Hitman with a Badass System - Chapter 1416

1416 Cindy vs Zariel I

On the Elon continent, a castle clawed at the perpetual night sky. Had light existed, its architecture might have inspired awe. Gray stone towers, tall and imposing, pierced the darkness. Thick, sturdy walls were broken only by narrow, arched windows, their glass long shattered, leaving empty sockets staring blankly outwards. A withered garden, strangled by the absence of sunlight, clung to the castle walls, its once vibrant hues now a depressing monochrome. Once grand, it was now a vacant shell.

A figure landed with barely a whisper on the overgrown path leading to the castle gates. Even in the smothering darkness, she radiated power, a presence that seemed to push back the shadows themselves. Her dark hair, unbound, cascaded down her back, a stark contrast to the pale alabaster of her face. A sword was strapped across her back, its hilt catching the faint, ambient light. A sleek, deadly crossbow was clutched in her hand.

With a snap of her fingers, a spark flared to life, a tiny ember of fire that twisted and morphed, taking the shape of a miniature dragon. No bigger than a raven, its scales shimmered with an inner luminescence as it circled her head, casting a warm glow that illuminated her face.

Cindy.

She had grown, her frame taller, her muscles stronger. Yet, a hint of baby fat still clung to her cheeks, a whisper of her childhood. Fourteen now, almost a woman, but still a child in so many ways.

A sharp crack echoed in the stillness as she rotated her neck. Then, she started towards the castle, her boots crunching on the brittle, dead grass.

She'd tracked Zariel to this forsaken place. The Reaper, for all his vaunted power, possessed a weakness. A penchant for luxury, a desire to live like some fucking king. He preyed on the wealthy, the powerful, the influential. Castles like this were where he'd spend his weekends, wallowing in pleasures unbecoming of a reaper.

Tonight, Cindy was going to snatch him. Tonight, he would pay for everything. For possessing her. For using her like a goddamn puppet. For hurting the people she loved.

She'd make Ghost and Gaya proud.

"Diddle diddle," she murmured, the words a soft whisper in the oppressive darkness, a twisted lullaby that sent a shiver down her spine. "Life is so little."

It was a rhyme from Ghost, a strange little ditty that somehow calmed the storm inside her, sharpening her focus.

She reached the castle gates, two colossal iron structures, their surfaces eaten away by rust, their hinges screaming in protest as she heaved them open.

The courtyard beyond was a wilderness, the once-manicured lawns choked with weeds and thorny overgrowth. Even in the darkness, she saw them.

Flowers.

Or rather, what was left of them. Dead. Their petals, once vibrant with life, were now withered and blackened, as if their very essence had been sucked dry.

A sign. A fucking calling card.

Wherever Zariel went, life withered and died.

The air grew colder as she ascended, the silence heavier, more suffocating. The metallic tang of blood was stronger now, fresh blood mingling with a foul, decaying odor that made her stomach churn. Crimson splatters marred the walls, shimmering wetly in the light cast by her miniature dragon.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she entered a long, dark corridor.

And then she saw it.

A portrait hung on the wall, its frame gilded and ornate. The painting itself was illuminated by the flickering light of her dragon companion.

A tall, gaunt man in golden robes stared out from the canvas, his features sharp and angular, his gaze intense and unsettling. He was stick-thin, almost skeletal, yet undeniably tall, imposing. Nearly seven feet, she guessed. Recognition struck her.

Edgar Crosswood.

The merchant who owned this cursed castle. The man Zariel was currently inhabiting.

A dark, menacing shadow flickered across the wall beside the portrait. Cindy's hand clenched on her sword hilt. She spun around, her body tensing, ready to strike.

A shadow. Tall. Distorted. Stretched across the opposite wall, its form shifting and unstable, like smoke in a breeze.

A chuckle, cold and cruel, echoed through the corridor.

"Looking for me, little one?" a voice whispered, raspy and distorted, seeming to slither from the very walls themselves.

Zariel.

Cindy recognized the voice instantly. A shiver traced its way down her spine despite her best efforts to remain calm. But the source remained elusive, hidden within the dancing, flickering shadows.

She continued down the corridor, her senses on high alert, her hand never leaving the reassuring grip of her sword hilt. The silver armor she wore, a gift from Michael, shimmered faintly, the protective runes etched into its surface glowing with a soft, blue light. Elidyr's work, a masterpiece of defensive magic, designed to ward off possessions, to prevent things like Zariel from worming their way into her mind, her soul.

And the blade... a collaborative effort. Wulfric, with his knowledge of ancient, forbidden magic, had provided the runes. The professors at Mazeroth, with their expertise in enchanting, had helped her imbue the blade with the power to repel and harm Zariel.

It was a weapon designed for a single, terrifying purpose: to capture the elusive Reaper.

If she could somehow force him out of Crosswood's body, if she could stab him with this blade, she could, theoretically, trap him. Not kill him, not permanently, but contain him. Imprison him within the cage Wulfric had designed, a prison of intricate runes and powerful wards that would, hopefully, hold him long enough for them to figure out a way to destroy him.

For good.