Hitman with a Badass System
chapter-1300

As the demon army descended upon the battlefield, their menacing presence immediately turned the tide of the fight. With their four muscular arms and menacing, leathery wings, they tore through the ranks of the dark army soldiers with horrifying efficiency. The demons used their superior strength and extra limbs to grasp, throw, and mercilessly crush their opponents. At the same time, their wings provided swift and agile maneuverability, allowing them to swoop and dive with predatory precision.

The dark army soldiers, trained and powerful in their own right, quickly regrouped and retaliated with a barrage of spells. Bright arcs of lightning, fiery blasts, and shards of ice hurtled through the air towards the demons. Each spell hit its mark, causing explosions of light and sound that momentarily halted the demons' advance.

"Take that, you freaks!" one soldier shouted as his fireball engulfed a demon.

"Line up the ice shards, freeze them in their tracks!" another commanded, orchestrating a coordinated volley.

The demons, however, faced these magical onslaughts head-on, their grotesque grins widening as wounds inflicted by the spells rapidly closed up, their regenerative abilities on full display. The sight of their healing flesh only fueled the growing despair among the dark army soldiers.

"Shit, they're patching up faster than we can hit them!" a soldier cursed, frustration lacing his voice.

"What the hell are we supposed to do against that?" another yelled in dismay, ducking a swipe from a demon's clawed hand.

Meanwhile, the Skyhall angels, observing from a distance and initially cautious, began to cheer as they saw the tide turning in their favor.

"Yes! Watch them crumble!" one angel exclaimed, a triumphant laugh echoing through the ranks.

"Keep pushing! The demons are turning the battle!" another called out, excitement surging among the angels.

Fueled by a fierce determination, Azazel dashed at one of the demons nearby. The battle unfolded mid-air, both combatants using their wings to gain altitude and maneuverability in the sky. Azazel initiated the attack with a powerful dive, his wings slicing through the air as he aimed a series of swift punches toward the demon. With its four muscular arms, the demon parried each blow with an unsettling grace, countering with a flurry of its own strikes.

As their wings beat furiously, creating gusts of wind, the demon tilted its head slightly, a gesture that suggested recognition or a sensing of familiar senses. Despite this momentary pause, the demon fought on relentlessly, its every move calculated and brutal.

Azazel, typically the aggressor in any fight, found himself pushed to the limit. He attempted to gain the upper hand by swooping higher and then striking from above, but the demon matched every move. They spiraled in the sky, a dance of deadly intent, as Azazel growled in anger and frustration. "Damn it!" he cursed, feeling the disadvantage of being out-armed. "Four fucking arms!"

Deep down, a shock coursed through Azazel as he processed the reality of facing his own kind, creatures he thought long extinct. Anger boiled within him at the sight of his kind being puppeteered by Skyhall, used as mere tools in a celestial war. This realization momentarily distracted him, his focus wavering under the weight of his emotions.

Seizing the opportunity, the demon delivered a powerful blow with two of its arms, catching Azazel off guard. The force of the impact was tremendous, sending Azazel tumbling down from the sky. He struggled to regain control, his wings flapping erratically as he descended rapidly, crashing into the ground near where Michael stood.

Michael quickly moved to help Azazel up, giving him a hand to steady himself. As Azazel rose, Michael deftly cracked his neck, signaling his readiness to escalate his involvement in the battle. Without missing a beat, he tapped the medallion hanging around his neck. Instantly, the armor stored within began to unfold seamlessly, enveloping him in layers of dark, menacing protection. The plates clicked into place with a precision that spoke of advanced craftsmanship and design, his figure becoming more imposing with each second.

Observing the transformation, Azazel and Ricky couldn't help but be impressed by the sight. "Damn, boss, that's some serious gear," Ricky let out a low whistle. At the same time, Azazel nodded in approval, his eyes reflecting a renewed respect and a spark of reassurance seeing Michael fully armored.

"Lead the army back to the portal. Get them to the Crypt and then to the Stormville Mountain range," He ordered after suiting up.

