Hitman with a Badass System

Michael strode calmly out of the council hall, his demeanor unflustered as he exited the dark, imposing structure of the Dark Castle, which stood only half-completed against the turbulent sky. The moment he stepped outside, his gaze was immediately drawn upward. The dark sky was ominously littered with giant warships, both in the sky and on the raging sea below, each one emblazoned with the stark symbol of Skyhall.

"Quite the welcoming committee," Michael muttered under his breath, a hint of dark amusement in his tone. As he surveyed the overwhelming force assembled against them, he pieced together Skyhall's strategy. They had chosen to attack while his forces were stationed in the southern continent, a strategic location known for its absence of arch energy in the atmosphere. This choice was no coincidence but a calculated move, betting that the arch energy crystals carried by his troops would eventually deplete, leaving them vulnerable and drastically weakened.

Michael's strategic mind quickly deduced that Skyhall intended to drag out the battle, exploiting their numerical advantage once his forces were starved of their primary energy source. "They're planning to bleed us dry of arch energy, then overwhelm us," he admitted as his voice was low but filled with a cold resolve.

A wry chuckle escaped him as he stood watching the warships prepare for their assault. His hand instinctively brushed the small skull pendant containing his armor, a reminder of the power he wielded.

"They've got a good plan," Michael conceded with a smirk, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the formidable array of ships. "But they forgot one important thing, they forgot I'm fucking here."

As Michael steadied himself, the air above churned with activity. Like bees swarming from their hive, angels with metallic wings and weapons glowing with celestial energy leapt from the warships, descending toward the ground in a breathtaking aerial assault. Their wings caught the light, shimmering against the dark backdrop of the stormy sky, as they closed in with cold killing intent.

Above them, colossal warships floated ominously, each equipped with bulky, menacing cannons that looked ready to unleash hell. The ships were behemoths of the skies, their massive sails billowing even in the chaotic winds, each sail emblazoned with the fearsome insignia of Skyhall. The decks bristled with activity as crews scrambled to man their stations, preparing for a full onslaught.

Below, the sea was a roiling mass of dark waves, dotted with warships ranging from nimble frigates to powerful man-o-wars. These naval behemoths, their wooden sides thick and scarred from previous battles, lined up in aggressive formations. With a thunderous roar, they began firing volleys of cannonballs, each salvo aimed with deadly intent. The cannon fire boomed across the water, sending sprays of seawater into the air as the iron balls smashed into the waves or thudded into the castle's half-built walls, sending chunks of stone flying.

The battlefield was a scene of pure destruction, the air filled with the deafening sounds of cannon fire, the metallic whir of angelic wings, and the clashes of celestial weapons striking earthly defenses. Smoke and debris filled the air, obscuring the once-clear view as the ground shook with each new impact. The dark castle, though sturdy, trembled under the relentless assault, its stones crying out as they absorbed the fury of Skyhall's wrath.

"Fuck, they're not holding back," Michael mumbled. Each cannon volley from the Skyhall fleet sent a shudder through the floating mountain, the vibrations coursing through the dark castle's foundations, causing slight trembles in the stonework. Amidst the cacophony and chaos, Azazel unfurled his massive wings and took to the skies. His figure cut through the smoke and debris as he ascended. "What the fuck are you waiting for? Attack!"

Responding to his call, the dark army quickly tapped into their arch energy crystals, a burst of luminescent power flaring around them as they activated their flight capabilities. Within moments, they soared into the sky, forming a dark cloud of vengeance ready to meet the Skyhall forces head-on.

Michael watched as the Skyhall angels maneuvered with similar energy, their movements suggesting a reliance on a power source akin to his own forces' arch energy crystals. "Looks like those bastards have their own tricks up their sleeves," he noted, a strategic calculation running through his mind as he assessed the enemy's capabilities.

Turning to Ricky, who was coordinating the defense on the ground, Michael's voice cut through the noise with a commanding tone.

"Tell Corey to bring in my Big Bertha." His eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and anticipation at the thought of his own warship entering the fray. It had been too long since he had seen his menacing yet beautiful frigate in action, and the idea of unleashing its full might against Skyhall invigorated him.

