Hitman With A Badass System

Chapter 1341  Devastating Power Of the Frostbite

The moment Michael confirmed his purchase of Frostbite, a spike of pain lanced through his skull. It was the system's way – brutally efficient, like having a thousand ice shards hammered into your brain. He gritted his teeth, riding out the agony. It always faded as quickly as it came, leaving behind the knowledge of the spell, woven into his very being. Sure enough, as the pain subsided, casting Frostbite felt as natural as drawing breath.

Michael opened his eyes, surveying the chaos unfolding around him. The battle had escalated to a terrifying crescendo. His gaze swept over the Skyhall angels, their silver armor no match for the sheer ferocity of his dark army and demons.

But it was the other figures that drew his attention — the ancestors of SKyhall, the powerful cultivators who had enjoyed centuries of power in the light of the old world. Men and women, their faces etched with the weight of ages, clad in armor that gleamed with enchantments older than nations. Each and every one of them blazed with the energy of the Celestial Stage, their power a palpable pressure in the void.

They fought with the honed grace of experience, their every movement a testament to lifetimes spent mastering their skills. White robes, the symbol of their once-unquestioned authority, whipped around them as they battled Michael's forces.

But even their experience couldn't make up for the raw brutality of his demon army. Looking at the demon army, Michael smirked, a flicker of grim satisfaction twisting his lips. The demon army couldn't cast spells, not like the other cultivators. But damn, they were a sight to behold in close combat. Massive, hulking figures, their skin as tough as dragon scales, and their strength amplified by battle lust. Every swing of a clawed fist connected with bone-jarring force, and those claws… those ripped through flesh and steel with equal ease.

And if they went down? Well, death wasn't exactly a deterrent for the demon army.

He watched, a detached observer for a moment, as a hulking demon, its chest cavity ripped open by a spear of solidified light, simply roared in defiance. Tendrils of shadow, shot through with a sickening purple light, snaked out from the gash, pulling the wound closed in a grotesque mockery of healing. A moment later, the demon was back on its feet, bellowing a challenge as it charged back into the fray.

Skyhall might have outnumbered them, might have had more raw magical power at their disposal, but Michael had a few tricks up his sleeve too. His gaze swept over the battlefield, taking in the ebb and flow of the conflict.

He saw a dwarf, one of his Immortal stage cultivators, unleash a torrent of blue flame, incinerating a cluster of Skyhall soldiers. Their screams were choked off as the flames consumed them, leaving behind only wisps of smoke and the acrid stench of burnt flesh.

A little further off, Lenora, a crimson blur against the backdrop of stars, was making a mess of things. She was a whirlwind of blood magic, crimson tendrils lashing out to ensnare angels, ripping them from the sky or bursting them apart in a shower of gore. No delicate flower, that one

But even as Michael reveled in the carnage, a knot of unease tightened in his gut. Skyhall was strong. Stronger than he'd anticipated. They'd held something back, he could feel it. A reserve of power they were waiting to unleash.

But as awe-inspiring as the scene was, all hell broke loose when on of the Skyhall angels noticed Michael. And then he felt it – a shift in the energy of the battlefield, hundreds of gazes turning towards him as one.

"The Dark Lord!"

That single shout of his name, filled with fear and dread, was like a spark igniting tinder. It spread through the ranks of the Skyhall army, carried on the wind of panic. Soon, a chorus of shouts, a blend of disbelief and terror, rose above the battlefield.

"He's here!"

"Well, well, looks like the party's starting" Michael murmured with amusement.

Then, black lightning, crackling with raw power, danced around him, a halo of impending doom. He let the darkness within him rise and he could practically taste their terror like a heady vintage.

"Time to show them what happens," he snarled, eyes blazing with cold fire, "when you piss off the God of Darkness."

And with a thought, he unleashed the Death Range.

The world around him imploded into a sphere of absolute black, swallowing light and sound in its embrace. The stars themselves seemed to vanish, devoured by the encroaching void. The cacophony of battle – the clang of steel, the roar of cannons, the screams of the dying – was instantly silenced, replaced by an unnerving hush.

Within the Death Range, Michael was both hunter and architect. He could see everything with a clarity that bordered on the supernatural, his senses amplified a thousandfold. He saw the fear in the eyes of his enemies and the way they fumbled for weapons they could no longer see. "Fire!"

On the fringes of the Death Range, a voice boomed over the sudden silence, sharp and clear as a whipcrack. The voice belonged to Commander Lorian, a tall, hawkish elf with eyes like chips of glacial ice. His command deck, perched atop a warship that was less vessel and more floating fortress, was a testament to Skyhall's arrogance. Crafted from gleaming whitewood and polished steel, it bristled with cannons, each one long enough to rival a small dragon. Powerful runes, etched onto the hull in lines of shimmering gold, pulsed with restrained power.

This wasn't just a warship but a statement.

And right now, it was aimed directly at the heart of Michael's darkness. Nôv(el)B\\jnn

Lorian had been trained since childhood for this moment, drilled in the art of warfare against creatures of darkness. He knew, as did all of Skyhall's elite, that killing a God was next to impossible without the god killing arrows. Their weapons, potent as they were, were mere pinpricks against such beings.

But they didn't need to kill the Dark Lord. Not yet.

Cripple. Contain. Capture. Those were the objectives. Shatter his physical shell, and his essence, his very soul, would be left vulnerable. And Skyhall was more than prepared to deal with a disembodied god.

