Hitman With A Badass System

Michael and Gaya, momentarily stunned into silence, watched as Alyndra stormed out of Aelrindel's room and down the stairs, muttering furiously under her breath. Her face was flushed a vibrant shade of red, her usually perfectly coiffed hair slightly disheveled, and her pointy ears were twitching furiously. It was quite a sight, like a high-born elf having a full-blown tantrum. She stomped down the stairs, muttering, a storm brewing in her eyes. Behind her, the guards, looking utterly bewildered, scrambled to keep up, their armor clinking with their hurried steps.

But instead of heading for the exit, Alyndra made a beeline for Michael and Gaya, her eyes narrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line. She stopped directly in front of them, her small frame practically vibrating with suppressed rage.

"Come on," she ordered, her voice tight with barely controlled fury. "We are leaving."

Michael, still processing the sudden shift in the atmosphere, simply blinked. Before he could even formulate a response, Aelrindel appeared at the top of the stairs, his face a mask of barely suppressed anger. He descended and made his way towards the guest room, his gaze locked on his daughter.

The room, just moments ago a haven of luxury, now felt charged and tense. Michael, Gaya, Alyndra, and Aelrindel stood facing each other, a silent standoff playing out in the opulent space. The guards, stationed outside the door, were statues, their faces impassive, but their hands hovering near their weapons.

"You will do as I say, Alyndra," Aelrindel said, his voice cold and hard. "There will be no negotiation."

Michael and Gaya exchanged a quick, knowing glance. They had no fucking clue what was going on, but it was clear that this was a family dispute, a royal one at that. Whatever order Aelrindel had given, it was big, big enough to make the usually haughty Alyndra rebel.

"I am not some cattle to be sold off to some pompous, elven lord!" Alyndra's voice rose, sharp and defiant, cutting through the tension like a knife.

"I will not be bartered in your political games, Father! Not anymore!"

She was furious, spitting nails, her carefully crafted composure completely shattered. This was not just some spoiled brat tantrum, this was full-blown rebellion.

On the other hand, Michael and Gaya stood awkwardly to the side, feeling like uninvited guests at a particularly nasty family dinner. The two elves, father and daughter, were too engrossed in their argument to pay them any mind.

"I have had enough of your antics, Alyndra," Aelrindel declared, his voice dangerously low. "It is unbecoming of an elf, especially of our house. House Vael'Ndoren. You slept with two humans, for fuck's sake. You're a disgrace to our House!"

Alyndra's face, already flushed with anger, turned a deeper shade of crimson. She looked like a kettle about to boil over.

"I will not marry someone I have not even met!" she hissed, her voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. "I will not be a part of this, this stupid arranged marriage!"

Michael and Gaya exchanged a knowing glance. Ah, an arranged marriage. That explained the fireworks. Trying to force Alyndra into an arranged marriage was like trying to herd cats while blindfolded and drunk. They had only known her for a short time, but they could tell, she was wild, untamed, and a free spirit. She would sooner burn this whole place to the ground than settle down with some stuffy elf lord she had never met.

Of course, Michael was not against arranged marriages, per se. Back on Earth, in many cultures, they were the norm, a practical way to forge alliances, secure futures, blah blah blah. He did not necessarily agree with the practice, but he understood it. But forcing someone, especially someone like Alyndra, into a marriage they clearly did not want? That was just asking for trouble.

"You will marry him, Alyndra," Aelrindel said, his voice hard and unyielding. "End of discussion."

Michael and Gaya watched as Alyndra clenched her fists, her knuckles whitening under the strain. But there was something else in her eyes, something more than just rebellion. It was like fear, like desperation. He could tell that something was off. This was not just a father-daughter spat. There was more to this arranged marriage than met the eye. Aelrindel was hiding something and he could feel it.

But Aelrindel remained steadfast and unyielding. "You will marry him, Alyndra," he repeated, his voice colder this time, harder. "End of discussion."

Alyndra, however, merely snickered, a cold, humorless sound. "I would rather die than marry someone else," she retorted as her eyes flickered towards Michael and Gaya for the briefest of moments. The fabricated memories, the intense experiences the System had implanted in her mind, were clearly influencing her decisions. To her, the passion she felt, the connection with Michael and Gaya, was real. It was a bond she would not easily break, not for some arranged marriage, not for anything.

"We are leaving," she declared, turning towards the door, her hand reaching for Michael's.

But before she could take a step, Aelrindel moved with a surprising speed, grabbing her by the arm, his grip tight and painful. He yanked her back, away from the door, away from Michael.

