Hitman with a Badass System
chapter-1340

Grief and rage twisted Rowena's face as she launched herself at Michael. "I wish you were dead!" she shrieked, her voice shredded by pain. Michael didn't flinch. With a sigh, he raised a hand, a fine mist of knockout potion erupting from his palm towards her. It caught Rowena mid-lunge, her eyes rolling back as she went limp.

Catching her before she hit the ground, Michael scooped her up. His voice was a low murmur. "I'm sorry, Rowena," he said, though she was already unconscious. "For everything."

As he turned, he saw it - a shimmering vortex forming in the distance. Malevolous's death had ripped a hole in the pocket dimension, its power fading fast. The illusion masking the exit was gone, revealing their escape route.

Cradling Rowena close, Michael started towards the portal. Around them, the landscape rippled and faded, the pocket dimension unraveling without its draconic anchor. He steeled himself, knowing a confrontation with Skyhall awaited on the other side. One last glance back at the scorched battlefield, a battlefield that held both a slain dragon and his sister's shattered trust, and then Michael stepped into the vortex, carrying Rowena with him.

The vortex spat Michael and Rowena out onto the familiar platform, the starry expanse of the Skyhall realm spread before them. But familiarity turned to shock in a heartbeat.

This wasn't the Skyhall he remembered.

Thousands of warships, sleek and deadly, blotted out the stars. Cannons roared, fire streaking across the void, each blast a miniature supernova. Spells, blazing with celestial fire or crackling with emerald lightning, crisscrossed the battlefield, leaving trails of shattered light in their wake.

Angels, their silver armor gleaming under a sky ablaze with war, were locked in a deadly ballet with...elves? Golden light flared around the elves, each parry of their enchanted blades a rippling shockwave. These were no ordinary warriors; this was Nithroel's vanguard, unleashing hell in a symphony of bladesong and magic.

And then Michael saw them. His own forces. Dark figures, clad in black armor that seemed to devour the light, swarmed through the chaos. Demons with wings of leathery shadow ripped through the air, matching the angels blow for blow. Warlocks on the decks of monstrous, organic ships hurled bolts of pure darkness, each impact detonating in a shockwave of anti-light.

The air vibrated with the clash of power. An angelic legion, wings interlocked, formed a blinding spear of light that punched through a formation of elven ships, vaporizing them in an instant. But before the angels could capitalize, a wave of shadow magic crashed over them, dragging their light down, smothering it in a veil of absolute darkness.

On a colossal warship carved from bone and obsidian, a figure Michael knew well stood at the prow. Lenora. Her crimson eyes blazed, reflecting the inferno of battle, as she unleashed a torrent of blood magic, painting the sky crimson.

Every instinct in Michael screamed to join the fight, to unleash his own power on those who dared challenge him. But in his arms, Rowena stirred.

"My lord!"

The voice cut through the symphony of battle, reaching Michael even over the roar of cannons and the shriek of tortured magic. He turned, his gaze sweeping over the maelstrom, and saw him.

Azazel. Even in the midst of this chaotic ballet of death, his demon butler was impeccably turned out. His dark suit, normally pristine, bore splatters of blood, a jarring counterpoint to his starched white shirt. A long gash marred one side of his face, marring his handsome features, but it did nothing to diminish the fierce loyalty blazing in his golden eyes.

With a beat of powerful, leathery wings, Azazel alighted on the platform, landing before Michael in a crouch. His gaze fell upon Rowena, still unconscious in Michael's arms, and his eyes widened. "My lord, you rescued Rowena Winston." It wasn't a question, more a statement of awed disbelief.

Above them, a squadron of angels, wings blazing with fire made of celestial energy, slammed into a formation of Nithroel's elite guard. Elven blades flashed, shearing through the angels' flesh, only to be met by retaliating bursts of silver fire. The smell of ozone and burnt flesh filled the air.

"Where is Elidyr? And the others? What about Jasmine?" Michael's voice was clipped, each word a demand for information.

"Lady Jasmine's soul is safe, my lord. I dispatched it to the safehouse with Trista and Saber. They will ensure her protection." Azazel bowed, low and respectful.

"Good," Michael nodded curtly. He had no doubt that the two elder vampires, ancient and powerful, would guard Jasmine's soul with their lives. His gaze never left Azazel's face. "Take her to the safehouse," Michael ordered, his voice brooking no argument. He shifted Rowena gently in Azazel's arms. "Now."

The demon hesitated, a flicker of conflict in his golden eyes. The air around him crackled, the raw power of his demonic nature struggling to break free. The lure of battle, the scent of blood and magic, was intoxicating, even for one as disciplined as Azazel.

Michael knew his demon well. He saw the battle lust warring with Azazel's sense of duty, the primal urge to fight at his lord's side. And, perhaps, a sliver of fear for Michael's safety, a fear the demon butler would never admit to, even to himself.

