Hitman With A Badass System

Meanwhile, escorted by her ever-present guards, Alyndra made her way through the city towards her family's estate. They moved from the rich and guarded streets surrounding the Silver Citadel into a quieter, more exclusive neighborhood. Here, the buildings were grander, the streets wider, and the air itself seemed to hum with an aura of privilege. This was where the elite of Luxor resided, the noble families who had amassed their fortunes through generations of careful planning, ruthless ambition, and unwavering loyalty to the God of Wealth.

They arrived at a compound, its high walls crafted from polished white stone, its gates forged from gleaming silver. Recognizing Alyndra, the guards snapped to attention, their movements crisp and precise, and the gates swung open, revealing a long, winding driveway that led to a mansion of unparalleled opulence. Her expression was unreadable, Alyndra started up the driveway, her guards flanking her, their footsteps echoing on the smooth stone.

The mansion was a testament to wealth and power. It was huge, its walls crafted from white marble, its roof a mosaic of shimmering silver tiles. Tall windows, paned with stained glass, reflected the golden sunlight, casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the manicured lawns. Servants, their eyes downcast, their movements quick and nervous, scurried out of her way as she approached. Maids, their hands clasped before them, bowed deeply as she passed.

"Welcome back, Young Mistress," one of them murmured, her voice barely audible.

"Did you enjoy your evening young miss?" another asked, her gaze fixed on the floor.

Alyndra, however, did not acknowledge them. She simply swept past, her high heels clicking on the marble floor, her silver dress rustling softly with each step. She entered the mansion, the massive doors swinging open silently before her. The living hall was vast, its high ceilings supported by columns of polished obsidian, its walls adorned with priceless tapestries and paintings. A crystal chandelier, its light refracted into a thousand rainbows, hung from the center of the ceiling, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the room. Ignoring the opulence around her, Alyndra climbed a sweeping staircase, its banister crafted from polished silver, its steps covered in a plush, crimson carpet. She made her way down a long corridor, its walls lined with portraits of her ancestors, their eyes following her as she passed.

Finally, she reached a door. It was taller and wider than the others, crafted from a dark, rich wood that shimmered with embedded gemstones. She pushed it open to step inside her father's study.

Inside the room, her father, Aelrindel, sat behind a massive mahogany desk, its surface cluttered with parchments, quills, and several glowing crystals. The room was neat, tidy, and organized—a stark contrast to the chaotic energy that seemed to permeate every other corner of this realm. Most elves, as she well knew, were obsessed with order, cleanliness, and with perfection. It was practically ingrained in their nature.

He did not bother to look up, simply gestured towards a chair opposite him. Her lips curled into a sarcastic smile, Alyndra sauntered towards it, her hips swaying in a deliberate, provocative manner, and slumped into the plush cushioning. Aelrindel might be a sniveling, power-hungry bastard, but he was not a warm father, not even close. Her antics, her rebellions, her casual disregard for elven decorum—it was all a desperate attempt to get his attention, to make him see her. But it never worked. She pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the present, the mission.

Finally, Aelrindel looked up, his gaze cold and calculating. "In two days," he stated, his voice flat and emotionless, "someone important is coming to the Richmen's Club. I want you to stay away. Do not go near the place. Do not cause trouble."

Alyndra chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "And do I look like the trouble-causing type, Father?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Aelrindel snorted. "I heard about what happened at the tavern, Alyndra—the human, the fight. You are lucky you were not arrested."

Alyndra, of course, was not surprised. Her father's network of informants was extensive. Nothing happened in Luxor without him knowing about it.

"It is under control, Father. Those two humans, are staying in my apartment at the Citadel." She did not elaborate or explain; he did not need to know the details.

"Be that as it may," Aelrindel said, his gaze hardening. "This visitor, they are important. Archon Valerius himself ordered us to stay away. He did not name this person, just warned us, said it was vital that the meeting goes smoothly, that nothing disturbs it." He paused, his eyes narrowing.

"Something big is brewing, Alyndra," he stated, his voice low and serious, "and I do not want you caught in the middle of it."

For a moment, Alyndra saw a flicker of something in her father's eyes—concern? Fear? It was hard to tell; he was good at masking his emotions.

"So now you care about me?" she asked with bitterness.

Aelrindel raised a hand, silencing her. "This is not the time for arguments, Alyndra," he said, his voice firm. "Stay away from the club. It is an order."