Ricky nodded sharply and relayed the order, his voice crackling through the communication device to reach Corey, who was in charge of the naval assets. As Michael waited, his gaze returned to the sky, where his dark army clashed violently with the Skyhall invaders. The sounds of battle were intense, with the clang of metal on metal, the whoosh of energy-powered flight, and the cries of the wounded filling the air.

Despite the destruction unfolding around him, Michael couldn't suppress a grin. The arrival of his warship, known among his crew as 'Big Bertha' for its sheer size and firepower, promised to tilt the balance of power. The thought of its cannons unleashing hell upon the Skyhall fleet brought a fierce joy to his heart.

"Let's see how they like a taste of their own medicine," he murmured to himself, On the other hand, Trista and Lenora turned to Michael with a fire in their eyes. "Let us go take out the trash," Trista said, her tone laced with the thrill of the fight. Lenora nodded in agreement, both ready to dive headlong into the chaotic aerial battle.

But Michael raised his hand, stopping them at their steps. "No, don't go for a frontal assault," he instructed firmly. "Find a way to infiltrate one of those ships. I have a feeling they've got more than one ace up their sleeves."

Up in the sky, the scene was a brutal ballet of violence and prowess. Azazel, the demon butler, was a terrifying spectacle. His large, demonic wings beat powerfully as he maneuvered through the air, his movements both graceful and deadly. His hands, transformed into lethal weapons, tore through the ranks of Skyhall angels with a ferocity that was both awe-inspiring and horrifying.

The angels, trained for combat and glowing with celestial energy, were formidable opponents. They wielded glowing weapons that sliced through the air, creating arcs of light that were both beautiful and deadly. Each strike was precise, aimed with divine wrath, as they tried to subdue the demon butler. However, Azazel's combat experience and sheer brute strength gave him a distinct advantage.

With a swift movement, Azazel caught an angel by the wrist, twisting brutally until a sickening snap echoed through the air. The angel cried out, a sound cut short as Azazel delivered a devastating punch to the chest, sending the celestial being plummeting toward the ground with a broken body.

Another angel swooped in from behind, sword aimed at Azazel's back, but the demon was too quick. He spun around, grabbing the angel by the throat and lifting him into the air, his grip iron-tight. With a malicious grin, Azazel squeezed until the glow from the angel's eyes began to dim, then threw him aside like a rag doll.

As the battle raged above, Trista and Lenora quietly slipped into the shadows, making their way toward one of the lesser-guarded warships. Their movements were silent and deliberate, blending with the chaos to avoid drawing attention as they executed Michael's plan.

Meanwhile, Michael stood observing the ferocious ballet in the sky, his focus on Azazel. He watched intently, intrigued and somewhat apprehensive about the demon butler's display of bloodlust, the phenomenon Nithroel had warned him about. Azazel, typically a figure of discipline and control, was now a vortex of primal rage and destruction.

In the thick of battle, Azazel's ferocity was unmatched. He swooped through the angels, his claws and teeth bared, tearing into flesh and armor with equal abandon. An angel charged at him with a spear glowing with holy light, aiming for his heart. Azazel caught the spear mid-thrust, snapping it with his bare hands before driving the broken shaft back into the attacker's chest. His laugh, a deep, guttural sound, echoed over the din of combat, chilling to those who heard it.

"Come on, you heavenly fucks! Is that all you've got?" Azazel roared. Another angel descended, swords blazing with divine fire. Azazel met him in mid-air, grappling with the angel before brutally slamming him into a nearby warship with enough force to dent the metal hull. He didn't even flinch as the angel's blade sliced across his arm, the blood that spurted from the wound seeming only to fuel his frenzied state.

Blood splattered and smeared on his face and wings, Azazel moved through the angels like a predator through a flock of birds, unstoppable in his bloodlust. He reveled in each kill, his usual stoic demeanor lost to the berserker rage that now drove him. The more he fought, the more he seemed to lose himself to the violence, his actions becoming less about strategy and more about sheer carnage.

From his vantage point, Michael watched as Azazel continued his rampage, the demon's enjoyment of the slaughter evident in every brutal takedown. It was a stark contrast to the composed butler he knew, a transformation that was both fascinating and horrifying.

As Michael observed, he realized the depth of the challenge that Azazel's bloodlust could pose, not just to their enemies but potentially to their own side as well.