Hitman with a Badass System

Chapter 1247  The Angel Of Death Again

Gaya’s hands clenched into tight fists, her body tensing with barely contained rage. The audacity of Abran’s demand had ignited a fiery anger within her, and she was moments away from leaping across the room to teach the elf a lesson he would never forget.

Although outwardly calm, Michael had a storm brewing in his eyes—a lethal intent that flickered dangerously. Despite his inclination to maintain composure in such situations, the protective instinct of a husband was forcefully surfacing. “No deal,” he stated icily, his voice cutting through the tension-filled room. He made it clear that any further provocation from Abran would result in severe consequences.

Perhaps sensing the imminent threat or simply dismissing them in disdain, Abran tossed the globe back at Michael. “Then get out of my sight,” he sneered, his arrogance undiminished.

Gaya, her anger not yet abated, started to retort, “You pompous little—” but Michael swiftly cut her off, his hand gently resting on her arm as a silent plea for restraint.

As they turned to leave, the room erupted into chaos. The half-elf who had been massaging Abran suddenly produced a glowing crimson dagger and, with a swift motion, plunged it into Abran’s neck. The serene atmosphere shattered as the other attendants screamed in horror, their cries echoing through the opulent chamber. Abran grabbed his throat, but no words came in except blood sprayed out of his throat.

The young elf who had led Michael and Gaya inside stood frozen in shock for a mere second before attempting to call for help. His efforts were futile; the half-elf assassin, with chilling precision, hurled the dagger, its blade slicing through the air to embed itself in the young elf’s head, silencing him forever.

In the midst of chaos, the half-elf assassin moved with such speed and precision that Gaya could scarcely track their movements. The air quickly became thick with the scent of blood, a grim testament to the assassin’s deadly efficiency. Michael and Gaya could only watch, immobilized by the suddenness of the attack.

To Michael’s utter astonishment, the half-elf reached up and peeled away the skin from her face, revealing underneath not the visage of a woman, but that of a man with eyes that glowed an ominous red. Michael’s heart skipped a beat as recognition dawned upon him. This was no ordinary assassin; this was the very same figure who killed the king of Nimbosia, the one who had extended the invitation to join the ranks of the Death Merchants: the Angel of Death.

As if to conceal his identity once more, a dark cloak materialized around him, shrouding his features in shadow. His voice, cold yet oddly calm, broke the silence. “What a coincidence to see you here, John, and with your better half, nonetheless,” he remarked, his tone laced with a chilling amusement.

Gaya, her brow furrowing in confusion and tension, demanded, “Who the hell are you?”

The assassin’s chuckle was low and devoid of warmth. “I am an angel of death,” he replied cryptically. “And it seems, John, the time we allotted for you to decide on joining our Death Merchants is fast approaching its end. If I’m not mistaken, you have merely a week left before that offer expires.”

“Dude, you made a mess.”

Amidst the gruesome aftermath, Gaya, her voice laced with both disbelief and a hint of dark humor, couldn’t help but remark. The assassin’s laughter filled the room, a sound devoid of any true joy. “A good assassin knows how to kill,” he mused, his tone eerily calm. “A great one knows how to make someone else clean up their mess.”

“Whats that supposed to-“

Gaya, about to demand clarification, suddenly caught herself, the realization of his implication dawning on her. She didn’t finish her sentence, the weight of their situation becoming painfully clear.

The assassin’s amusement seemed to grow at their comprehension. “I’ll be waiting for you on the outskirts of the city today. If you wish to join us, meet me there,” he said, his voice smooth yet carrying an undeniable command.

“I’ll be there,” Michael simply nodded. His voice steady, betraying no emotion.

“Good,” the assassin replied, a semblance of approval in his tone. “I trust you’ll take care of this little… situation and make your escape.” With that, he tossed a handful of sparkling powder at his feet, crushing something beneath his boot. In an instant, he vanished, teleported away, leaving Michael and Gaya alone in the midst of chaos.

Despite the grim scene, Gaya couldn’t help but express her feelings towards the assassin’s departure. “He seems like a jerk, but at least he took care of that asshole,” she said, gesturing dismissively towards Abran’s lifeless form.

However, Michael was already focusing on their next move, his mind racing through the implications of their situation. He noted the room’s silence, a result of the rune-covered walls designed to keep its contents a secret from the outside world. “Lucky for us, Abran liked his privacy,” Michael muttered, more to himself than to Gaya, acknowledging the runes’ effectiveness at soundproofing.

