Hitman with a Badass System-Chapter 1437: Destroying Seraphene’s Data hub II

With a smirk, Michael, still inhabiting Eldoran's body, started towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Lyra asked, her mouth full, her words slightly muffled by the kebab.

Ignoring her question, Michael reached the doorway and held it open. He glanced back at his physical body, still slumped on the bench in the lobby, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Then, he dispelled the spell.

Transference of Consciousness.

Eldoran's eyes snapped open, his expression a mask of confusion and disorientation. He staggered to his feet, his gaze darting around the devastated hall, struggling to make sense of his surroundings. He opened his mouth, likely to question the sudden shift, to demand answers, but—

Boom.

The first explosion tore through the chamber, a deafening roar that shattered the relative silence, sending shards of crystal and debris hurtling in all directions.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The remaining explosives detonated in rapid succession, each blast a concussive wave of force and fire. The blue crystals fractured and imploded, their light extinguished in a shower of sparks. The golden wires snapped and whipped through the air like angry snakes before falling to the floor in tangled heaps. The mirrors, the monitoring devices, the intricate machinery—it all disintegrated, exploded, collapsed in a horrifying cacophony of destruction.

The elves caught in the blast screamed, their voices high-pitched and laced with terror as they were thrown off their feet, their bodies slamming against the walls, the floor, the scattered debris.

Yet, amidst the devastation, the red crystal, the backup, remained. Intact. Protected by the strategic placement of the explosives, it survived the initial onslaught, its crimson glow pulsing faintly amidst the swirling chaos.

The walls of the chamber groaned and shuddered, cracks spreading across the ceiling and floor like grotesque spiderwebs, threatening imminent collapse.

And then there was the fire. Black, oily flames erupted, hungrily consuming everything they touched. Thick, acrid smoke billowed through the air, stinging the eyes and making each breath a struggle.

Down below, in the lobby, pandemonium reigned.

"Gods above, what in the seven hells was that?!" an elf shrieked, his voice cracking with fear.

"Are we under attack?!" another screamed, her voice barely audible above the rising din.

"Guards! Guards! We are under attack! Seal the exits!" a more authoritative voice bellowed, though laced with panic.

Elves screamed, their voices raw with terror, as they scrambled for safety, their movements frantic and desperate. They pointed towards the smoke and flames now billowing from the upper floors, their faces pale, their eyes wide with horror.

The guards, their armor gleaming in the flickering light of the emergency spells, tried to restore order, to calm the terrified crowd, but their efforts were futile.

"Stay calm! Everyone stay calm!" one guard shouted, his voice strained.

"Form ranks! Protect the civilians!" another yelled, his orders barely registering amidst the panic.

The elves were utterly terrified. They had never experienced anything like this. Luxor, their sanctuary, their supposedly impenetrable haven, was under attack.

However, as Michael predicted, some of the elves, mostly male and clad in guard's armor, responded differently to the chaos. Instead of fleeing the scene, they surged towards the source of the explosions, towards the thick smoke and angry flames billowing from the fourth floor.

Michael noticed the runes etched into the walls begin to glow, and he felt a sudden chill as a cold breeze swept through the lobby. Snow-like crystals, activated by the Citadel's magical fire suppression system, began to drift down from the ceiling. He ignored the magical snowfall, joining the throng of elves now racing toward the grand staircase, his movements driven and purposeful. He moved swiftly, almost a blur, overtaking the slower, more hesitant elves, his gaze fixed on the smoke-choked corridor above.

"Move, move, move!" a guard barked, his face grim, his voice urgent as he shoved his way through the crowd. "We need to assess the damage! Find any survivors!"

"Oh my Luxor! what just happened?" another elf gasped, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at the smoke pouring from the upper floor.

"It does not matter what happened," a third elf retorted, his voice sharp and commanding. "Just move! We need to get up there! Now!"

"Someone inform the Citadel Captain!" a guard yelled, his voice strained with panic. "And find out whose room that was! We need to account for everyone! Immediately! Escort them to the Citadel Hall. No one leaves until they have been questioned!"

Michael's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm fueled by adrenaline and anticipation. He ascended the stairs, taking two at a time, his movements fluid and powerful. He could feel the heat intensifying now, growing stronger with each step he climbed. The crackle of flames, the groan of stressed metal, the terrified shouts and screams of the elves above assaulted his senses.

Reaching the fourth floor, he found the corridor thick with acrid smoke, the air heavy with the stench of burnt wood and something else, something metallic.

Blood.

He burst into the ruined chamber, the scene before him both familiar and utterly satisfying.

