I Have 10,000 SSS Rank Villains In My System Space Chapter 431: Gathering The Army Of Villains

"I won't kill children," he stated, his voice now a deeper, firmer tone, carrying an undeniable weight that signaled the non-negotiable nature of his declaration. His gaze returned to Razeal. "And I won't accept missions that place my people in undue peril."

There was no wavering in his assertion.

No room for compromise. This was his boundary.

Even as an assassin. Even after all that had transpired.

Razeal blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. It wasn't the condition itself that surprised him, but the clarity with which it was articulated, the solid grounding it possessed in something that evidently endured within the man, irrespective of his past actions.

Then,

A smile touched Razeal's lips.

"Oh no, no... I believe you've misunderstood my intent," Razeal clarified, his tone shifting subtly, becoming more open, as if illuminating a crucial point. "I'm not asking you to become a mere instrument of destruction. " He leaned forward slightly, resting an arm on the table with practiced ease. "And I am certainly not requesting that you harm children... Never. As I've said, I am not an inherently evil person." His expression briefly intensified, not with anger, but with unwavering conviction. "You know what? You can even add that as a condition. Absolutely. You will not, under any circumstances, harm children."

"In fact," he added, his voice calm yet underscored by a steely resolve, "if you encounter individuals who do... you have my full permission to deal with them as you see fit."

"Regarding your people," he continued, "I have no intention of exposing them to unnecessary risks." His tone remained level. "You can incorporate that into the agreement as well. No reckless orders that would lead to their pointless demise. No pointless dangers." He tilted his head slightly. "I am in the process of building something. I do not discard my own valuable assets."

There was undeniable logic on display.

Clear and Pragmatic.

With a subtle, fluid movement, he extended his hand once more over the table, as if presenting the final, crucial element.

"So, yes," he affirmed, his voice steady, "incorporate your conditions. Let's refine this contract until it benefits us both." His gaze held the assassin's with unwavering intensity. "It's a fair arrangement."

The assassin regarded him intently, in silence.

Agreement was not immediate. Yet, rejection was also absent.

He placed no faith in Razeal's words concerning justice, peace, or righteousness. Frankly, such ideals held no significance for him at the outset. He was an assassin; morality had never been his compass.

Still... Razeal had consented to his terms without protest.

And that, in itself, was sufficient.

"Alright... then we proceed," the assassin finally conceded, the decision flowing from his lips without further hesitation. Though it had evidently demanded immense internal resolve to reach this point, his gaze remained steady and unwavering as he leaned forward slightly, his focus no longer one of evaluation but of commitment.

"The agreement is straightforward," he continued, his tone calm yet resolute, as if laying down mandates not just for himself but for all who would follow. "You will ensure all my people are safely removed from this location... every single one. And... in return, we shall execute your commands for the next four years. We will not harm children... under any circumstance. Furthermore, you will not dispatch us on missions that exceed our current capabilities or involve unnecessary peril." Each stipulation was articulated with pristine clarity, sequentially enumerated with exacting precision, leaving no latitude for misinterpretation or the insidious intrusion of ambiguity.

Razeal observed him quietly, offering a single nod to each condition presented, his expression composed, tinged with a palpable sense of satisfaction, for this was precisely the order and definition he favored.

Concurrently, the contract parchment suspended between them responded to their spoken words, its surface emitting a faint luminescence as new lines began to etch themselves automatically, each condition weaving itself into the very fabric of the document as if reality itself were endorsing the accord. A subtle glimmer of symbols, of a language transcending ordinary comprehension, traversed the parchment, solidifying each clause into an immutable reality, impervious to later alteration or distortion.

"Excellent," Razeal commented after a brief pause, his tone measured as he surveyed the contract, the terms already finding their definitive place. "So, have we covered everything?" he inquired, redirecting his gaze to the assassin, anticipating the finality of the transaction.

"No," the assassin responded.

