Hitman With A Badass System

1416  Cindy vs Zariel I

On the Elon continent, a castle clawed at the perpetual night sky. Had light existed, its architecture might have inspired awe. Gray stone towers, tall and imposing, pierced the darkness. Thick, sturdy walls were broken only by narrow, arched windows, their glass long shattered, leaving empty sockets staring blankly outwards. A withered garden, strangled by the absence of sunlight, clung to the castle walls, its once vibrant hues now a depressing monochrome. Once grand, it was now a vacant shell.

A figure landed with barely a whisper on the overgrown path leading to the castle gates. Even in the smothering darkness, she radiated power, a presence that seemed to push back the shadows themselves. Her dark hair, unbound, cascaded down her back, a stark contrast to the pale alabaster of her face. A sword was strapped across her back, its hilt catching the faint, ambient light. A sleek, deadly crossbow was clutched in her hand.

With a snap of her fingers, a spark flared to life, a tiny ember of fire that twisted and morphed, taking the shape of a miniature dragon. No bigger than a raven, its scales shimmered with an inner luminescence as it circled her head, casting a warm glow that illuminated her face.

Cindy.

She had grown, her frame taller, her muscles stronger. Yet, a hint of baby fat still clung to her cheeks, a whisper of her childhood. Fourteen now, almost a woman, but still a child in so many ways.

A sharp crack echoed in the stillness as she rotated her neck. Then, she started towards the castle, her boots crunching on the brittle, dead grass.

She'd tracked Zariel to this forsaken place. The Reaper, for all his vaunted power, possessed a weakness. A penchant for luxury, a desire to live like some fucking king. He preyed on the wealthy, the powerful, the influential. Castles like this were where he'd spend his weekends, wallowing in pleasures unbecoming of a reaper.

Tonight, Cindy was going to snatch him. Tonight, he would pay for everything. For possessing her. For using her like a goddamn puppet. For hurting the people she loved.

She'd make Ghost and Gaya proud.

"Diddle diddle," she murmured, the words a soft whisper in the oppressive darkness, a twisted lullaby that sent a shiver down her spine. "Life is so little."

It was a rhyme from Ghost, a strange little ditty that somehow calmed the storm inside her, sharpening her focus.

She reached the castle gates, two colossal iron structures, their surfaces eaten away by rust, their hinges screaming in protest as she heaved them open.

The courtyard beyond was a wilderness, the once-manicured lawns choked with weeds and thorny overgrowth. Even in the darkness, she saw them.

Flowers.

Or rather, what was left of them. Dead. Their petals, once vibrant with life, were now withered and blackened, as if their very essence had been sucked dry.

A sign. A fucking calling card.

Wherever Zariel went, life withered and died.

He was here. The air hung heavy with the cloying stench of sulfur, the unmistakable odor of decay. Death. He was definitely here.

The castle was eerily silent. No guards patrolled its decaying ramparts. No servants scurried through its dusty halls. No sign of life stirred within its ancient stone walls.

Zariel was thorough in his grotesque way. He didn't just possess his victims; he consumed them, their lives and the lives of those around them, extinguished without a second thought. He reveled in playing house, a twisted lord of a rotting manor, killing anyone unfortunate enough to serve his phantom reign.

Cindy, her hand instinctively resting on the hilt of her sword, pushed open the massive wooden doors leading into the castle's main hall.

The interior whispered of past opulence, now choked by neglect. Faded, moth-eaten tapestries, once vibrant with color, hung limply from the walls. Chandeliers, their crystals cracked and clouded with years of dust, swayed precariously overhead. The air was thick and stale, heavy with the cloying scent of decay and something else, something metallic and sharp. Blood.

The heavy doors, groaning as if in protest, swung shut behind her, the sound echoing through the oppressive silence. Cindy didn't even flinch, her hand remaining firm on her sword hilt. She unsheathed her blade, the polished metal catching the dim, ambient light, and stepped forward, her boots crunching on the scattered debris that littered the cold stone floor.

She could feel it, a prickling sensation on her skin, the distinct weight of a presence. Watching her, assessing her.

But fear was a luxury Cindy couldn't afford, not after being raised by Gaya, trained by Michael.

A smirk played on her lips, a flash of defiance in her eyes. "I know you're here, Zariel," she called out, her voice cutting through the silence, bouncing off the aged stone walls. "Your big sister's here, you little shit. So come out, come out, wherever you are. And die like a good little dog."

