Hitman with a Badass System - Chapter 1350

Chapter 1350 Don Is Back I

Back on the battlefield, the remnants of Skyhall's once-proud army were being systematically stripped of their dignity, along with their valuables. Heaps of discarded armor, weapons, and space rings glittered under the dim light of the artificial sky, a testament to the swift and brutal efficiency of the Dark Lord's forces.

"Get those damn boots off too!" a dark army soldier barked, shoving a Skyhall knight to his knees. "And the shirt! The Dark Lord said everything!"

The knight, his face pale with humiliation, fumbled with the clasps of his breastplate, his fingers trembling as he stripped off his armor, piece by piece. Around him, dozens of his comrades were doing the same, their faces a mixture of shame, fear, and simmering resentment.

They'd been trained from birth to be Skyhall's elite, the protectors of the realm, the upholders of justice. And now... now they were being treated like common criminals, forced to strip naked before their enemies, their pride trampled along with their fallen comrades.

On the decks of the Skyhall warships, similar scenes were playing out. The demon army, their hulking forms casting long, menacing shadows, moved through the captured vessels with ruthless efficiency. Space rings were ripped from fingers, weapons were tossed overboard, and any sign of Skyhall's insignia was defaced or destroyed.

But not everyone was willing to surrender.

On one of the larger warships, a group of Skyhall soldiers, their faces grim, their eyes burning with a defiant fire, stood their ground. They'd formed a circle around their captain, a grizzled veteran with a scar that ran from his forehead to his chin, a testament to countless battles fought and survived.

"We will not yield!" the captain roared, his voice hoarse but filled with a conviction that resonated with his men. "We are Skyhall's finest! We will die with honor!"

"Yeah! Fuck surrendering!" one of his soldiers shouted, raising his sword in defiance. "We go down fighting!"

Lenora, who was overseeing the disarmament process, raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in her crimson eyes. She'd seen this kind of bravado before. It was almost... touching.

Almost.

"Suit yourselves, boys," she purred, her voice laced with a predatory amusement. "Just makes my job easier."

She turned to the nearest group of demon soldiers, their four arms twitching with barely restrained bloodlust.

"Take care of these... gentlemen," she commanded, her lips curving into a cruel smile. "No need to rush it. Make them... regret their decision."

The demons, their eyes gleaming with a cold, predatory light, surged forward, their claws glinting in the dim light. Their silence was somehow more terrifying than any war cry.

The Skyhall soldiers, their faces hardening with resolve, raised their weapons and charged. They knew they were outnumbered, outmatched, but they'd chosen their fate.

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On the other hand, Elara led Michael through the heart of the Obsidian Palace, her steps echoing on the polished marble floors. The palace's interior was a testament to Skyhall's wealth and arrogance. Hallways lined with shimmering tapestries, grand chambers filled with priceless artifacts, and balconies overlooking gardens that would have put the Hanging Gardens of Babylon to shame.

Michael, trailing behind her, couldn't help but whistle appreciatively.

"Damn, those Skyhall bastards knew how to live," he muttered, his gaze sweeping over a display of jewel-encrusted swords and armor. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

He was already mentally cataloging the valuables, making plans to strip the palace bare once he'd retrieved what he came for. No more worrying about gold coins in the mortal realm. He'd be practically swimming in the stuff.

But for now, his focus was on the blood.

Elara led him through a maze of corridors and hidden passages, finally coming to a halt before an unassuming wall at the end of a dimly lit hallway.

Michael raised an eyebrow, glancing from Elara to the blank wall. "What's the holdup?" Nôv(el)B\jnn

"Another... precaution," Elara explained, her voice still trembling slightly. "An illusion, woven into the very fabric of the palace. Only those with the keys... and the knowledge of the proper rituals... can pass through."

She pulled a small, silver dagger from her belt and, without hesitation, sliced her palm. Blood, dark and viscous, welled up from the wound. She pressed her hand against the wall, the blood leaving a crimson stain against the smooth obsidian surface.

"Ripped to shreds?" Michael repeated, frowning. "By what?"

"No one knows. There was no sign of... of an attacker. No trace of any creature or... or magic that could have inflicted such wounds." Elara shook her head. She paused, her gaze meeting Michael's.

"After that... well, we learned. Some things... some things are better left untouched. If it could be obtained easily... it wouldn't be locked away, hidden like this."

"Yeah," Michael muttered, nodding slowly. "She's got a point. If this shit was easy to get, those old farts would have drained it dry centuries ago."

The fact that the blood was still here, locked away in this elaborate vault, told him everything he needed to know. This wasn't going to be a simple in-and-out job.

Andohr wouldn't have made it that easy. The bastard was too damn clever, always ten steps ahead, always playing the long game. There was more to this than met the eye, Michael could feel it in his gut.

"Seven keys... a hidden vault... a blood that even ancient mages wouldn't touch..." He trailed off, a slow grin spreading across his face.

"Sounds like my kind of challenge."

He felt a surge of confidence, a thrill of anticipation that had nothing to do with the promise of power and everything to do with the thrill of the hunt. He was up against a worthy adversary, a puzzle master who thought he'd outsmarted everyone.

And Michael? He loved a good puzzle. Especially when he had a few billion badass points burning a hole in his metaphorical pocket.

He glanced at his internal system interface, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. The counter was ticking upwards at an alarming rate. Five billion badass points and counting, thanks to his little "demonstration" with the Ancestors and the ongoing looting of Skyhall's forces.

"Time to spend some of those bad boys," he murmured, cracking his knuckles. "Let's see what this Andohr asshole has cooked up for us."

One by one, Michael inserted the keys into the hidden locks. Each click, each rumble of ancient mechanisms shifting and grinding, brought them closer to the vial. The air grew heavy, charged with a strange energy that made the hairs on the back of Michael's neck stand on end.

He watched as Elara, her face growing paler with each step they took, started to tremble. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her eyes, wide with a terror that went beyond their earlier fear, darted around the hallway as if searching for an escape that didn't exist.

"You alright there, Elara?" Michael asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. He'd noticed her discomfort, but he figured it was just the lingering fear from their little encounter with her former colleagues.

But before she could answer, a harsh, hacking cough ripped from her throat. Blood, a thick, black stream, splattered onto the pristine marble floor.

"What the..." Michael began, but before he could finish the sentence, a familiar whirring sound echoed from beneath his armor. His face mask, sensing a threat, retracted with a click, sealing his features behind the cold, skull-like visage of his battle helm.

[Warning! Radiation levels rising!] The system's voice, usually a calm, emotionless drone, was laced with a hint of urgency.

Michael glanced back at Elara, who had collapsed to her knees, her body wracked by coughs, her hand outstretched towards him in a desperate plea for help.

"Karma's a bitch, ain't it?" he chuckled, shaking his head. "I told you I wouldn't kill you. Never said anything about saving your ass."

He'd made a deal, sure. But as far as he was concerned, she was an ancestor of Skyhall and that was good enough for him to give no single damn about her.

Thus, he watched, detached and cold, as she crumpled to the ground, her coughs growing weaker, her struggles less and less pronounced. Then, with a final, shuddering gasp, she lay still.

Michael turned his gaze towards the vial, his eyes hardening.

"Showtime," he muttered, striding forward. The air grew even heavier, the radiation pressing against his shields like an invisible hand, but his armor held, its runes glowing with a faint, protective light.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against the smooth glass of the vial. And in that instant, the world dissolved into a swirling vortex of colors and energy. He was pulled forward, sucked into a tunnel of light and shadow that twisted and spiraled, carrying him towards an unknown destination.

As he hurtled through the vortex, a face emerged from the swirling chaos...

"Don?"