MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

The display of power came to an abrupt conclusion with the intervention of the Celestials, their presence silencing the chaos in an instant.

A desolate, newly discovered planet was designated as the battleground for the continuation of the Starborn Tournament.

Its barren surface bore witness to the ambitions and destinies of its participants.

Without delay, the Overseer commanded the champions to take their positions.

As they materialized on the battlefield, a cacophony of questions filled their minds, unspoken queries etched across their faces.

A few dared to voice their thoughts aloud, directing their questions to the Overseer.

Under ordinary circumstances, he might have acknowledged them, but this time, his silence was telling.

His thoughts were elsewhere, consumed by the enigma of Mitchelle.

With a mere snap of his fingers, the ancient screen shimmered into existence once more, casting its ethereal glow over the battlefield.

The tournament resumed with merciless fervor.

Champions fell, their aspirations extinguished amidst brutal clashes.

Some met their end in gruesome displays, while others emerged defeated but alive, crippled, broken, or fortunate enough to escape with minor injuries.

Those spared severe fates owed their survival either to influential backers or to opponents who chose restraint over malice.

This time, no delegate dared to intervene.

All they could do was watch in silence, each silently plotting their revenge for a later time.

The number of champions dwindled at a staggering pace, the battlefield a relentless crucible of survival.

When the dust momentarily settled, the remaining champions began to count their dwindling ranks.

Only eleven stood.

From thousands of contenders, the number had been reduced to this handful.

One more match would determine the top ten, but their final standings would require yet another brutal clash.

Though they all burned with anticipation for battle, none envied the two unfortunate souls destined to face each other next.

After all, one of them would lose, there were no draws in this unforgiving Tournament.

As the tension mounted, the champions whose seats were outside the top eleven were asked to take their places among those ranked.

The weight of the moment pressed heavily upon all of them.

The ancient screen flickered to life once more, its glow casting long shadows over the battlefield.

All eyes turned to it, their gazes hard and unyielding.

This screen would dictate their fate.

Even the most confident among them could not suppress a flicker of unease.

No amount of skill or power could change the whims of the selection.

Even Lucian frowned, his composure momentarily slipping.

'What if the screen paired him against Anthony or Aaaninja?'

The thought alone was enough to unsettle him.

Victory, in such a case, would come with a bitter cost.

If he defeated Anthony, the supposed protagonist of their unfolding story, it would mean Anthony would walk away with nothing, no reward, no glory.

If he were to face Aaaninja, victory would still leave a sour taste.

He and Aaaninja were rivals, not enemies, and he bore no ill will toward him.

For Aaaninja to be eliminated would feel equally unjust.

Yet Lucian knew one thing for certain, if he was chosen to fight either of them, he would not yield.

He would battle with everything he had to claim his place at the top, regardless of the consequences.

The conflict within him simmered, an internal war of ambition and morality.

But on this battlefield, sentiment had no place.

The only certainty was that sacrifices would be made.

As for Anthony and Aaaninja, unaware of Lucian's inner turmoil, they watched the screen with calm, expressionless faces.

Confidence radiated from them, unshakable and absolute.

Whoever or whatever their opponent might be, they were ready to claim victory.

The screen flickered erratically, its glow pulsating with an almost ominous rhythm.

The tension was palpable, each champion holding their breath as fate prepared to reveal its choice.

Then, abruptly, the screen froze, displaying two single-digit numbers.

3 vs 7

The atmosphere seemed to exhale collectively.

Visible relief washed over the faces of the remaining champions.

For now, their numbers hadn't appeared on the screen.

For now, they were safe.

But the reprieve was only temporary.

Every champion knew their turn would come, and when it did, there would be no sighs of relief, only the sharp edge of battle.

Collectively, their gazes shifted toward the champion seated in the third position.

It was Anthony.

Their expressions turned strange, as if they all shared the same unspoken thought.

'How can he be this lucky? Is it because he's handsome?'

Since the start of the Starborn Tournament, Anthony had yet to fight a single match.

He hadn't even moved from his seat, content to watch the chaos unfold.

Occasionally, he'd nibble on popcorn or offer a casual remark, but that was the extent of his involvement.

The other champions couldn't help but feel cheated.

How had someone who hadn't lifted a finger made it this far?

'Is luck his talent?'

The thought lingered among them, stirring quiet frustration.

But their dissatisfaction quickly gave way to wry smiles.

It seemed Anthony's streak of fortune had finally run its course.

His opponent wasn't just another participant; he was no small-time contender.

Anthony's opponent, seated in the seventh position, was Kaelith Orion, a name that carried weight across this Tournament.

Orion belonged to the esteemed Aetherian race, one of the galaxy's top races, revered and feared in equal measure.

They were blessed, or perhaps cursed, with a unique ability known as Reality Sculpting, a power that allowed them to reshape and bend reality itself to their will.

Unlike most abilities, Reality Sculpting required no mana, no physical exertion, only the sheer force of Orion's indomitable will.

It was an ability that defied logic and made him a nightmare to face.

Every champion Orion had encountered thus far had been defeated without him so much as lifting a finger.

His presence alone was enough to shift the tides of battle.

Now, Anthony was face to face with this powerhouse.

To the spectators, it was clear, Anthony's luck had finally run dry.

None had ever seen Anthony in combat.

His effortless progression through the tournament had been an anomaly.
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Well, almost none.

Lucian, with his unique insight, hadn't 'seen' Anthony fight but had 'read' about his capabilities, though even he remained uncertain of their extent at this moment.

Even Aaaninja, calm and composed as ever, had his closed gaze fixed on Anthony now, curiosity burning behind his otherwise impassive expression.

Kaelith Orion rose gracefully from his seat, his movements fluid and effortless.

In the blink of an eye, he vanished, reappearing in a distant, desolate landscape where the battle would take place.

His presence exuded an eerie serenity, calm, controlled, and utterly unshakable.

Anthony followed, descending from the sky at an unhurried pace, his demeanor equally composed.

He made no attempt to rush, his every step deliberate, as though savoring the moment.

As his feet touched the ground, his eyes met Orion's.

And yet, he saw...nothing.

No emotion.

No thought.

No recognition.

To Orion, Anthony was no different from any other champion he had faced, just another fleeting presence in his long, detached existence.

Orion showed no disdain, no hostility, no interest.

He had been like this since the tournament began, utterly indifferent, an enigma untouched by the chaos around him.

Then, from above, the Overseer's voice rang out with divine authority:

"BEGIN"

_____________

AUTHOR'S NOTE.