MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

In a flash of blinding Sword Intent, Vega and Judith launched forward, the very sound barrier rupturing beneath the overwhelming force of their acceleration.

Like deities locked in celestial war, the two clashed beneath the heavens, one, a deathless zombie; the other, a beautiful human.

Their broadswords arced through the air with lethal precision, each strike seeking to banish the other to the realm of the dead. Thunderous shockwaves echoed with every collision, as their figures blurred into streaks of purple and white, dancing at the brink of oblivion, each refusing to bow to the other.

Their battle intent surged with every passing moment, a crescendo of willpower and ferocity. Each step they took obliterated the sand beneath them, shockwaves rippling outward as they moved with supersonic velocity.

Their blades wasted no motion. Every slash found its mark with lethal accuracy, as if guided by instinct honed to the edge of divine mastery. They struck not with fury, but with the deliberate grace of a sculptor coaxing perfection from stone.

Every arc was measured, every thrust a calculated execution. Their swordplay transcended combat, it was the convergence of art and science, of instinct and intellect, where millimeters dictated life and death.

Despite the broadswords' imposing weight, neither combatant showed strain. They wielded them with an ease that defied logic, as though the weapons were mere extensions of their will, no heavier than air, no slower than thought.

Each step they took sent a chill rippling through the battlefield, as though death itself walked in their shadow. The very air trembled with menace, thick with the oppressive weight of imminent carnage.

Their presence was a silent omen, a storm restrained only by unyielding will. Every movement was a whispered promise of execution. The gleam of their broadswords wasn't just steel catching light, it was a proclamation of finality, the herald of doom.

Then came a single, thunderous overhead swing. The earth beneath them ruptured, the desert splitting apart as a yawning trench stretched for hundreds of kilometers. Yet neither paused. The chaos of the war surrounding them was meaningless; it was as if the world itself had dimmed to irrelevance.

Their eyes locked, not with hatred, but with purpose, and in that moment, they unleashed powers capable of toppling mountains, carving legends with every clash.

Vega's strikes embodied perfection, each movement a culmination of ceaseless training, blooming in that moment like a lotus in full flourish. Her purple hair trailed behind her in elegant arcs, mirroring the grace and deadly precision of her form as she kept pace with the zombie's blinding speed.

She was no stranger to any weapon. Whether bow and arrow, spear, or broadsword, it mattered not. In her hands, every instrument became equally lethal, a conduit of mastery and destruction.

She met her opponent blow for blow, strength for strength, speed for speed. Every clash was a mirror, an answer to power with power, assault with assault.

Even in the midst of battle, Vega was learning. Her purple eyes shimmered with focus, dancing within their sockets as they traced her opponent's every motion, reading her like an open book, as though each strike had been telegraphed in advance.

Though she lacked the years of combat experience her undead foe possessed, it mattered little. Her innate talent for battle was nothing short of cosmic, an apex few across the universe could even hope to approach.

When the zombie shifted rhythm, Vega adapted without hesitation. Her movements surged forward with newfound sharpness, her tempo rising as if she alone conducted the battlefield, no longer a participant, but its sovereign.

Her legs became a blur as she moved, her swordplay fluid and effortless, like a bird gliding on the breath of the wind. Each strike unfolded with the grace of a lotus in bloom: elegant, measured, and devastating.

Her movements bore the refinement of perfection, like the deliberate stroke of a master painter across untouched canvas.

Not once did her smile falter. She didn't pause to think. She didn't deliberate. She didn't hesitate. There was no need to guess. Her talent, forged through unending training, flowed seamlessly into action, every step, every slash delivered with the calm certainty of someone who knew she had already won before the battle ever began.

She transitioned between broadsword techniques with such seamless precision that they seemed crafted for a single motion, a single unbroken flow. Even the most basic forms, in her hands, defied the limits of ordinary swordplay, elevated to something sublime.

But Vega was no ordinary warrior. She never had been.

Judith moved with the unhinged fury of a mother mourning her only child, deadly, merciless, and utterly consumed by madness. There was no hesitation in her strikes, no shred of forgiveness, only the raw, seething intent to destroy.

Her undead physiology propelled her with terrifying speed, tearing through the air like a hot blade through silk. Her attacks came from every conceivable angle, left, right, above, below, and from the sides, an unpredictable storm of steel and rage.

Her decayed flesh did not hinder her; it drove her forward. If anything, it made her more terrifying. With a thunderous roar, her broadsword arced toward the sky, then came crashing down with a force strong enough to cleave mountains. A single slash split a massive stone pillar like soft tofu, leaving dust and silence in its wake.

Judith wore no smile. There was no thrill in her expression, only cold, unshakable purpose. She hadn't come to battle for glory or vengeance. She had come to kill. Then move on.

Nothing less. Nothing more.

The world blurred at the edges of her vision, her battle intent surging to its peak. Her opponent refused to fall, but Judith cared nothing for defiance. Resistance was meaningless. The outcome was already decided.

Her broadsword carved through the air with merciless force, the wind shrieking in her ears. The sand beneath her feet split apart violently, peeling back to expose the hardened earth below, only for it to fracture beneath the oppressive weight of her Sword Intent.

Her will cleaved through everything, Cultist, dune, stone, even the very air. Nothing was spared. If it stood in her path, it was reduced to fragments.

Every strike landed like a hammer against an anvil, forging the shape of the battle with brute finality. There was no wasted motion, every step, every pivot, was calculated and lethal, a dance of carnage born of pure, lethal intent.

And yet, no matter how fiercely she struck, her opponent matched her blow for blow, wielding a broadsword that mirrored her own, as if forged from the same defiance.

The battlefield burned in their eyes as they moved, titans in human form. Earthquakes rippled across the desert, rending the land beneath them. Towering walls of sand erupted skyward with explosive force, as if the very terrain rose in awe of their beautiful yet wild clash.

Nothing else existed. No cries of the dying, no roar of distant battles, only the singular, consuming purpose: to bring the other down.

And that… they would see through to the bitter end.

There would be no draws.

Only a single victor.

Only a single defeated.

One left standing.

One consigned to the grave.