MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

High above the battlefield, far above the ruined skies where military aircraft and the Forsaken Cult's flying aircrafts once clashed in thunderous aerial combat before being reduced to debris, three figures floated calmly above the clouds, untouched by the chaos below.

One of them was a towering figure, almost otherworldly in stature. He possessed thick brown hair, broad shoulders, and a complexion that shimmered in varying shades of brown and black. His eyes, a deep and shadowy hue of black, carried the weight of countless wars.

This was none other than Warlord Brontagar.

To his left stood another man, tall as well, though his height paled in comparison to the titanic form beside him. He had jet-black hair, but his piercing blue eyes shimmered with intensity and clarity, as if capable of dissecting the very soul.

A crimson cape fluttered majestically behind him, flowing in the wind like the banner of a god. At his waist hung a katana sheathed in an intricate red and black scabbard, the hilt gleaming ominously beneath the sunlight.

This was Warlord Raelith.

These two were the elite Warlords sent by the military to neutralize the henchmen of the Forsaken Cult's elusive and powerful leader.

Between them stood a boy in a crisp Major-ranked military uniform. His pristine white hair danced to the rhythm of the wind, cascading down his back like a silken stream. His eyes, a calm yet penetrating blue, resembled the stillness of an untouched lake. At his side, a katana rested, its presence subtle yet suffused with latent danger. This was Major Anthony.

The trio hovered silently, their presence regal, commanding, and unnervingly serene. They gazed down at the battlefield with cold detachment, observing the maelstrom of blood and agony unraveling below.

Soldiers cried, bled, and died by the dozens, but not one flicker of emotion passed over the faces of the three hovering above. They watched bodies crushed, limbs torn, men burned and devoured alive by monstrous beings... yet they remained expressionless, composed. This was war, and they understood its truths intimately.

Death was inevitable. It was not an accident nor a surprise. War demanded blood, and it never discriminated. Every man and woman who stood on the battlefield had made a choice, they were not forced. In war, there were no bystanders, only survivors and the dead.

Anthony's gaze was fixed intently on one individual below: Vega. He had observed her ferocious battle against Judith, the zombified cultist. With his intellect and sharp analysis, it didn't take him long to deduce Vega's unique Talent.

Despite her power, she lacked refined combat experience, something she had admitted to him before. But he also knew that such a flaw wouldn't remain a weakness for long. He could see her growth, unfolding in real-time with every movement she made, every decision she took.

When Judith finally fell, Anthony's eyes momentarily shimmered with quiet satisfaction. He didn't need to smile. The slight glint of approval in his eyes was more than enough to express his pride.

"Aren't you going to join the others on the battlefield, like every other soldier?" Warlord Brontagar asked, his voice booming like a mountain cracking open. "Or do you think your mission ended with opening the portals, Major Anthony?"

"I will," Anthony responded without flinching, his tone calm and unshaken. "But I have no interest in wasting my strength on weaklings. I'll wait for the entertaining ones."

"You mean the personal Hands of the Forsaken Cult Leader?" Warlord Raelith said, folding his arms behind his back like a sage lost in thought. "I would prefer the son of the Supreme Monarch not to die on my watch."

Before Anthony could reply, the atmosphere shifted.

Suddenly, massive auras burst forth in every direction, erupting like nuclear detonations and bringing all ongoing battles to a screeching halt. All motion ceased. The sky itself seemed to shudder.

Every living being within the Abandoned Desert of Ruins froze as an overwhelming, suffocating force pressed down on them. Fear slithered into their hearts, paralyzing them. Heads turned instinctively toward the epicenter of this oppressive menace. There, amidst the crumbling earth and smoldering sands, stood five beings.

Their very presence radiated chaotic energy so thick and primal, it felt like the world itself might collapse in submission.

"HAHAHAHA! The Hands have arrived!" a deranged cultist screamed, laughing wildly despite the pressure crushing down on him. "It seems the military won't be surviving for much longer!"

But then, one of the five figures turned his head. He looked directly at the laughing cultist, no words, no gestures, just a glance.

And in that single, chilling moment, the cultist exploded into a fine mist of blood and flesh, as though he had never existed.

Silence fell once more, deeper and heavier than before.

The five beings; The Hands, surveyed the battlefield with cold detachment. They did not react to the dying, to the chaos, or to the tides of battle. It was beneath them.

Instead, their heads tilted upward, simultaneously detecting three powerful presences in the sky above.

In the next breath, they vanished from the ground, ascending rapidly with thunderous sonic booms trailing behind them as they shattered the sound barrier in their rise toward the three floating figures.

On the ground, every soldier and cultist gasped for air, feeling as if they had just brushed against death itself. The momentary relief that followed allowed many to act, quickly taking advantage of the stillness to kill their distracted foes. Screams returned, blades clashed, and the battle resumed without hesitation.

Above the clouds, Warlord Brontagar, and Warlord Raelith observed the five advancing beings with solemn expressions. According to military intelligence, there were supposed to be two Hands, two direct subordinates of the Forsaken Cult's leader. Yet standing before them now... were five.

The intelligence had been disastrously wrong.

Could the two Warlords hold their own against five beings who were equal to, if not stronger than, elite Warlords?

These weren't mindless brutes. These were prodigies, geniuses in their own terrifying right. And deep in their hearts, the Warlords knew: if nothing changed, if no unexpected aid arrived, this might well be their final battle.

Yet their resolve did not falter. Instead, it surged, burning brighter than ever before. Their auras exploded in defiance, lighting up the heavens as they stood their ground.

In the military, retreat was not an option. Abandoning one's comrades, using them as shields or bait, was a crime equal to treason. There was no turning back.

"It seems the military has finally made its move," said one of The Hands, a being with scales and golden reptilian eyes. A Dragon.

"We expected this," another replied, his features sharp and ears pointed. An Elf. "They wiped out the last cult before us. But now... it's their turn to be wiped out."

"What a pity," rumbled another voice. A Titan, hulking and immense. "To give your life for such a foolish cause."

"It doesn't matter," a fourth said lazily, yawning as if annoyed by the delay. He was Human.

Then the final one spoke, his voice laced with mockery and venom. A tall, horned figure with blood-red eyes and a smirk playing on his lips. A Demon. "We finally meet… Null Anthony. Or should I call you Major Anthony now?"

Anthony turned his gaze toward the Demon, meeting his taunt with absolute calm. He said nothing.

There was no need to respond to a man who was about to die.

He wasn't surprised the Demon knew his name. It wasn't the first time demons had recognized him or come for him.

And it wouldn't be the last.

But it didn't matter.

Their thoughts, their plans, their power, it was all irrelevant.

Because in the end... they would die all the same.