"You're hurting me!" Alyndra winced, her voice laced with pain as she tried to pull her arm free. But Aelrindel's grip was like iron.

Then, his patience finally snapping, Aelrindel did something that shocked everyone in the room. He raised his hand and slapped her. The sound, sharp and brutal, echoed through the silent room.

Alyndra stumbled back, her eyes wide with disbelief, her hand flying to her cheek, where a red mark was already blooming. She crumpled, falling to her knees at the feet of Michael and Gaya, her carefully constructed facade of defiance shattered.

Soon, Alyndra, her eyes blazing with fury, scrambled to her feet. "You bastard!" she screamed, lunging at her father, her hands curled into claws.

But Aelrindel, anticipating her move, sidestepped with an ease that spoke of years of training. He raised his hand again, and before anyone could react, he delivered another stinging slap, this one even harder than the first.

Michael, who had seen his fair share of violence, who had even, on occasion, rescued a damsel in distress, felt a surge of anger. He was not a knight in shining armor, not by a long shot. And Alyndra? She was no damsel. She was a spoiled brat, a complication he would rather not deal with. But seeing her struck like that, seeing the raw fury in her eyes, it irked him. And beside him, Gaya was fuming. He could practically feel the anger radiating off her in waves.

"That is enough," Gaya said, stepping forward as Aelrindel turned his gaze on Gaya.

"Do not interfere in this, slut," he snarled, the word dripping with venom.

And that was it. The final straw.

When he heard Aelrindel calling Gaya slut, Michael saw red. He did not particularly like this haughty elf, but Gaya? She was his wife and partner. And no one, not even a pompous, self-righteous elf, got to insult her, not while he was breathing.

Before even Alyndra could react, Michael moved. He blurred, a flicker of darkness in the dimly lit room, and then, with a swift, brutal kick, he sent Aelrindel flying. The elf, caught completely off guard, crashed through the door, the wood splintering and cracking under the force of the impact, and landed in a heap in the corridor beyond.

A strangled scream, a mix of shock and pain, escaped Alyndra's lips. The guards, their eyes wide with disbelief, rushed into the room, swords and shields raised, their movements hesitant and uncertain.

Aelrindel coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and struggled to stand, his hand pressed against his chest, his face contorted in agony. He could feel his ribs grinding against each other, the pain blinding and searing. A trickle of blood escaped his lips, staining his golden robes a vibrant crimson.

"Fucking hell," he wheezed, his voice strained and gasping.

Despite the slaps she received, Alyndra rushed to her father's side, her eyes filled with a conflicted mix of fear and resentment.

However, the guards with their initial shock giving way to fury, surrounded Michael and Gaya.

"Stand down, human," one of them snarled, his voice low and menacing.

"You… you dare to attack Lord Aelrindel?" another hissed, his eyes blazing with righteous anger.

"You have made a big fucking mistake, human," a third guard growled, brandishing his sword. "A big fucking mistake."

"Let's kill him," another guard proposed.

Alyndra, her face pale, her hands trembling, looked from Michael to her father, who was now coughing, wheezing, and struggling to breathe.

"Kill them!" Aelrindel finally roared, his voice distorted by pain and fury. "Chop them into pieces!"

But Alyndra, her eyes wide with a sudden, desperate fear, tried to intervene. "Father, wait!" she pleaded as she reached for him, attempting to pull him back.

Her plea, however, was lost in the ensuing chaos. The guards, fueled by a mixture of loyalty and rage, surged forward, their movements swift, their weapons raised. They were in the Spiritual Embryo Realm, strong, experienced warriors. However, Michael was at the Celestial Resonance Realm, which was the fifth cultivation realm. So even without his godly powers, Michael was far stronger than them. But their anger and arrogance blinded them.

The lead soldier, a tall, muscular elf with a cruel sneer on his face, lunged at Michael, his spear aimed at his chest, a killing blow. But Michael was faster. He sidestepped the attack, his movements fluid and graceful, like a shadow dancing in the wind. He grabbed the spear, his grip iron-tight, and yanked, pulling the startled elf off balance. Then, with a swift, brutal movement, he snatched the spear from the guard's grasp. In one fluid motion, he drove it through the elf's gut.

The elf gurgled, his eyes widening in shock and pain as the spear pierced his armor, his flesh, his organs. Michael, his expression cold and unflinching, lifted the impaled elf off the ground, the spear protruding from his back. He held him there, above his head like a gruesome trophy while blood, dark and viscous, dripped down the shaft of the spear, splattering onto the floor.

"Anyone else?" Michael asked, his voice dangerously low.