Chapter 1342 Something feels off

Chapter 1342 Something feels off

Michael watched the remnants of Lorian's flagship—chunks of burning wood, twisted metal, and bloody shards of frozen flesh—spiral away into the void. He stretched, feeling the satisfying pops and cracks along his spine, and a slow, predatory grin spread across his face.

"Now that's what I call a warm welcome," he murmured, even as the system notifications started to flood his mind.

[Ding! Congratulations to the host for killing a Skyhall Angel. The reward is 150 Experience points and 10,000 Badass points] [Ding! Congratulations to the host for killing a Skyhall Angel. The reward is 200 Experience points and 20,000 Badass points] [Ding! Congratulations to the host for successfully being a badass. The reward is 5,000 Badass points] [Ding! Congratulations to the host for killing--

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Michael muttered, his grin widening as the notifications ticked higher and higher. The experience points were almost laughable, a pittance compared to what he'd get from taking down an actual threat. But those badass points? Those were flowing in like a goddamn tsunami.

[Ding! Congratulations to the host for killing the Skyhall commander. The reward is 4,000 Experience points and 50,000 Badass points] [Ding! Congratulations to the host for successfully being a badass. The reward is 50,000 Badass points] "Almost a million already," he chuckled, shaking his head. "This is gonna be fun." He could feel hundreds, thousands of eyes on him now. A mixture of terror and awe. Time to give them a show they'd never forget.

"System, mute those notifications for now," Michael thought, turning his attention back to the battlefield. He had a war to win.

Meanwhile, a hush fell over the battlefield after the display of Michael's power. At the same time, high above the fray, on a platform of shimmering crystal, a cluster of figures watched with a mixture of apprehension and cold fury. These were Skyhall's elite, the true power behind the throne: the Ancestors who were ancient beings at the Celestial stage.

"He grows stronger," a voice rasped, old as time itself. It belonged to Eldrin, the eldest of the Ancestors, his wrinkled face a roadmap of forgotten ages. His eyes, though, were sharp and bright, burning with a cold fire. He watched Michael with a gaze that saw not just the arrogant young God, but the echoes of a past he'd rather forget.

"And more reckless," another figure added, her voice sharp as a whipcrack. Lady Selene, they called her. Her beauty was as legendary as her temper, and right now, her sapphire eyes were narrowed, her lips a thin, bloodless line.

"Recklessness can be exploited," a hulking figure rumbled from beneath his horned helm. This was Baldyr, the warrior-king of a long-dead empire, his very presence radiating an aura of raw, uncontainable power.

But even Baldyr's usual eagerness for battle was tempered by a sliver of uncertainty. He, like the others, had witnessed the casual brutality of Lorian's demise. This was not a foe to be underestimated.

"Enough talk," Selene snapped, her patience at its end. She raised her hands, her movements mirrored by six other figures flanking her. Each of them shimmered, their forms blurring for a moment as they channeled their individual power, their very souls intertwining in a display of forbidden magic.

"He may control the shadows," she hissed, her voice laced with venom, "but we command the very fabric of this realm!"

A cold light, bright but somehow muted, erupted from the seven figures. A wave of energy, palpable despite the lack of blinding light, rippled across the battlefield. A collective gasp rippled through the ranks of both armies, angel and demon alike, as a new power, something ancient and terrifying, announced its presence.

Where seven figures had stood, there was now... a serpent.

"We need to do something about that overgrown gecko," she said, jerking her chin towards the monstrous serpent that was systematically tearing through Michael's forces. "Our boys are dropping like flies over there."

Michael frowned, his gaze not on the serpent, but on the scattered clusters of Skyhall's elite. He spotted Devdan, his perfect elven features twisted in a mask of cold fury, directing a group of mages in a barrage of lightning attacks against a squad of demons.

And there, hovering near the back, was Erael, the Lady of Skyhall, her gaze sharp and calculating as she surveyed the battlefield. Her hand never strayed far from the sword sheathed at her hip, a blade that Michael knew hummed with celestial energy.

Finally, his eyes landed on a figure he recognized all too well: Thorfinn Borgersson. The dwarf, his usually jovial face contorted with a mixture of glee and grim determination, was directing a squad of Skyhall's elite guard, their rune-etched armor gleaming even amidst the carnage.

"Don't you find this... strange?" Michael murmured, more to himself than to Lenora.

"Strange how?"

"Look around," he gestured at the chaos unfolding beneath them. "This is a good fight, don't get me wrong. But it feels... off."

"Off, how?" Lenora echoed, her brow furrowed.

"Where are the heavy hitters? Besides those three idiots and their soul-merged lizard, it's like they're sending amateurs to die,"

Lenora followed his gaze, her crimson eyes scanning the battlefield. "Now that you mention it..." she trailed off, a flicker of unease crossing her features.

"You feel it too, don't you?" Michael pressed, his voice barely a whisper.

"Like we're being... watched," She nodded, her lips a thin line. "Exactly," Michael muttered, a chill crawling down his spine. "Like this whole thing is a distraction."

He knew, deep down, that Skyhall wasn't stupid. Arrogant, sure, but not stupid. They knew he was coming, knew what he was capable of. They wouldn't just throw wave after wave of expendable soldiers at him. There was a bigger play here, he could feel it in his gut.

"I don't like it," Lenora murmured, her gaze scanning the skies, searching for an unseen enemy.

"Neither do I," Michael agreed as he had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling. Andohr, that manipulative bastard, was involved somehow, he could practically smell it.

The question was: what the hell were they planning?