Yet, Michael understood the precariousness of their position. Leaving the scene would only temporarily solve their problem; eventually, the discovery of the massacre would lead others straight to them. They needed a plan that would ensure their escape without casting suspicion their way.

Pulling a vial from his pocket, Michael presented it to Gaya. “Drink this,” he instructed, his voice carrying the weight of urgency.

Recognizing the potion, Gaya did as asked without hesitation, collapsing almost immediately. Michael then dipped his hand into a nearby pool of blood, grimacing at the cold touch before carefully smearing it across Gaya’s throat, artfully arranging her among the other victims. The potion rendered her heartbeat and breathing slowed to a halt, making her indistinguishable from those truly dead.

With Gaya positioned convincingly as another casualty, Michael took a moment to look over their grim tableau, ensuring everything appeared as natural as possible. Then, taking another potion, he smeared blood over himself, mimicking the injuries of the others, and drank it. Within moments, he too collapsed, lying motionless among the victims.

After what felt like an eternity, the heavy silence of the room was shattered as the main door swung open, revealing two elves – a young man and an elven girl. The tranquility of the scene before them belied the carnage that awaited their eyes. As they stepped in, their initial confusion quickly morphed into horror.

“Oh, by the stars…” the girl gasped, her voice barely a whisper before escalating into a scream. “ARGH!”

Her companion, too shocked to speak, could only echo her screams with his own. Their cries, sharp and piercing, cut through the stillness, signaling the gravity of the massacre to anyone within earshot.

In moments, the room was swarmed with armored guards, drawn by the cacophony of terror. Michael and Gaya remained motionless, their disguise as victims holding up under the scrutiny of the sudden influx of onlookers.

Nobles and other well-to-do elves, attracted by the commotion, gathered at the scene, their expressions morphing from curiosity to shock and terror as they took in the bloodbath.

“This is a nightmare…” one noble murmured, his voice shaking. “Abran…and all these people…”

“Secure the area!” barked the captain of the guard, his authoritative voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. “I want a perimeter set up now. Check every corner, every shadow. We lock down this place immediately!”

The guards sprang into action, their movements swift and coordinated, a dance of efficiency amidst chaos. They cordoned off the area, pushing back the gathering crowd of onlookers, their faces grim and focused.

“Search the area! We may still find who did this,” another guard commanded, leading a contingent to comb through the adjoining rooms and corridors.

The atmosphere was thick with panic and fear, the elves’ usual stoicism shattered by the violence of the act. Rumors and whispers spread like wildfire, a mix of grief for the loss and fear of what such an act indicated about their safety within the walls of Aurumvale.

The captain of the guard, adorned in the golden armor that marked the elite protectors of Aurumvale, approached Abran’s body with a solemn grace. Dropping to one knee, he inspected the runemaster’s lifeless form with a practiced eye, the weight of the moment etched across his face. “Clear the area,” he commanded, his voice steady despite the turmoil around them.

As his men moved to obey, another guard approached, his expression tense with anticipation. “Is he…?” he began, unable to finish the question.

“Dead,” the captain confirmed curtly. Without missing a beat, he issued another order: “Inspect all the bodies. I want to know everything about everyone.”

Meanwhile, Michael and Gaya, concealed among the victims, remained perfectly still, their ruse unchallenged. The guards meticulously checked each body for signs of life. After a tense, seemingly endless moment, one of the guards reported back to the captain. “All of them dead, sir. Not a single survivor.”

“Damn it,” the captain cursed under his breath, the frustration evident in his voice. “This is a disaster.”

Another guard, seeking some understanding in the chaos, ventured a question. “Who could have done this, sir?”

The captain’s gaze lingered on Abran’s body, a mix of contemplation and resignation in his eyes. “Abran made many enemies with his ways. Could be anyone he wronged, or perhaps the husband of any woman he coveted,” he speculated, the list of potential suspects as vast as Abran’s notoriety.

“He did have an insatiable desire for beautiful women,” the soldier remarked, a note of disdain in his voice for the runemaster’s well-known proclivities.

Nodding in agreement, the captain finally gave the order to move forward. “Send all the bodies to the infirmary. We’re in for a long night,” he said, bracing himself for the investigation and fallout that would surely follow this tragic event.