Hitman With A Badass System

Chapter 1386  Gift for Agra I

After hearing Qin Jiu's warning, Vorlag simply laughed before swaggering out, leaving Qin Jiu alone with her thoughts.

She looked around the room, her gaze sweeping over the chaotic décor. A king-sized bed, draped in silks of deep purple and black, dominated the space, its pillows scattered, its sheets rumpled. The walls were painted in a swirling, chaotic mix of colors, splashes of blood which was Agra's handiwork stood out against the backdrop of blues, greens, and yellows. It looked more like a deranged artist's canvas than a bedroom and a chaotic mess.

But the chaos within Qin Jiu's own mind was far more… intense. A gnawing unease, a premonition of something had settled over her, a feeling she couldn't quite shake. Like someone or something was coming for her.

Agra… he was unpredictable. A whirlwind of chaotic energy, his moods shifting as quickly as they appeared. At the moment, he was off doing god knows what or wherever the hell he pleased. But ever since his meeting with Andohr, there'd been a noticeable… shift in his behavior. He was more… erratic. More violent. More… chaotic.

He'd ordered his followers to increase their efforts. To spread chaos and terror throughout the realm. Banditry was on the rise, roads were unsafe, and even the most heavily guarded domains of the pacifist gods weren't immune to Agra's influence.

He was coming to the temple in two days. To consecrate his statue, to commune with his followers.

But Qin Jiu had a feeling… a bad feeling… that his visit wouldn't be peaceful. He was going to unleash his chaos. And she she was caught in the middle.

Meanwhile, Vorlag strode into the mess hall, where his troops celebrated.

The hall was… a disaster. Long, wooden tables, laden with food and drink, were overturned, their contents – roasted meats, piles of bread, flagons of ale – scattered across the floor. Ale barrels, their spigots open, oozed a sticky, foaming liquid that mingled with the other fluids that stained the stone floor.

A few of the worshippers, their faces painted with the same grotesque symbols as their leader, were singing and pissing in the corner.

"Hey, Grognak," one of them slurred, his words barely intelligible, "did you see that… elf bitch I… interrogated? She screamed like a… banshee!"

"I bet she tasted… divine," another worshipper chuckled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I'm gonna… sacrifice this virgin to Agra tonight," a third worshipper announced, grabbing a young woman by the hair, yanking her head back. "He loves… the pure ones."

It was a scene of… utter chaos. A far cry from the disciplined, orderly ranks of the Dark Army, who celebrated their victories with a lot less vomit and public urination.

Vorlag instead of shouting and trying to impose some semblance of order on his… troops, simply grinned, a cruel, predatory glint in his eyes. He grabbed a nearby ale mug, its wooden surface stained with something and climbed onto a table, his boots crunching on the discarded food.

He spotted a particularly enthusiastic worshipper, who was currently in the process of throwing a handful of mashed potatoes at another cultist.

With a roar of laughter, Vorlag slammed the mug down on the man's head.

The sound of shattering wood echoed through the hall, followed by a stunned silence.

"Alright, you drunken bastards," Vorlag roared, his voice booming across the hall. "Listen up! That… hunting party… the one we sent to Ava's forest? They haven't reported back."

He grinned, a cruel glint in his bloodshot eyes.

"So, I'm sending out another hunting party. To… find them. If they're dead, I want their bodies brought back. We'll celebrate their incompetence. And if they're still breathing… well, they're gonna wish they weren't. They made Qin Jiu worry. And that is not allowed."

The moment he gave the order, the mess hall erupted in cheers. The worshippers, their earlier revelry momentarily forgotten, scrambled to their feet, their eyes gleaming with a bloodthirsty excitement. Even the one who'd just had his head smashed with an ale mug, his face covered in blood and bits of wood, let out a whoop of delight, eager to join the hunt. Discipline wasn't exactly a… priority… in Agra's army.

They surged towards the armory, a large, chaotic chamber piled high with weapons and armor. Swords of varying shapes and sizes, most of them stolen from fallen enemies or looted from conquered villages, lay scattered across the floor, their blades dulled with age and neglect. Bows and quivers of arrows, their fletchings broken and their tips rusted, were piled haphazardly in corners. Spears, pikes, and axes, some of them still stained with dried blood, leaned against the walls. It wasn't exactly the most… organized… armory, but it served its purpose.

Vorlag watched as his troops armed themselves, a mix of amusement and disgust on his face. He spotted one particularly enthusiastic worshipper trying to grab, everything.

"What in Agra's name do you think you're doing, Gorok?" he roared, slapping the back of the worshipper's head. The man, who was attempting to juggle two spears, a bow and arrow, and a pike, stumbled, dropping most of his weapons with a clang.

"Uh… preparing for battle, Captain?" Gronk stammered, his eyes wide with confusion.

"With… two spears, a bow, and a quiver of arrows?" Vorlag scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Are you planning to… juggle those spears while firing arrows with your ass? Because let's face it, your aim's so bad, you'd probably hit yourself. Pick one, dumbass, and make sure your tiny ass brain can atleast handle one weapon before our enemies die of laughter!"