Razeal's brows drew together infinitesimally, a subtle crease forming as his attention fixed on the assassin. "What remains?" he asked, a discernible thread of curiosity now interwoven with his otherwise tranquil demeanor.

The assassin maintained his steady gaze, his expression one of complete seriousness.

"Will we be compensated?"

For a fleeting instant...

Razeal's eyes widened slightly.

The question landed with an unexpected impact, not due to its inherent lack of reason, but because of its source. A peak Great Saint, an individual whose standing commanded the deference of entire kingdoms seeking their favor, now inquiring about payment with the earnestness of a novice negotiating terms during an interview. It was... remarkably down-to-earth."Obviously," the assassin continued when Razeal didn't respond immediately, his tone still calm, almost matter-of-fact, "we are not serving you for free. We will be paid for our work." There was no arrogance in that statement, just logic. A simple, undeniable expectation. And that Actually made Razeal almost chuckle. Not out of mockery. But because of the sheer absurdity of the situation when viewed from a broader perspective. Like what does one even pay a Great Saint in the first place? What currency held value for someone at that level? Most rulers would struggle to even approach such a question. There were likely very few, if any, scenarios in existence where someone like this stood across from another and negotiated wages like this. But Razeal didn’t dismiss it. Because despite how unusual it was.. It was reasonable. So instead of overthinking it, he simply asked, "Then tell me... how much do you want?" The assassin didn’t hesitate. "Sufficient," he said, his tone steady, his gaze unwavering. "Enough that none of us face any shortages. Food, clothing, travel, operational expenses... mission requirements... weapons... As also everything needed for our work will be provided by you." He spoke like someone accustomed to leading, someone who thought not only for himself but for an entire group that depended on him. "And all of my squad," he added, his eyes narrowing slightly with emphasis, "every single one of them who will be brought out of this space.. they will sign the same contract with same conditions." Razeal listened without interrupting. And then He just shrugged. Because despite how it might sound to someone else, this wasn’t excessive. Not even close. Compared to what it would normally cost to employ even a single Saint-level operative, this was almost negligible. And for Razeal.. who already understood the scale of resources he had access to.. it was practically nothing. In fact This was efficient. "Alright," he said simply, nodding his head in agreement. "That’s reasonable." And as he spoke, the contract responded again, the new terms inscribing themselves seamlessly into the parchment, binding payment, logistics, and operational support into the agreement as firmly as everything else. But then Razeal’s expression shifted. The ease faded slightly, replaced by something firmer, more defined. "But understand one thing," he said, his tone lowering just a fraction, not aggressive, but undeniably serious now. "Don’t ever disappoint me." The assassin’s gaze sharpened slightly at that. "Because trust me," Razeal continued, his eyes locking onto his with a calm intensity that carried far more weight than raised voices ever could, "I can send you back here... whenever I want." There was no threat in the tone.. just fact. "And know that you are replaceable." The words weren’t cruel. But they were deliberate. A boundary or reminder maybe? "This is part of the agreement as well," he added, his voice steady. Then, after a brief pause, he continued, introducing something even more critical. "And there’s one more thing." The assassin didn’t speak as just silently listening. "You will protect me," Razeal said, his tone now completely clear, leaving no room for interpretation. "At all times." A subtle shift passed through the space as those words settled. "Because if I die," Razeal continued, his gaze unwavering, "This contract ends immediately. And every single one of you... will be sent back here." That Changed the weight of everything. The assassin’s eyes narrowed slightly, the implications forming instantly in his mind. Razeal didn’t rush it. "After the four years," he added, his tone easing just slightly, "you’ll be free regardless. Whether I’m alive or not. That part doesn’t change." His voice remained calm, controlled. "But until then... your survival... depends on mine." "Which means," he finished, "No matter how dangerous the situation is... no matter what happens... you have to protect me." There was no arrogance in the way he said it. No demand for loyalty. Just a statement of how the system worked. As how the contract bound them. "I understand... and fear not... disappointment will be the last thing you