"Hold on a sec," Michael said, turning back towards the frozen serpent and the two fleeing figures, his smile fading as quickly as it had appeared. "Forgot about a few loose ends."
He raised a hand, channeling his power once more. Another wave of Frostbite, even more potent than the last, slamd into the serpent, encasing it in a thicker layer of ice. The monstrous creature, already frozen solid, didn't even have ti to twitch before it was completely immobilized, its two heads locked in expressions of eternal agony.
"Now, where were those little shits going?"
He spotted them, a blur of motion against the backdrop of the ravaged battlefield. The tall, wiry elf and the hulking woman with gray hair. They were almost at the edge of the pocket dinsion, their hands glowing with the telltale shimr of a teleportation spell.
"Nice try, assholes," Michael chuckled, shaking his head. "But you're not getting off that easy."
He didn't even bother drawing his sword. Instead, he simply raised a hand, his fingers crackling with black lightning. Two bolts, shot through with that sickly green energy that whispered of decay and corruption, arced across the battlefield with impossible speed.
Michael's aim was impeccable, honed by years of being the number one assassin. The bolts struck their targets with pinpoint accuracy, slamming into the backs of their heads with a sound like ripe lons splitting open.
Heads exploded, showering the surrounding area with blood and bone. Their bodies, propelled forward by the force of the impact, stumbled for a few steps before collapsing in a heap.
Two faint, shimring lights, the remnants of their souls, began to rise from the mangled corpses, desperate to escape back to the ethereal plane.
"Trying to skip out on the bill?" Michael chuckled, his voice laced with a cold amusent. "Not a chance."
He vanished from his spot, reappearing in a blink of an eye beside the headless corpses.
"Soul Eater," he muttered, opening his maw wide as the two souls, their escape thwarted, drifted towards him.
[Ding! Congratulations to the host for killing a Celestial stage Ancestor. The reward is 24,000 Experience points and 400 Badass points]
[Ding! Congratulations to the host for successfully being a badass. The reward is 80,000 Badass points] [Ding! Congratulations to the host for killing a Celestial stage Ancestor. The reward is 24,000 Experience points and 400 Badass points]
[Ding! Congratulations to the host for successfully being a badass. The reward is 80,000 Badass points] …
[Experience points converted 2000]
[Experience points converted 3000]
[Ding! Congratulations to the—]
He ignored the system notifications. Right now, he had bigger fish to fry. And then, two more keys, shimring with the sa faint golden light, materialized above the corpses, spinning slowly in the air as if reluctant to be parted from their forr owners. Michael, with a flick of his wrist, summoned them to his hand.
"Five," he murmured, his lips curving into a predatory smile. "Almost there."
He glanced back at the frozen serpent, its three heads locked in expressions of eternal agony, and his smile widened.
"Ti to finish this."
With a crackle of shadow energy, he vanished, reappearing a heartbeat later in front of the immobilized serpent. He raised a hand, his fingers crackling with dark energy, and a plu of black flas, edged with a sickly green that spoke of decay and corruption, erupted from his palm.
He could have ended it quickly. A blast of pure power, a Ring of Flas unleashed at full force, would have shattered the frozen serpent and its trapped souls in an instant.
But Michael wasn't interested in quick or rciful. Not anymore. These bastards had allowed the three bastards to torture his mother and had reveled in her pain. If that was not enough, they had ripped him from her arms and tossed him into the void as if he were nothing more than garbage.
So, they deserved to suffer.
Slowly.
The flas, dancing and twisting like spectral serpents, licked at the edges of the frozen form, lting the ice with agonizing slowness. It was like watching a glacier lt under a scorching sumr sun, only a thousand tis more grueso.
The serpent's two heads, still conscious despite their frozen state, could only watch in horror as the flas crept closer, the heat searing their flesh, the stench of burning hair and lting flesh filling the air. They tried to scream, tried to beg for rcy, but their voices were trapped behind a wall of ice, their pleas reduced to muffled whimpers.
After a long few monts, the serpent's form beca nothing more than a puddle of lted ice, blood, and charred bone, finally dissolved completely. Three faint, shimring lights, the remnants of the trapped souls, rose from the grueso ss, their ethereal forms flickering with a mixture of terror and relief.
Michael, without a word, opened his maw and inhaled deeply. The souls, drawn towards him by a force they couldn't resist, vanished into his mouth, their faint cries swallowed by the darkness within him.
Two more keys, identical to the others, materialized above the spot where the serpent had dissolved, spinning slowly in the air before flying towards Michael, landing neatly in his outstretched palm.
"Seven," he murmured, his gaze sweeping across the ravaged battlefield. "Seven keys."
The death of the Ancestors, the powerhouses of Skyhall, had a profound effect on the remaining forces. Their morale, already shaken by the Dark Lord's brutal display of power, shattered completely.
"We're fucked," a Skyhall knight whispered, his voice trembling.
"Those were the strongest among us… and he… he just…" another soldier trailed off, unable to even voice the horror they'd witnessed.
"What the hell are we supposed to do now?"
Their faces, once hardened by years of training and battle experience, were now pale with fear. They'd seen what the Dark Lord was capable of, the casual brutality with which he'd dispatched those who had dared to stand against him.
