Hitman with a Badass System

As the top of the coffin clattered to the floor, a dense cloud of smoke billowed out, obscuring the demon's form from view. The elf stood tense, his hand still on the hilt of his sword, eyes fixed on the slowly dispersing smoke, eager yet apprehensive to catch a glimpse of the resurrected demon.

These reanimated demons were vastly different from the typical undead or the soulless army of Salesi. Whereas the undead and Salesi's soul army operated on a singular, mindless intent to kill, these demons possessed a much more complex array of emotions, dominated by an intense, pure bloodlust. This wasn't just a killing instinct, it was primal, likened to that of a seasoned predator. It endowed them with the ability to strategize, take calculated risks, and strike with a combination of brains and brute force.

The Skyhall had not previously unleashed these demons in a conflict of this magnitude, but their experiments on demon corpses had revealed chilling abilities. These creatures possessed extremely fast healing and regenerative capabilities, making them exceptionally tough adversaries on the battlefield. The only known ways to permanently stop them were by burning their bodies to ashes faster than they could regenerate or by submerging them in water. Drowning wouldn't kill them but would revert them to their inert, deathlike state, thus allowing for the possibility of resurrection at a later time.

When the smoke finally cleared, the demon's figure emerged in full, terrifying detail. They sported crimson red skin and eyes of the same intense hue, but unlike the typical undead, their bodies bore no scars or signs of decomposition. Instead, their crimson skins gleamed, stretched over chiseled muscles that appeared almost sculptural in their perfection. Each demon possessed four arms, each limb as thick as a grown man's thighs, hinting at immense physical strength.

"Aren't they beautiful?" Elder Tarsus remarked with pride and a dark fascination.

Yet, the elf's focus was not on the elder's words. His gaze was locked on the demon before him, its skin a deep, pulsating red that seemed to breathe under the hall's faint light. From its head sprouted menacing horns; some demons had two horns jutting from either side of their heads, while others featured a single, spiraling horn emerging from their foreheads. The sight was both captivating and terrifying, a stark reminder of the lethal nature of these beings.

A shiver of dread coursed down the elf's spine as a two-horned demon leisurely twisted its neck, its movements deliberate and unsettling. The demon then parted its lips, revealing a row of yellowing, shark-like teeth, complete with two elongated fangs reminiscent of a vampire's. Its wings were not feathery but made of a tough, skin-like membrane, stretched taut over sharp, protruding spikes that gave it a menacing silhouette

As the elder continued to admire his handiwork, the demon near them took a heavy, measured step forward, its foot landing on the ground with a loud thud. One by one, the demons stepped out of their coffins, their presence dominating the vast hall. The sound of their heavy breathing filled the space, each exhale resonating with the depth of centuries spent in deathly slumber, now broken. The air seemed to thicken with their collective exhalation, adding a palpable tension to the already charged atmosphere.

Meanwhile, the orb that Elder Tarsus had used to activate the demons' awakening underwent a transformation. It slowly morphed into a glowing rune that shimmered with potent energy. With a deliberate motion, the elder allowed the rune to merge into his hand, where it settled into his skin, pulsing softly with a deep crimson light.

The nearest demon, a towering figure of muscle and malevolent grace, slowly stepped toward Elder Tarsus. It looked down at him, its height making even the tall elder look considerably smaller. Each demon stood about seven to eight feet tall, their bodies a mass of bulging muscles, making them look like living mountains of sinister intent. Beside them, the elf appeared particularly dwarfed, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear.

Despite their menacing form, Elder Tarsus remained calm, his face betraying no hint of fear. He looked up at the looming demon, his voice steady and commanding as he issued his next order. "Follow me," he said, the authority in his tone clear and unwavering.

At his command, the crimson red rune on his palm pulsated more intensely. This seemed to resonate with the demons, as if reinforcing their bond to his will. Slowly, the entire demon army began to move, each step deliberate and heavy, following the elder as he led them out of the hall. The elf, recovering from his initial shock, quickly fell into step beside Elder Tarsus, casting wary glances at the demons that now marched behind them.