receive from us," the assassin said, his voice steady, grounded not in empty assurance but in something far more concrete, a quiet conviction that carried weight. "Your protection... will be under me directly from now on." As he spoke, a sharp glint passed through his eyes, something focused and resolute, the kind of look only someone who had lived through countless battles, betrayals, and survival could carry. And beneath that seriousness, just barely visible, was something elsezz relief. Not loud, not overwhelming, but present.A subtle smile graced his lips, restrained yet undeniably present. He felt a profound happiness, not expressed through outward emotion, but as an internal shift only comprehensible to one who had endured eight centuries of solitude. He had been prepared for the possibility of losing this chance, ready to withdraw if necessary. His demands had already been significantly reduced, not from weakness, but from an understanding that this contract held far greater importance for him than for the one offering it. This was his opportunity, perhaps his only one, and he was acutely aware of it. For ages, he had pondered his people: were they similarly ensnared, enduring the same ceaseless loneliness? Had they clung to their identities, or had they succumbed to the crushing weight of time? Now, not only had this question been answered, but a path to them had been revealed. To liberate them. That alone made everything else inconsequential. Even the word "slave" emblazoned on the contract, even the unbreakable nature of the pact. Four years. Just a mere four years. For someone who had already weathered eight centuries, it was an insignificant span, a mere fragment, a fleeting moment. And if this moment could lead to the return of his people, offer them an escape, then hesitation was no longer an option. He revealed none of this outwardly; his composure remained unblemished. Yet, the decision had been solidified long before his hand began to move. Without further words, he lifted his hand, precisely and calmly bit into his middle finger, drawing just enough blood. Then, without a flicker of doubt, he pressed his finger against the hovering parchment and made his mark. The instant his name materialized, The contract responded. A gentle, effulgent glow emanated from its surface, not blinding, but potent enough to imbue the very air with a tangible difference. The symbols etched upon it illuminated, as if acknowledging the finalized pact, and in the very next moment, the parchment disintegrated into countless specks of light. These luminous particles did not disperse randomly; instead, they divided, half drifting towards Razeal, the other half towards the assassin, moving with discernible intent before merging directly into their chests. Both felt it. A connection. Not physical, not visible, but profoundly real. A binding. "Good," Razeal declared, a faint, contented smile touching his lips as he sensed the contract settling securely, its successful completion confirmed without any trace of flaw or instability. The assassin, no longer merely an operative, nodded in agreement, acknowledging the identical connection and binding. Simultaneously, they both rose from their seats. The shadowy constructs beneath them dissolved soundlessly, vanishing as if they had never been. "Ah, yes," Razeal suddenly recalled, as if an afterthought amid the momentous events. "We neglected introductions." He extended his hand, his demeanor relaxed yet composed. "My name is Razeal." The man before him regarded the offered hand for a fleeting moment before reaching out and grasping it firmly. "Viper," he replied. "Leader of the Black Mamba Assassination Squad." The handshake was brief but solid, signifying not equality, but also not submission. It was an acknowledgment. "An interesting designation," Razeal remarked casually. Viper offered no verbal response beyond a slight nod, his expression returning to its characteristic calm and controlled state. "Very well," Razeal continued, proceeding without delay. "I require the names of all your subordinates. And something tangible—a symbol, a token, anything they would recognize. It will facilitate my approach." He inclined his head slightly. "Perhaps a letter would suffice?" Viper understood at once. Without hesitation, he reached within his attire and produced a small object: a tablet of deepest black, its surface unlike any mundane material. It was neither stone nor metal, possessing a texture akin to snake scales, faintly organic, as if harboring a latent life. Its form mimicked the head of a black mamba, exquisitely detailed and sharply rendered, bearing a single, engraved name. Viper. "Present this," he instructed, handing the tablet over. "They will recognize it." Razeal accepted it, his fingers grazing its surface, immediately sensing its peculiar quality—not entirely solid, not entirely inert. It was... unnervingly strange.