And none of them wanted to share the sa fate.
anwhile, hidden beneath his invisibility spell, Devdan frowned.
"Where the hell is that blasted cannon?" he muttered, glancing around the battlefield, his gaze searching for any sign of Erael's return.
He'd been waiting, patiently observing from the shadows as the Dark Lord had systematically dismantled the Ancestors. And now… now it seed his patience was wearing thin.
"Don't tell that bitch ran off…" he mused, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. But even as he thought it, he couldn't help but feel a grudging respect for her cunning, if that was indeed what she'd done.
After all, he was fully prepared to do the sa, if the blood of the Ancient God proved unattainable.
"Survival of the fittest," he murmured, his lips curving into a wry smile.
But for now, he had to wait. He needed Michael to lead him to the vault, to break the seals, to do the heavy lifting…
And then… well, then it would be his turn.
On the other hand, Michael's gaze swept across the battlefield, taking in the scene of devastation. Shattered warships, corpses frozen in grotesque tableaux, the air thick with the stench of blood and burnt flesh. And amidst the carnage, the remnants of Skyhall's army, their faces pale with fear, their eyes wide with a terror that spoke volus.
He glanced at Lenora, who was watching the scene unfold with a predatory gleam in her crimson eyes. She knew him well enough to anticipate his next move and floated toward him.
"My Lord?" she purred, bowing her head in a gesture of respect that was tinged with a hint of anticipation. "Your orders?"
Michael surveyed the battlefield once more. His gaze lingered on the sleek warships, their hulls gleaming with runes and bristling with cannons. He noted the Skyhall soldiers, their armor once pristine, now stained with blood and gri, their faces etched with a mix of fear and defiance. His eyes swept over the floating palaces, their majestic facades marred by the scars of battle, their opulent interiors no doubt filled with treasures accumulated over centuries of power and conquest.
It was too good to simply destroy.
"Listen up!" he roared, his voice echoing across the pocket dinsion. "Here's the deal. You hand over your space rings, your armor, your weapons, and your ships… and you get to walk away from this. Alive. You can go crawl back to whatever shithole you ca from, and you never speak of Skyhall again."
He paused, letting his words sink in, letting the fear and desperation build.
"But those who refuse…" Michael's smile turned predatory, a chilling slash in the gloom. "Well, you'll get what those stubborn assholes got. And your precious Skyhall… it'll be nothing more than a pile of burning rubble by the ti I'm done with it."
He turned to Lenora, his gaze hardening.
"Make it happen," he said, his voice a low growl. "Leave no one who defies … breathing."
"With pleasure, my lord." Lenora, her eyes gleaming with anticipation, grinned.
Watching the scene unfold, Elara felt a chill run down her spine. She'd chosen the right side, it seed. But even as she breathed a sigh of relief, she couldn't help but feel a pang of… sothing. Regret? Pity?
She didn't know.
Lenora, however, was practically vibrating with excitent. She watched the Skyhall soldiers scrambling to obey Michael's commands, their fear palpable, and a cold chuckle escaped her lips.
A year ago, when the Dark Lord was just a mortal, a re pawn in a ga played by Gods, Skyhall had seed invincible. An over powered organization that practically ruled the mortal realm, a symbol of unyielding power.
And now?
Now they were being dismantled, their pride shattered, their forces scattered, all because one man had ascended to godhood.
It was almost… anti-climatic.
"The difference between a god and mortals…" she murmured, shaking her head in amusent. While Lenora flew away to impose his order, Michael didn't waste ti watching Lenora and the others get to work. He had what he wanted – the keys, and a guide to the vault that held the blood of an Ancient God. Everything else… well, it was just details.
He turned his gaze to Elara, who stood before him, her body still trembling slightly, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and… was that a hint of relief?
"Lead the way," he commanded, his voice brooking no argunt.
He wasn't worried about her trying to pull any fast ones. She'd seen what he'd done to her colleagues. She knew, better than anyone, what happened to those who crossed him. Elara might be an opportunist, a survivor, but she wasn't stupid.
"Yes, my lord," she blurted out, nodding eagerly. Without another word, she turned and launched herself into the air, heading towards one of the many floating palaces that dotted the ravaged landscape of the pocket dinsion.
The palace she led them to was a colossal structure of gleaming white stone and polished obsidian, its towers piercing the artificial sky, its balconies adorned with intricate carvings and shimring crystals. It looked, at first glance, no different from the dozens of other palaces that made up Skyhall. A grand, imposing symbol of power and wealth, but nothing that scread "ancient god blood hidden here."
It was the perfect hiding place, like hiding a tree in a forest.
But Michael, as he followed Elara, felt a growing excitent thrumming through his veins. The keys in his hand pulsed with a faint warmth, their energy resonating with sothing deep within the palace, beckoning him forward.
Still hidden beneath his invisibility spell, Devdan trailed behind them, his gaze fixed on Michael with a predatory intensity. He didn't spare a single glance for the Skyhall soldiers because he didn't give a damn about Skyhall, about its soldiers, about its legacy. Instead, his focus, his entire being, was consud by a single, burning desire: power. And if the blood of an Ancient God was within his grasp… well, he'd be damned if he let so arrogant young god snatch it away from him.
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