Without waiting for her response, Aelrindel waved his hand dismissively, a clear indication that the conversation was over. Alyndra, her curiosity piqued but her pride wounded, simply turned and stalked out of the room, the heavy doors slamming shut behind her.

Once alone, Aelrindel let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping as he sank back into his chair. "That girl," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "She is going to be the death of me."

The room shimmered, the air distorting as a golden vortex erupted in the center of the room. Instantly alert, Aelrindel sprang to his feet, not out of fear, but out of respect. A figure stepped out of the portal, his form tall and imposing, his golden armor gleaming in the dim light. His wings, crafted from pure gold, unfurled behind him, their feathers catching the light, casting dancing shadows across the walls. His face was sharp and angular, his eyes burning with an intense, divine light. Archon Valerius, one of the rulers of Luxor.

Aelrindel bowed deeply, his head lowered, his voice reverent. "My lord," he said. "You honor us with your presence."

Valerius nodded, his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the opulence, the order, the symbols of wealth and power. "Have you prepared everything, Aelrindel?" he inquired, his voice deep, resonant, and commanding.

"Yes, my lord," Aelrindel replied, his voice firm. "The Richmen's Club is secured. The meeting will proceed without incident." He hesitated for a moment, then continued, his voice low and cautious. "But my lord, perhaps it would be prudent to reveal the identity of this important person? It would aid in our preparations."

Valerius raised a hand, silencing him. "That information, Aelrindel, is classified," he stated, his voice cold and unyielding. "It is better that you do not know. Just ensure that my orders are followed. Keep your daughter away from the club, and deploy your guards in civilian disguise. I want eyes and ears everywhere. This meeting must go smoothly. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord," Aelrindel affirmed, bowing his head again.

He had no idea that the important person Valerius was so concerned about was Death himself. Since Luxor had allied itself with Andohr, the God of Time had instructed them to ensure that Death's meeting, whatever its purpose, proceeded without incident. Andohr wanted to trap Death, for the three horsemen to keep his end of the deal. Once he had trapped Death, then it would fall to Xyloth, Fourcrux, and Morbus's job to capture and transport Death to a safe place.

And Luxor, as his ally had no choice but to order his angel Archon Valerius to ensure this meeting proceeded without a problem so Andohr could trap Death. Little did any of them know, however, that the God of Darkness was closer than they imagined, and he would once again throw a wrench in Andohr's carefully crafted plan.

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Meanwhile, inside Alyndra's room, a soft knock on the door broke the tension, followed by the click of the lock turning. A wine glass in her hand, Alyndra sauntered in, her hips swaying provocatively. The door swung shut behind her, the click of the lock echoing in the silence.

She took a deliberate sip of her wine, her eyes fixed on Michael and Gaya, a seductive smile playing on her lips. Seated on the edge of the bed, Michael and Gaya simply watched her, their expressions unreadable.

Misinterpreting their silence for anticipation, Alyndra took a step closer, her smile widening. She placed the wine glass on a nearby table, her movements slow, deliberate, calculated to tease. Then, with a fluid grace that spoke of years of practice, she began to trace the line of Michael's jaw with her perfectly manicured finger, her touch light as a feather.

Watching the display, Gaya felt her fists clench. She was this close to launching herself at the elf, to ripping her limb from limb, but she restrained herself. They needed her, for now.

"Such a fine specimen of a human," Alyndra purred, her voice husky and seductive. She leaned in closer, her breath hot on Michael's skin. She was about to capture his lips with hers, but before she could make contact, Michael intervened.

He reached up, his fingers closing around her forehead, his touch gentle but firm. And then he pushed. Alyndra froze, her body going rigid, her eyes widening in surprise. Then, she collapsed, her limbs slack, her body falling into Michael's arms.

A golden light erupted from Michael's hand, enveloping Alyndra's head, and seeping into her mind. The System was at work, rewriting memories, planting suggestions, and forging a new reality.

Watching the display, Gaya raised an eyebrow. "So what now, human?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity.

"Now, we use her to find Seraphene's spy hub, to dismantle it." He smirked, a dark, predatory grin spreading across his face.

"With Transference of Consciousness and our new friend here, it is only a matter of time."

But even with all his power and cunning, Michael could not have predicted the twist that fate had in store. He did not know yet that in two days' time he would come face to face with Death, nor did he know what would come after that meeting.