Hitman with a Badass System

The name, uttered in a hushed whisper by the frozen Lady Elara, hit Michael like a thunderbolt.

"Don?" He echoed, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "The Ancient God… Don?"

It couldn't be.

Could it?

He'd met Don. Back in his Shadow Realm days, when he was still learning the ropes of his powers, he traveled through multiple universes and stumbled across Don's realm. Don himself was practically the main character in his own universe. As far as what Michael learned and observed, Don was a king who ruled a kingdom full of various races and threats that made ancient beasts look like babies.

"What the fuck?" Michael muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. It was one thing to jump between universes and witnessing various beings of power, including that damned asshole of a Dictator Hunter Blade. But it was another thing entirely to have the name of a being from another universe uttered in this universe, in this goddamn pocket dimension, by a terrified old woman frozen in a block of ice.

It was enough to make even a God of Darkness question the very fabric of reality.

"How the hell…" he trailed off, his gaze fixed on Elara's terrified face. "How did his blood end up here?"

And why?

He knew Andohr wouldn't have left something as powerful as the blood of an Ancient God just lying around. That manipulative bastard always had a plan, always ten steps ahead of everyone else. There was something else going on here, something bigger than just a petty power grab or a desperate attempt to contain him.

Michael's curiosity, always a dangerous trait in a being of his power, was piqued.

This… this he had to see.

Meanwhile, Devdan who was hidden in invisibility spell, felt a jolt of pure shock run through him.

"Don's blood?" he whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself. "They have Don's fucking blood?"

He knew about the Ancient Gods. Knew more than most, in fact. Most people in their world, even among the higher echelons of Skyhall, barely even acknowledged their existence. Ancient Gods were the stuff of legends, whispered about in hushed tones, their stories relegated to dusty, half-forgotten texts guarded by paranoid scholars and reclusive hermits in Skyhall and other organizations.

Not that Devdan blamed them. Information about the Ancient Gods was scarce, fragmented, often contradictory. Skyhall itself had long believed that Harriet Hunt, the Dark Lord's mother, carried the blood of an Ancient God in her veins. Arora, Don's wife, was the name they'd whispered in their secret chambers, the name they'd invoked in their desperate attempts to unravel the mysteries of her lineage.

But they'd found nothing. No trace of Ancient power, no hint of anything beyond the normal, albeit potent, celestial energy that flowed through Harriet's blood. Most had dismissed the theory, chalked it up to wishful thinking or the ramblings of senile old cultivators clinging to conspiracy theories

Not Devdan.

He'd always believed that just because something couldn't be proven, didn't mean it wasn't true. Especially when it came to matters of power, of ancient magic, of forces that were beyond their current understanding.

But now… now he had confirmation. Indirect, sure, but confirmation nonetheless. The Ancient Gods were real. And their blood… their blood was here.

"Those goddamn fools," he hissed, glaring at the frozen serpent. "Why the hell didn't they tell us? Why keep it locked away all these centuries?"

He knew, of course, that there had to be a reason. Something about the blood, something about its power, must have made even those arrogant Ancestors hesitate. But still…

"If anyone could have stopped the Dark Lord, besides that arrogant prick of a god Andohr, it would have been the blood of a goddamn Ancient God!" He cursed, his voice a low growl of frustration. According to the few scraps of text he'd managed to acquire, the Ancient Gods were beings of unimaginable power. They existed on a level that dwarfed even the most powerful gods of this realm. Their blood… it was practically a legend, a whispered promise of unimaginable power.

And those idiots had kept it hidden away. Wasted it.

"Fucking morons," he muttered, shaking his head in disgust.

On the other hand, Elara, desperate to solidify her position as the surviving informant, continued to spill her guts.

"I… I don't know how it got here," she stammered, her voice trembling. "It was… it was already in Skyhall's possession when I joined, centuries ago. Locked away, guarded… No one dared touch it."

"What else do you know?" Michael pressed, his gaze boring into hers. "Tell me everything."

"Don't tell him anything, you treacherous bitch!" one of the other heads roared, its voice distorted by the ice that encased its jaws.

Despite being frozen from the neck down, the serpent thrashed wildly, its six remaining heads snapping at Michael, their fangs inches from his face. But it was a pathetic display, more akin to a cornered animal's desperate flailing than a genuine threat.

"Still feeling feisty, huh?" Michael, his patience wearing thin, simply chuckled.

He reached out, his hand a blur of motion, and grabbed one of the serpent's heads. It was Baldyr, the warrior-king, his horned helm now coated in a layer of frost that glittered ominously in the dim light.

"You know," Michael said, his grip tightening on Baldyr's horns, "I'm starting to think you lot haven't learned your lesson."

He twisted his hand, a slow, deliberate movement, and Baldyr's neck, already strained by the contortions of their fused form, cracked.

The serpent's roar of pain echoed through the pocket dimension, a gut-wrenching symphony of agony and terror. Baldyr's face, frozen in a mask of horrified disbelief, contorted further as Michael continued to twist, the sound of grinding bone and tearing flesh punctuated by the dwarf's choked screams.