He shook his head, a mixture of amusement and exasperation on his face. "Agra give me strength," he muttered. "Sometimes, I wonder why I even bother."

Gronk chastened, dropped one of the spears and grabbed a rusty axe instead. Then, twenty of them, a mix of seasoned hunters and eager recruits, strapped their weapons and with excited shouts left the temple grounds, ready to prove their loyalty to Agra.

*****************************

On the other hand, perched high in the branches of a towering oak tree, Michael, Gaya, and Fayeth watched as the hunting party approached. Night had fallen in the Verdant Sanctuary, casting long shadows across the forest floor, the darkness enhancing Michael's already formidable power. He didn't really need the boost, not to deal with these bugs, but he wasn't about to complain.

While Michael remained calm, Gaya was checking their supplies. She'd brought ropes, thick and sturdy, and a few wooden boxes, their surfaces carefully sanded and polished. She tested the tensile strength of the ropes, tugging on them with a satisfied grin. She ran her hand over the smooth wood of the boxes, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow.

"Maybe I should decorate them a bit," she mused, tapping a fingernail against the wood. "A few… skulls? Some shapes drawn using blood? What do you think, human? A bit of… artistic flair never hurt, right?"

Watching Gaya's preparations with a mixture of amusement and apprehension, Fayeth couldn't help but wonder what she'd gotten herself into.

"They're coming," she said, her voice a low whisper, her gaze fixed on the edge of the forest. "I can… feel them."

Michael and Gaya followed her gaze, their eyes scanning the trees, the shadows, the spaces between. A group of figures, twenty or more, emerged from the darkness, their black robes blending with the shadows, their movements cautious, their weapons held at the ready.

"They've got communication crystals," Michael noted as he spotted the small, glowing crystals attached to the cultists' belts. "Smart."

"They're… splitting up," Fayeth said, her brow furrowing. "They're… searching. For us."

"Even better," Michael grinned. "They think they're the hunters. They have no idea… they're the prey."

The irony wasn't lost on Gaya. These Agra worshippers, these self-proclaimed agents of chaos, reveled in the hunt, in the thrill of the kill, in inflicting pain and suffering on others. They thought they were the predators. But they were about to become… the hunted.

Despite their usual chaotic nature, the cultists, moved with a surprising discipline as they entered the forest. Their laughter and boisterous chatter subsided, replaced by a tense silence, their eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. They were… cautious. Unlike the previous group, they didn't underestimate the forest, and didn't dismiss its dangers. They scanned the trees, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of an ambush.

"Damn," Michael muttered, impressed despite himself. "These guys are… trained. Not like those other… idiots."

As they watched, Gaya, sensing an opportunity, sprang into action. With a fluid grace, she leaped from the tree branch, grabbing a higher branch, swinging herself upwards, her movements silent, almost… ethereal. Michael, scooping Fayeth up into his arms, followed suit, his enhanced strength and agility making the jump seem effortless. He landed softly on a thick branch above, his gaze fixed on the cultists below. Unlike Fayeth, he didn't need to hide, not really. The darkness provided by the shadows in the forest was his domain, and he could blend into them, become one with the darkness, with a mere thought. Thus, he activated his Eyes of Doom, unleashing two beams of concentrated dark energy that sliced through the trunk of a nearby tree, carving out a hollow space just large enough for Fayeth to conceal herself within.

"Get in," he said, gesturing towards the makeshift hiding place.

Without a word, Fayeth stepped into the hollow, her body disappearing into the darkness within. Michael reached out, his fingers brushing against the rough bark of the tree. Then he sealed the opening with the wooden piece he carved out, leaving no trace of the hidden chamber.

Then, he and Gaya turned their attention back to the unsuspecting cultists below.

"Alright," Michael murmured, his gaze scanning the group. "Let's… thin the herd a little. We'll take out the easy targets first. The stragglers. The ones who wander off on their own." Nôv(el)B\\jnn

"Sounds good to me," Gaya purred, her eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger. "I've always had a fondness for… stragglers."

They studied the cultists' movements, their patrol patterns, the way they communicated with each other through hand signals and the glowing crystals at their belts.

"See those two?" Michael said, pointing towards a pair of cultists who'd wandered away from the main group, their gazes fixed on the ground, their attention clearly elsewhere. "They're not paying attention. And the others… they can't see them. Blind spot."

"Easy pickings," Gaya chuckled, cracking her knuckles.

"Exactly, " Michael grinned. "We take them out quickly, quietly. Before they can… raise the alarm." He tapped on the tree trunk where Fayeth was hidden.

"Fayeth," he called out, his voice a low whisper. "Stop the healing. In this area. I don't want these bastards… regenerating."

Inside her hidden chamber, Fayeth closed her eyes, focusing her will. She could feel it, the pulse of the forest, the life energy flowing through the trees, the plants, the very air itself. And with a thought, a whispered command, she severed the connection.

Soon, a faint breeze, cold and unsettling, rustled through the leaves as though the forest acknowledged her command.

"Let the hunt begin," Michael said.