MIGHT AS WELL BE OP

Soon, another wave of presence washed over them, but this time, it was unlike any presence they had felt before. It was the Eclipsian race. Only the five members of the older generation remained, and the three members of the younger generation were conspicuously absent, a consequence of Anthony having eradicated the younger Eclipsians when they had dared to challenge him just two days ago.

This time, not only Michael but everyone in the groups turned their attention. Mitchelle's eyes immediately narrowed as they fell upon a single man floating among the five Older generation Eclipsians. In an instant, the frown that had etched itself onto her features vanished, replaced by a subtle, almost imperceptible smirk.

"It seems you remember me well, even after all this time, human woman," one of the Older generation Eclipsians spoke. His voice was smooth, commanding, tinged with a faint amusement. White hair crowned his head, cascading down to frame a face marked with age yet brimming with vitality. A similarly white beard gave him the presence of a sage, exuding knowledge and wisdom that seemed to envelop him like a tangible presence. Ten rings adorned his fingers, each with a distinct design, and his flowing white robe danced gently in the wind as if in reverence to his own presence.

He was Azarion Starweaver, the Pervy Sage.

Azarion had clashed with Mitchelle three years prior, during the ill fated encounter when the Eclipsian delegates had attacked them on their return from the Starborn Tournament. Both had fought head on, each a monarch in their own domain of magic. But, despite Azarion's cunning and experience, Mitchelle had emerged victorious, her power and skill surpassing his.

Mitchelle remembered clearly the perverted man she had believed she had slain back then. But now, he stood before her, unbothered and alive. She realized he must have escaped that day without her knowledge, a possibility that, while surprising, was hardly shocking. In their echelon of power, those of their caliber often had one or two clandestine methods to cheat death.

"Back for another beating?" Mitchelle's voice rang out, flat and emotionless, carrying neither fear nor anger, only a cold, precise neutrality as she faced the Eclipsian.

Azarion merely chuckled, the sound light yet tinged with mischief. "You remain as breathtaking as ever. I shall still offer you the honor of joining my harem."

Though Vega floated alongside them and was more beautiful than Mitchelle by every known standards, Azarion showed no interest in her. To him, she was but an inexperienced child, naive to the complexities of matters of the bedchamber.

Mitchelle did not respond, nor did anyone else watching from either side. Both factions allowed the interaction to unfold, silent observers to the verbal exchange. Yet, Azarion, undeterred by her silence, continued, a playful glint in his eye. "Ah, I recall your condition for joining my harem was quite… unique. You demanded the death of your husband first."

At these words, the First Supreme Monarch and Third Supreme Monarch shifted their gaze toward Mitchelle, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and incredulity. Vega and Kingsley, too, were taken aback by the revelation.

Michael and Anthony, however, remained unmoved. Michael because he had absolute faith that his wife was capable of saying such a thing, and Anthony because he had heard Mitchelle speak those very words three years ago, the memory etched clearly in his mind.

Unbothered by the staring gazes of those around her, Mitchelle spoke calmly, "It seems you remember," she said, gesturing toward Michael, "there he is. You need not search further."

Azarion Starweaver's gaze shifted to Michael, studying him intently. Though Azarion had remained within his room all day long had never witnessed Michael's battles firsthand, one truth was indisputable: Michael had been among the fighters three years ago. He was not a mere pushover, and with the rewards obtained from their victories back then, his strength had certainly increased.

Acknowledging this, Azarion made no move toward combat. The Pervy Sage's black eyes returned to their usual indifferent gaze, the allure of battle temporarily diminished.

"We've lost contact with our younger generation," Azarion remarked, turning his attention back to Mitchelle. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that… would you?" There was still a trace of lasciviousness hidden beneath his gaze, an undercurrent that was as much a part of him as his wisdom.

The Eclipsians were among the top ten races in the galaxy, and for Azarion, it was inconceivable that other elite races would interfere with or eliminate their young generation. In his mind, only the delegates from the Blue Planet could be responsible.

"And why wou—" Mitchelle began, but her words were interrupted by Anthony, whose tone was crisp and flat. "I killed them."

His declaration was succinct, three words that carried the weight of irrevocable finality. Despite the chaos of various battles erupting around them, a profound silence seemed to descend, as though the universe itself paused to absorb his statement.

"Why?" This time, it wasn't Azarion Starweaver speaking. Rather, it was another Eclipsian. Anthony's sky-blue eyes shifted from the Pervy Sage's black eyes, focusing on the Eclipsian who had spoken.

"Because I can," Anthony replied, his words deliberate and composed. Three words, yet accurate in their meaning.

Here, death required no justification. This was no court of law; no deliberation was needed. One could end a life simply because one possessed the power, the will, or the necessity to do so. Anthony had not killed the younger Eclipsians on a whim, they had challenged him, and he had responded with decisive finality.

The Eclipsian who had spoken seemed ready to erupt with indignation but restrained himself. He recalled Azarion's earlier words: those from the Blue Planet were no ordinary beings. Indeed, even Azarion himself had only survived his encounter with Mitchelle through the use of a forbidden, ancient soul technique.

"I see," Azarion Starweaver murmured softly, almost to himself, completely untroubled. The Eclipsian race produced millions of geniuses. While the deaths of the three young ones represented wasted effort and squandered resources, it was inconsequential; new prodigies could always be cultivated to replace the fallen.

With deliberate grace, Azarion and the remaining four older generation Eclipsians shot into the air, their forms blurring into streaks as they moved toward the meeting venue.

"Let us move. The meeting will commence shortly," Collins stated, his visage calm and unbothered, a bastion of composure amid the tensions surrounding them. With mutual acknowledgment, the eight figures surged skyward, streaking toward the floating castle that hovered majestically above the clouds, the designated venue for the assembly.