Blood, a dark, viscous torrent, erupted from the wound, splattering across Michael's armor and the surrounding ice. The stench of it, metallic and coppery, filled the air, a sickening reminder of the fragility of flesh, even immortal flesh.

Watching the scene unfold with a morbid fascination, Elara felt her stomach churn. Her face, already pale from the cold and the fear, turned a ghastly shade of white. She was suddenly, overwhelmingly grateful for her decision to betray Skyhall.

"Holy fucking shit," Lenora muttered, her crimson eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disgust. Even she, who'd indulged in her fair share of bloody carnage over the centuries, found the display a bit… much.

But Michael, his face a mask of cold fury, didn't seem to notice, or care. He continued to twist Baldyr's head, the dwarf's screams growing weaker with each passing second, his struggles less and less pronounced.

"Anyone else feeling… uncooperative?" Michael asked and ripped the head completely off like it was nothing.

"Well," Michael drawled, breaking the silence. "Since Elara here was kind enough to spill the beans… she gets to live. For now."

He turned his gaze to the remaining Ancestors, his eyes cold and unforgiving.

"The rest of you… you have a choice. Hand over your keys, and I'll make it quick. Refuse… and well, let's just say I have plenty of time to get… creative."

He flicked his wrist as the key forming from Baldyr's dead body floated toward him and landed neatly in his outstretched palm. "Two down, five to go."

Seeing the way Michael's gaze lingered on the remaining heads, their frozen eyes flickered between defiance and stark terror, Elara didn't hesitate. She squeezed her eyes shut, her face contorted in a grimace of pain, and with a grunt of effort, forced her own key out of her body. It materialized in the air before her, a miniature replica of the one Michael held, pulsing with the same eerie energy.

Without opening her eyes, without even a second thought, she flung the key towards Michael. It was like the damn thing was on fire, and she couldn't wait to be rid of it.

She'd seen what he'd done to Baldyr. The twisted neck, the blood and bone splattered across the ice, the vacant stare of the remaining eye…

"Fuck loyalty," she thought, swallowing back a wave of nausea. "Fuck Skyhall. Fuck everything,"

Right now, all that mattered was survival. And if betraying her comrades, handing over a key to some ancient power she barely understood, was the price she had to pay… well, so be it.

"What about the others?" Michael asked as a thick, deadly silence enveloped them. The elders in the serpent form looked at each other and none of them seemed to take the offer Michael gave them.

"Like hell we will!" one of the serpent's heads roared.

"You think we're stupid enough to fall for that shit? Give you the keys and die anyway? Fuck that!"

Michael's smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He'd expected this. Hope was a powerful motivator, sure. But when all hope was gone, when the only options were a quick death or a slow, agonizing one… well, even the most self-serving bastard would choose to go down swinging.

These were survivors, after all. They'd clawed their way to the top of the food chain, had outlived countless enemies, had endured hardships that would have broken lesser beings. And they weren't about to give up without a fight.

"Thought you might say that," Michael chuckled, shaking his head. "Like a cornered rat, aren't you? All teeth and desperation."

The serpent, its remaining heads snarling and snapping, lunged at Michael, its frozen body twisting and contorting in a grotesque parody of a strike.

But before they could even get close, Elara acted.

With a scream of mingled terror and defiance, she ripped herself free from the monstrous form, her body dissolving into a cloud of shimmering mist before solidifying a few feet away in her human form. The serpent, weakened by her sudden departure, recoiled, its movements even more sluggish now.

Two more figures followed suit and one of them was a tall, wiry elf with dark eyes and a cruel, thin-lipped smile and the other was a hulking bear like woman with gray hair.

However, they didn't even glance at Michael. Instead, they simply turned and ran, their bodies blurring as they activated whatever escape spells they could muster, desperate to get the hell out of dodge.

"Cowards!" one of the remaining heads roared, spitting a curse after them.

But Michael simply laughed.

"Running, are we?" he chuckled with amusement. Then, he simply raised a hand, and the air around him crackled with renewed power as he unleashed another wave of Frostbite.

This time, there was no escape.

The remaining three heads of the serpent, along with the two fleeing Ancestors, were encased in ice, their forms frozen solid, their expressions locked in masks of terror and desperate pleas.

Michael turned to Elara, who stood before him, trembling, her eyes wide with a terror that was almost comical.

"Where is it?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm. "Where's the vault?"

Elara, her body trembling, pointed a shaking finger towards one of the many floating palaces that dotted the ravaged landscape of the pocket dimension.

"There," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "In the heart of the Obsidian Palace. Follow me."

Meanwhile, Devdan who was watching the scene unfold from his hidden vantage point, smiled. He'd been right. The Dark Lord was his key, his unwitting guide to the ultimate prize.

"Lead the way, asshole," he murmured, already plotting his next move. He'd follow Michael, let the God of Darkness do the heavy lifting, break the seals, open the vault…

And then?

He had to trust himself and hope that his cunning and ruthlessness would be enough outsmart the God of Darkness.

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