor sharp, refined to an unparalleled degree despite his youth.

His blade tore through the heavens, slicing effortlessly through the clouds as it arced toward Anthony's neck.

In that moment, the rule against killing did not exist.

Not for this match.

Not for them.

Yet, as the fatal strike descended, a katana materialized in its path with flawless precision.

The world itself seemed to fracture.

A deafening, cataclysmic explosion erupted, shaking the very sky, its shockwaves rippling across the battlefield.

And yet, neither warrior moved.

Locked in place, blades pressed against each other, they stood unyielding, two titans in absolute equilibrium.

The clouds split apart beneath the weight of their Sword Intent, scattering as if fleeing for their very lives.

Aaaninja moved with an artistry that defied mortal limits, his precision absolute, his form without flaw.

Not a single wasted movement.

Not a single wasted moment.

Not a single wasted breath.

Yet, no matter how perfectly he moved, no matter how flawlessly his strikes carved through the air, Anthony met him step for step, matching his perfection with an effortless grace of his own.

Every question Aaaninja posed; each slash, cut, slice, and thrust, was met with an answer from Anthony.

A parry. A block. A counter.

Their exchange was not just combat.

It was a dialogue written in steel, a conversation spoken through the language of the blade.

The battle unfolded like a deadly dance, each strike a beat in the rhythm of fate itself.

Their blades sang with every clash, a duet composed of danger, precision, and merciless intent.

Then, as if gravity itself had surrendered to their will, they plummeted from the heavens like twin meteors.

The moment they struck the earth, the world trembled.

Dust erupted into the sky, engulfing the battlefield in a blinding storm.

Ravines split open, their depths unfathomable, as the sheer magnitude of their descent triggered a cataclysmic quake.

Jagged rocks speared skyward with every movement, the land reshaping itself in response to their battle.

Distant mountains, once towering and immovable, crumbled from their peaks, reduced to ruin under the weight of their unleashed fury.

Space fractured and shattered around them as they lunged for each other's vital points.

Each believing the other would defend.

Each believing the other would parry.

Each believing the other would counter.

Yet, as their blades carved through the air, something changed.

Aaaninja's sword gleamed with newfound sharpness, not just in edge, but in intent.

His body adapted, his muscles refining with every motion, his bones hardening, his lungs drawing deeper breaths, his heart syncing to the battle's rhythm.

Everything evolved.

Then, in an instant, his swordsmanship transformed.

It was no longer precise, it was ferocious.

His blade no longer followed a single trajectory.

It came from everywhere.

His Sword Intent thickened, growing more tangible, more oppressive, as it rampaged against Anthony's defenses.

His strikes rained down from all directions.

Left.

Right.

Center.

Behind.

Forward.

Above.

Below.

His attacks seemed erratic.

Unrestrained.

Wild.

Yet they were infallible.

Darting to respond, Anthony's answer was as immediate as thought itself.

His feet barely kissed the earth before vanishing again, his movements breaking past the sound barrier in seamless bursts of speed.

His hand, his wrist, his elbow, his katana, each flowed as if untethered from reality, a non-existent blur of steel that defied perception.

He, too, adapted.

He, too, evolved.

Matching Aaaninja's growth, matching it in an endless cycle of refinement.

Anthony had adapted to Aaaninja's adaptation.

The world burned beneath their blades.

Space itself ruptured under the sheer force of their wills.

Their Sword Intent.

Their Battle Intent.

At this moment, nothing else existed.

Nothing mattered beyond the clash of their blades.

With every movement, the intensity soared, each exchange sharper, faster, more unforgiving.

They traded strikes like poets exchanging verses, their blades crafting a symphony of elegance and brutality, every cut a stanza, every parry a retort.

The universe itself seemed to hold its breath, awed by this faultless display of mastery.

Even those who knew nothing of swordplay would have but a single thought:

Beautiful

Yet beauty came at a cost.

Sword marks scarred everything in their path, carving deep, untamed lines into the battlefield.

The clash of metal echoed without pause, an unbroken rhythm, each impact not even a mere fractions of a second apart, forming a ceaseless, deafening melody.

The air screamed as they collided, the sheer force of their strikes shattering wind barriers like fragile glass.

And still, they moved.

With each swift cut and thrust, their blades carved poetry into the air, each verse edged with death, each stanza a whisper of finality.

The intensity between them was tangible, a force unto itself.

Their swords burned like tongues of flame, devouring hesitation, consuming doubt, and erasing mercy.

Every motion was a flash of controlled ferocity, their Sword Intent etching arcs of lethal precision through the thick, trembling atmosphere.

They existed beyond the world now.

The Starborn Tournament was a distant, forgotten concept, irrelevant in the face of their battle.

None stepped back.

None relented.

They had entered a sanctuary of their own making, a battlefield where only the sword mattered.

And they would see this to its finality.

Everything else, everyone else, faded into insignificance.

Even the universe itself was meaningless before these two absolute, geniuses of the blade.

Then, it happened.

The rhythm of battle shifted, sudden, sharp, irreversible.

Anthony's katana descended from above like a judge's gavel, poised to deliver its final verdict.

But his blade met nothing.

No resistance.

It sliced through empty space, the promised judgment unfulfilled.

Yet, judgment had indeed been rendered.

Aaaninja appeared.

His sword rocketed forward with blinding speed, too fast, too precise.

Anthony moved to intercept, but in that instant, the trajectory changed.

Aaaninja's blade curved, slipping past Anthony's defenses like fate itself had rewritten the moment.

Then came the bite of steel.

His sword tore through Anthony's chest, cutting through flesh in a brutal, decisive stroke.

Anthony's instincts flickered to life.

With a single step, his body blurred, vanishing, reappearing a kilometer away in the blink of an eye.
Stay tuned with My Virtual Library Empire

Yet, the damage had been done.

A crimson arc soared into the air, painting the battlefield in its wake.

For the first time since the beginning of the Starborn Tournament.

Anthony had bled.

___________________

AUTHOR' NOTE

We finally hit chapter 300.

Thank you for being of this journey of peakness to the peak with me.