Meanwhile, outside the warship, Michael stood calmly, his eyes scanning the tumultuous scene below as his dark army clashed fiercely with the forces of Skyhall. He had yet to enter the fray himself, choosing instead to wait for Corey to bring in the Big Bertha. He wanted to see his army in action, to assess their performance firsthand before making his move.

Standing apart from the battle provided Michael with a rare opportunity to observe his forces without the distraction of combat. It was an unusual moment for him; he was often away on adventures or deep in planning, rarely witnessing his army's capabilities in person. As he watched them move with precision and coordinated aggression, he couldn't help but appreciate the training they had received. Gaya and Eve had prepared them well, crafting them into a powerful force that could operate autonomously without the need for direct orders.

Although the loss of Eve still gnawed at him deeply, seeing the effectiveness of her training manifest in the battlefield brought a complex mix of pride and sadness. The dark army's seamless operation was a testament to her skills and dedication, a legacy that lived on through every maneuver and every strike they executed.

Michael's expression softened momentarily as his thoughts lingered on Eve. "You should see this, Eve." He muttered under his breath as though talking to Eve.

As he was thinking about Eve and silently mourning her death, Michael's train of thoughts was abruptly shattered by the voice of Trista and Lenora speaking to him through the earpiece.

"My lord, we have a huge problem," Trista's voice came through, tinged with urgency.

"Cut the shit and tell him, Trista." Lenora's voice followed, her tone more direct, Michael's brow furrowed as he switched fully back into commander mode, the personal reflections pushed aside for the moment. "What is it?" he asked calmly, his voice steady despite the growing unease prompted by their tones.

"We infiltrated the main warship, and they have an army... an army of demons." Trista's response came through, heavy with concern

Suddenly, a loud boom echoed through the sky, drawing Michael's gaze upward to the main ship floating ominously above. What he saw next was both mesmerizing and terrifying. It was as if crimson lava was pouring out of the ship, a flowing mass of vivid red that spilled into the sky. It took Michael a few seconds to discern the figures within this cascade, and when he did, his heart tightened, the figures were demons.

The ongoing battle below halted abruptly as the demons poured out of the ship. Both the angels of Skyhall and Michael's dark army paused, their weapons momentarily still as they stared up in shock and fear. The sight of the demon army was enough to instill a deep sense of dread; their monstrous forms and the sheer number emerging were like something out of a nightmare.

As the demon army continued to spill from the warship, shockwaves of disbelief rippled through both the Skyhall angels and Michael's dark army. The battlefield was abuzz with frantic, confused voices.

"What the hell are those?!" one of the Skyhall angels shouted, gripping his weapon tighter, his voice laced with panic.

"Demons? They're supposed to be just myths, aren't they?" another angel called out, scanning the ranks for any sign of command or reassurance.

From Michael's dark army, the reactions were mixed with a touch of grim humor and stark fear.

"I thought demons looked like Azazel!" one soldier yelled, his voice breaking through the din, referring to the more humanoid appearance of their demon butler.

"Are you telling me those are demons too? Azazel doesn't look anything like that freak show!" another shouted, pointing towards the monstrous forms now descending into the battle.

"And here I was, thinking Azazel was the only one of his kind," a third chimed in.

"Fuck, they're huge! We're screwed if they fight like Azazel," a seasoned veteran muttered, tightening his grip on his weapon, his eyes never leaving the descending swarm of demons.

As Michael observed the demons cascading from the ship, a stark realization hit him with the force of a freight train. He recalled Dagon, who had the same crimson-red skin and four muscular arms, as the pieces fell into place with alarming clarity. Dagon, the notorious ruler of Hell, was indeed a demon, a being of immense power who was once considered a god before his fall and subsequent banishment to rule the realm of hell by the Pantheon.

Soon, Michael began to piece together the fragmented history and legends, realizing the extinction of the demon race, Dagon's harsh banishment, and his longstanding grudges against the Pantheon might all be intertwined. These weren't isolated events but parts of a larger, more complex story.