"My lord," Azazel began, his voice tight, "are you sure...?"

"This is my fight," Michael cut him off, his voice low but laced with steel. He placed a hand on Azazel's shoulder, the gesture both a reassurance and a command. "Rowena needs you. She's lost enough already. Don't let her down."

Azazel's gaze flickered towards the sky, where a vortex of dark energy marked a particularly brutal clash between the dark army and angels. He inhaled sharply, drawing in the chaotic energy of the battle, then let out a slow breath, the scent of brimstone fading as he regained control.

"As you command, my lord." Bowing his head, Azazel turned, spreading his leathery wings and launching himself back towards the safety of the swirling vortex that led away from the battlefield.

Michael hung in the vastness of the Skyhall realm, the chaos of the battle swirling around him like a storm he was yet to enter. He watched warships burn, saw angels and demons fall in a fiery rain, felt the air crackle with unleashed magic. But he was apart from it, his mind a vortex of memories, each one a brand seared into his soul.

He saw himself as a child, a scrawny, hungry boy on the unforgiving streets of Earth, orphaned before he could even speak. He felt the sting of tears, the gnawing emptiness in his stomach, the bone-deep ache of loneliness. He saw himself, older now, hardened by brutal training, honed into a weapon, an assassin who dealt death with cold efficiency.

And through it all, a single thread of pain – the envy, always buried deep, whenever he saw a family together, a child laughing with their parents. A life he was denied. A life Skyhall had stolen from him.

They had taken everything. His family, his future, his very birthright. They had thrown him into the prison of mortality, stripped him of his power, left him to rot in a world that wasn't his own.

But they had underestimated him. He had clawed his way back, embraced the darkness they feared, become something more than they could ever imagine. He was no longer that scared child, that ruthless assassin. He was Michael, the God of Darkness, and he was here for payback. But first, he had a new spell to acquire. A spell to turn the tide and paint the starscape red with the blood of his enemies. "Time to go shopping,"

As Michael's consciousness sank into the System interface, the world around him froze. The symphony of battle, the roar of cannons, the clash of steel and magic – all faded into a silent, frozen tableau. Before him, shimmering lines of golden light coalesced, forming the familiar words: SYSTEM STORE. The letters hung in the void, pulsing with power. Michael reached out and mentally clicked on the tab.

Instantly, a seemingly endless list of spells unfurled before him, each one a weapon of unimaginable potential. Names pulsed with arcane energy: Void Eater, Soul Siphon, Temporal Distortion... But Michael had a specific need. He filtered the list, focusing on a single category: Area of Effect.

He had spells for single targets, spells that could obliterate an enemy with a single blast. But this war was a tapestry of chaos, a swirling mass of enemies. He needed something more. Something that could paint the stars red with the blood of his enemies.

Ring of Flames, a spell he'd learned in the mortal realm, was powerful, but limited. He needed something unique, something born of the System's power.His gaze drifted further down the list. Ultimate Ignitia – now there was a spell that could turn the tide of a battle. He envisioned it, a storm of fire and lightning crashing down upon the Skyhall fleet, incinerating ships and angels alike.

But the energy cost...even for Michael, a being of near limitless power, casting Ultimate Ignitia more than a handful of times would leave him drained, vulnerable. He needed a spell that could inflict maximum damage without depleting his own reserves.

Size mattered, too. Ignitia, for all its might, was less effective against larger targets. He needed something that could cripple a warship, shatter a celestial fortress, something that would make the very foundations of Skyhall tremble...

The spells scrolled by, a dizzying array of arcane possibilities. Tendrils of Shadow erupting from the ground to ensnare his enemies...intriguing, but more suited for crowd control than outright destruction. Lava Pit – now that had potential, but its area of effect was limited, and the casting time too slow for the chaos of this battle.

Then a spell flashed across his awareness, its description so outlandish he almost dismissed it out of hand. Cerberus' Fury. The image alone was enough to elicit a sardonic chuckle from Michael. Three additional heads, each capable of spewing forth dark beams? It was powerful, certainly, and the imagery would undoubtedly strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. But ultimately, it felt more about style than substance. He needed raw power, not a light show.

His gaze snagged on the next spell. A shiver ran down his spine, a thrill of anticipation mixed with a touch of primal fear.

Frostbite.

Unlike the flashy descriptions of other spells, Frostbite's was chilling in its simplicity. A six-meter radius around the caster would become a zone of absolute zero. Weaker enemies would be flash-frozen, their bodies shattering with a single touch. Stronger opponents would find themselves ensnared, their movements slowed, their very essence crystallized by the cold.

But it was the follow-up effect that truly captivated Michael. Any enemy caught within Frostbite's icy grip would be left incredibly vulnerable to dark flame attacks, their defenses weakened to the point where they'd take five times the damage.

Five. Times. The. Damage.

His lips curled into a predatory smile. Now that...that was a symphony of destruction he could get behind.