The room was a disaster. The walls were blackened and scorched, riddled with cracks. The once-pulsating blue crystals were shattered, their fragments scattered across the floor like fallen stars. The golden wires hung uselessly from the ceiling, severed and frayed. The red crystal, the backup, remained stubbornly intact, untouched by the destruction, but inactive, its crimson glow extinguished, its energy spent.

The guards who had arrived before him stared at the devastation, their faces pale, their eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

"By the name of Luxor…" one of them whispered, his voice trembling. "What in the hells happened here?"

"Look for survivors!" another guard shouted, his voice hoarse and desperate. "Under the rubble! They might still be trapped!"

However, Michael ignored the clamor, the confusion. He feigned concern, rushing into the smoke-filled room as if to help, to rescue. He spotted Eldoran and Lyra, unconscious, buried beneath a pile of rubble. They were alive. He could sense their heartbeats, faint but steady.

But he ignored them and moved as a blur in the chaos. He reached the red crystal, the source of the spy hub's power, now exposed, vulnerable. He grabbed it, his fingers closing around its smooth, cold surface.

And then he stored it into his System storage as the crystal vanished.

Updat𝓮d fr𝙤m ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com.

But he could not just leave. Not yet. He had a role to play. The concerned citizen and the hero.

He bent down, pushing aside chunks of debris, pretending to help the trapped elves. He lifted a young elf, his body limp, unconscious, and carried him out of the room, his movements swift, sure.

"Out of the way! Make way!" Michael shouted, channeling his inner hero.

Other elves, their faces streaked with soot and blood, followed his example. They pulled their comrades from the rubble, their movements frantic, desperate.

"Is anyone still in there?" a guard shouted, his armor dented, his face grim, over the din.

"I do not know! But we need to get them out! Now!" another yelled back, his voice strained.

A third voice added, panicked, "This place is going to come down! We need to hurry! Move it, you fuckers!"

Another group of guards, their faces masked by soot, worked feverishly to clear a path, tossing aside chunks of fallen ceiling and twisted metal with brute force. One particularly muscular elf, his face contorted with effort, heaved a massive stone slab off a fallen comrade, revealing a young female elf, her robes torn, her face pale and lifeless.

"By the ancestors," the muscular elf cursed, his voice thick with despair as he checked for a pulse. He shook his head sadly.

Nearby, a pair of guards struggled to free an elf whose leg was pinned beneath a heavy beam.

"Heave!" one of them grunted, his muscles straining.

"On three! One... two... THREE!" With a collective surge of effort, they managed to lift the beam just enough for the trapped elf to drag his leg free. He cried out in pain, clutching his mangled limb, blood seeping between his fingers.

"Get him out of here!" one of the rescuers yelled. Another elf quickly fashioned a makeshift splint from a piece of broken furniture, his movements swift and practiced despite the chaos.

From the doorway, a commanding voice boomed over the din.

"Establish a perimeter! No one enters, no one leaves without authorization! Healers, report to the wounded! guards, stabilize the structure, before this whole fucking place collapses!" A heavily armored elf, his insignia denoting a high rank, barked orders, his gaze sweeping across the devastation, his expression grim but determined. More guards arrived, their footsteps heavy and urgent, their faces grim as they surveyed the scene.

Meanwhile, Michael carried the unconscious elf and moved past this figure. Judging by his aura and the deference he commanded from the other guards, the elf was likely the captain of this detachment. He was a formidable presence, even amidst the chaos. He stood tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp, intelligent eyes that missed nothing. His silver armor, though dented and scratched, still gleamed under the flickering torchlight. A long, curved sword hung at his side, its blade etched with runes that pulsed with a faint, blue light. He barked out orders, his voice commanding and authoritative, cutting through the din of the panicked crowd.

Using the chaos to his advantage, Michael slipped past the captain but he could feel the captain's gaze on him, a fleeting moment of scrutiny before the elf's attention was diverted by the unfolding scene. The captain probably thought a human saving an elf was strange, maybe even suspicious. But the captain had bigger fish to fucking fry.

"Damn it," the captain muttered with anger as he surveyed the destruction. He bent down, picking up a shard of glowing crystal, his eyes narrowing as he examined it.

"This… this was not an accident," he growled, turning to one of his subordinates. "Find out who owns this place. And what the fuck they were doing with these."

As Michael, still carrying the unconscious elf, melted into the crowd, he glanced back at the captain, a sliver of respect mixing with his contempt. The elf was sharp and competent. Thus, it was obvious to Michael that the captain had recognized the significance of the crystal shard and he knew this was not just a random explosion.

But it would not matter. By the time they figured it out, Michael would be long gone or so he thought.