"Hold your fire, you fools! Wait for my mark!" Lorian roared, his voice barely audible over the thunderous rumble of the cannons powering up. Celestial energy, drawn from the very air itself, crackled along the rune-etched barrels, building towards a crescendo of destructive power.

"NOW!"

The world exploded.

Blinding white light ripped through the darkness as the cannons roared their defiance. The first volley slammed into the Death Range, the force of the impact like a physical blow. The very air shrieked in protest as the celestial energy tore through the space, seeking out its target.

But Michael had not become the God of Darkness by being predictable.

Lorian, for all his tactical brilliance, had overlooked a crucial element: even the most impressive displays of light cast shadows. And shadows were Michael's domain.

He felt the surge of celestial energy building within those cannons, felt the air crackle with anticipatory violence. A lesser being might have been cowed, might have tried to run away or cast a defensive spell.

Michael was not a lesser being but a God, The God of Darkness.

He smiled, a slow, predatory stretching of his lips that did not reach his eyes.

Instead, he used the Shadow teleportation that allowed him to traverse the battlefield in the blink of an eye, to appear wherever his enemy least expected him. And right now, that meant the heart of Lorian's precious warship, shrouded as it was by its own hubristic shadow.

He vanished from the spot where he'd stood a heartbeat before, the Death Range momentarily faltering as its anchor shifted. One moment Michael was inside the pitch black darkness away from the ship and the next, he was on the ship's upper deck.

Lorian, battle-hardened as he was, couldn't suppress a gasp of surprise. It was reflected a thousandfold across the faces of his crew, their eyes wide with a terror that was almost beautiful.

But there was no time for shock, no time for awe. Not with those cannons about to unleash their fury.

Then, Michael raised a hand, fingers outstretched, and whispered a single word.

"Frostbite."

Soon, the world around him transformed.

A wave of bone-chilling cold, absolute zero made manifest, exploded outwards from Michael's form. It slammed into the deck of the warship, a six-meter radius instantly encased in a shell of shimmering ice. Steel groaned and buckled under the sudden, catastrophic temperature change. Runes, glowing moments before with celestial energy, flickered and died, their light extinguished by the encroaching frost.

Screams, high-pitched and choked, erupted from the crew. Those closest to Michael, caught in the direct line of the Frostbite, didn't even have time to scream. Their eyes widened, pupils dilating with terror, then glazed over as they were flash-frozen, their bodies turning brittle as glass. One moment they were living, breathing beings; the next, grotesque statues, their last expressions etched in eternal agony.

The air itself seemed to crackle, frost spreading across the deck like a living thing. Those who weren't instantly frozen found their movements slowing, their limbs growing heavy and unresponsive as the cold seeped into their very bones. They stumbled, their armor, once a source of pride and protection, now a chillingly efficient conductor of the unbearable cold.

"What in the hells…"

"He's a monster!"

Fear-stricken cries, choked off into gurgling moans, filled the air, only to be swallowed by the ever-expanding sphere of absolute zero. It was a chaotic symphony of terror, played out on the faces of those unlucky souls who'd found themselves within Michael's icy embrace.

Lorian, his composure finally shattered, stumbled back from the expanding frost, his glacial eyes wide with disbelief. "Impossible!" His words were cut short as the frost reached him, creeping up his silver-clad legs, encasing his boots in a layer of ice that glimmered wickedly in the fading light of the cannons.

Even the elven commander, hardened by centuries of warfare, couldn't suppress a shriek of terror as the cold sank its teeth into him, the feeling like a thousand needles driven into his flesh. He tried to cast a defensive spell that had always protected him, but it was too late.

The frost was relentless. It spread across the deck with terrifying speed, encasing the warship and everyone on it in a tomb of ice. Cannons froze, their deadly payloads rendered inert. Angels, their silver wings now useless appendages of frost-rimed feathers, were frozen mid-flight, their expressions a terrifying tableau of surprise and agony.

In the heart of the frozen hellscape, Michael chuckled, a low rumble that echoed strangely off the ice-covered surfaces. "Damn," he muttered, even he was surprised by the raw, brutal efficiency of the Frostbite spell. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was everything he'd ever wanted in a spell.

Then he remembered the kicker. The follow-up attack.

"Time to turn up the heat," he murmured, lips curving into a cruel smile.

He channeled his power to cast the Rings of Flames. It was a spell he'd used countless times before, but now… now it would be amplified, supercharged by the lingering chill of Frostbite.

As soon as he cast the spell, dark flames erupted around him, twisting into a pulsating ring of pure destructive energy. He unleashed it and the impact was instantaneous, and spectacularly devastating.

Imagine a frozen lake, struck by a meteor made of pure fire.

The air screamed as the heat collided with the cold, the opposing forces reacting with explosive violence. The ice-encrusted warship, once a symbol of Skyhall's might, shattered like it was made of spun sugar. Shards of whitewood, now blackened and burning, were flung outwards in a chaotic explosion. Frozen limbs, still encased in shattered armor, spun through the air, trailing plumes of blood-tinged vapor.

And the screams… the screams were like a chorus from hell itself, echoing through the void as those trapped within the ice were consumed by the flames. A few, their bodies still miraculously intact, managed to claw their way free, only to plummet screaming into the abyss below, their forms trailing plumes of smoke and the sickening-sweet aroma of burnt flesh.