Michael could tell that fighting the demons head-on would only lead to more casualties among his dark army soldiers. He knew he needed to find a strategy to neutralize the demon threat without sacrificing his forces unnecessarily. Ordering them to retreat to Stormville Mountain was a calculated move.

The reason for choosing Stormville Mountain was strategic. It was the location where Mugashuku, a formidable four-headed hydra, had returned after battling Vedora and was currently resting. Michael was aware that Skyhall would not risk awakening Mugashuku and inciting its wrath, especially given the hydra's known capabilities and the destruction it could unleash. By relocating the battle to the vicinity of Mugashuku's resting place, he hoped to leverage the hydra's presence as a deterrent, preventing Skyhall from pursuing them too closely or too aggressively.

After receiving Michael's order, Azazel swiftly took to the sky to lead the dark army back to the castle and through the portal to safety. His wings beat powerfully against the air, slicing through the chaos as he coordinated the retreat.

Observing the retreat, the Skyhall angels quickly realized the tactic and responded with heightened aggression. "They're retreating! Push forward, don't let them escape!" shouted one commander, his voice carrying clear and commanding across the battlefield. "Cut them down! Leave no survivors!" another angel yelled, rallying the troops to intensify their assault.

Meanwhile, Michael activated the arch energy crystals embedded within his armor, which responded with a surge of power. As his mask slid into place and his hood shrouded his head, he shot straight into the sky, propelled by the raw energy. His form became a blur of motion as he maneuvered to oversee and protect his retreating forces.

Below him, the warships on the sea and the aerial warships continued their relentless bombardment of the dark castle and the floating mountain. Each volley of cannon fire rained down destruction, the booming of cannons echoing ominously across the battlefield. The impacts were devastating as huge chunks of the castle were blown away, and the mountain trembled with each hit, sending shockwaves through the structure.

Under the volleys of cannon attacks, the dark army soldiers who were unlucky were blasted apart by the cannon fire. The air filled with the screams of the wounded and dying as the ground was painted with the blood of fallen comrades. The Skyhall ships were so ruthless that their intense artillery fire caused friendly fire incidents with some angels in the cross exploding into bloody mists along with some dark army soldiers.

Just as when the tide was turning in Skyhall's favor, a sudden and ominous change swept through the battlefield. A red spotlight, intense and foreboding, suddenly fell upon a Skyhall man-o-war, highlighting it against the darkened sky left by Noah's death.

The crew aboard the targeted ship looked up, confusion etched across their faces as they tried to comprehend the source and intent of the strange illumination. "What's that? Why are we lit up?" one of the younger crew members asked, his voice tinged with fear.

An older crew member, a grizzled veteran from the southern continent, recognized the signal immediately, and his face was drained of color.

"That's the red light of death! We're marked!" His voice shook with terror as he shouted.

Before the crew could fully register his words or react to the dire warning, the black sky was pierced by what appeared to be shooting stars streaking toward them. But these were no celestial phenomena; they were deadly mortar shells fired from the most feared ship on the southern continent, Big Bertha, Michael's warship.

The air filled with the whistling sound of the incoming artillery, growing louder and more terrifying with each passing second. The crew scrambled in panic, but there was no time to maneuver away or counteract. "Brace for impact!" screamed another crew member, but his words were drowned out by the thunderous explosions that followed.

The mortar shells struck the man-o-war with devastating precision. The first shell hit the stern, ripping through the wood and metal with explosive force, igniting munitions and setting the rear of the ship ablaze. Seconds later, another shell smashed into the center, tearing through the deck and decimating the artillery pieces lined up for battle. The final blow came swiftly as more shells pummeled the ship, each increasing the death toll.

In moments, the mighty man-o-war was nothing but a burning wreck. The once formidable warship was reduced to a disintegrating skeleton of fire and smoke, fragments of its structure scattered across the sea as it began to sink tragically into the dark waters.

The Skyhall angels and other crew members watched in horror, their earlier cheers turning to cries of despair as they witnessed the destruction of one of their key vessels. "Now that's what I call a badass entrance," Michael chuckled.