The temperature in the hall plummeted. A sudden, bone-chilling cold washed over her, making Cindy's breath puff out in a white cloud. She caught a glimpse of a figure standing behind her, its reflection shimmering in the dusty surface of a large, ornate vase. Tall. Gaunt. Its eyes burned with a malevolent, green light.

She didn't turn. "I'm not gonna turn around, you idiot," she stated, her voice laced with mocking amusement. "That's cliché as fuck. Predictable. And boring."

The vase exploded. Shards of porcelain, sharp and deadly, ripped through the air, whistling past Cindy's head by a hair's breadth.

A chuckle echoed through the hall, cruel and cold, a sound that seemed to seep into the very stones.

Even Cindy, for a fleeting moment, felt a flicker of unease, a sharp prickle of fear. But she slammed it down, crushing it, burying it beneath a thick layer of defiance. "The darkness doesn't scare me, Zariel," she declared, her voice firm, unwavering. "Because my big brother? He's the God of Darkness. So your pathetic little tricks don't work on me."

Silence descended once more. A heavy, oppressive silence that seemed to press down on her chest, making it harder to draw breath.

She knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that her words had struck a nerve. Zariel might be a monster, a reaper, a creature of the fucking darkness, but even he had to recognize his place in the food chain when compared to Michael or Gaya.

19:10

But Cindy knew she had to do this alone. A fierce determination burned within her. She had to prove herself. To Gaya and Michael. To herself. She couldn't be the damsel in distress, the one who always needed saving. She wouldn't be a burden. She would be strong, independent, powerful, just like Gaya.

As if the castle itself responded to her thoughts, the floorboards groaned under some unseen weight, the sound echoing through the oppressive silence of the hall. Cindy's senses sharpened. Her grip tightened on her sword hilt. She began to move, her footsteps, though light, echoing through the emptiness. She headed towards a grand, sweeping staircase crafted from a dark, almost black marble. The banister was ornate, intricate, carved with figures that seemed to writhe in the flickering light.

The air grew colder as she ascended, the silence heavier, more suffocating. The metallic tang of blood was stronger now, fresh blood mingling with a foul, decaying odor that made her stomach churn. Crimson splatters marred the walls, shimmering wetly in the light cast by her miniature dragon.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she entered a long, dark corridor.

And then she saw it.

A portrait hung on the wall, its frame gilded and ornate. The painting itself was illuminated by the flickering light of her dragon companion.

A tall, gaunt man in golden robes stared out from the canvas, his features sharp and angular, his gaze intense and unsettling. He was stick-thin, almost skeletal, yet undeniably tall, imposing. Nearly seven feet, she guessed. Recognition struck her.

Edgar Crosswood.

The merchant who owned this cursed castle. The man Zariel was currently inhabiting.

A dark, menacing shadow flickered across the wall beside the portrait. Cindy's hand clenched on her sword hilt. She spun around, her body tensing, ready to strike.

A shadow. Tall. Distorted. Stretched across the opposite wall, its form shifting and unstable, like smoke in a breeze.

A chuckle, cold and cruel, echoed through the corridor.

"Looking for me, little one?" a voice whispered, raspy and distorted, seeming to slither from the very walls themselves.

Zariel.

Cindy recognized the voice instantly. A shiver traced its way down her spine despite her best efforts to remain calm. But the source remained elusive, hidden within the dancing, flickering shadows.

She continued down the corridor, her senses on high alert, her hand never leaving the reassuring grip of her sword hilt. The silver armor she wore, a gift from Michael, shimmered faintly, the protective runes etched into its surface glowing with a soft, blue light. Elidyr's work, a masterpiece of defensive magic, designed to ward off possessions, to prevent things like Zariel from worming their way into her mind, her soul.

And the blade… a collaborative effort. Wulfric, with his knowledge of ancient, forbidden magic, had provided the runes. The professors at Mazeroth, with their expertise in enchanting, had helped her imbue the blade with the power to repel and harm Zariel.

It was a weapon designed for a single, terrifying purpose: to capture the elusive Reaper.

If she could somehow force him out of Crosswood's body, if she could stab him with this blade, she could, theoretically, trap him. Not kill him, not permanently, but contain him. Imprison him within the cage Wulfric had designed, a prison of intricate runes and powerful wards that would, hopefully, hold him long enough for them to figure out a way to destroy him.

For good.