Hitman With A Badass System

Chapter 1389  The Battle between gods is about to begin

Agra tossed the note aside, his grin widening. "Oh, this is just… delicious," he purred, rubbing his hands together gleefully. "Looks like someone wants to… play."

He reached for another box, ripping the lid off with a flourish. This one contained a severed hand, its middle finger extended in a gesture of… defiance. Another note lay beneath it, stained with the same crimson blood as the first.

Agra chuckled, but this time, there was no amusement in his eyes. Just… cold fury.

"'Fayeth is here,'" he read, his voice a low growl. "'You cannot touch us anymore. We're taking back the Verdant Sanctuary.'"

The name… Fayeth… it struck a chord. Andohr had warned him about her. Ava's angel. The God of Darkness's… friend.

He'd dismissed it at the time, chalked it up to Andohr's paranoia, his obsession with the Dark Lord. But now…

"Look!" one of the worshippers shouted, pointing towards the edge of the forest. "There! Someone's coming!"

They all turned, their gazes fixed on the figure emerging from the trees. It was one of their own, clad in the familiar black robes, his face painted with the symbols of Agra's cult. But he was… limping and stumbling. His robes were torn, his face streaked with blood.

He collapsed a few feet from the temple gates, his body convulsing, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Well, well, well," Agra chuckled, his eyes gleaming with a manic energy. "Looks like someone had a… rough day at the office. What happened, you useless sack of shit? Did a goddamn squirrel attack you?"

"Vorlag," he barked, turning to his captain, "wake this idiot up. And find out… who sent us these… lovely gifts."

Vorlag, secretly relieved to have an excuse to get away from Agra's… unpredictable temper, hurried towards the fallen cultist. He'd seen Agra in… moods like this before. And he didn't want to be the… focus of his… attention.

He kicked the cultist in the ribs, hard.

The man groaned, his eyes fluttering open. He looked… like he'd been dragged through a meat grinder… twice. His robes were torn to shreds, his face was a mask of blood and bruises, and one arm was twisted at an unnatural angle. He blinked, his gaze unfocused, his mind clearly still… elsewhere.

"Speak!" Vorlag snarled, grabbing the man by the throat, and lifting him off the ground. "What happened in the forest? Who… attacked you?"

The cultist, his mind still foggy, his body screaming in protest, struggled to remember. He vaguely recalled… a woman. Tall, beautiful, with eyes that burned like… ice. She'd slapped him. Repeatedly. Kicked him. Hard. In the… butt, literally. He hadn't seen how his comrades had died, only heard their screams, their cries for… mercy. And then… she'd spoken.

"Fayeth," he'd whispered, his voice barely audible. "She… she said… she's coming for Agra."

What the cultist didn't know, what none of them knew, was that the woman who had beaten him to a pulp was not Fayeth. Instead, it was Gaya who played the role of fayeth in Michael's carefully crafted plan. It was the perfect… finishing touch. If Agra had any doubts about the… gifts, about the message they were meant to convey, this… taunt… this challenge from a woman… it would seal the deal.

Michael knew how these power-hungry assholes operated. Gods, despite their supposed wisdom and power, were easily manipulated when their egos were involved. They could see through the most intricate plots, the most devious traps… But their egos… their egos were their biggest weakness. And when someone poked at their pride, questioned their power, challenged their authority…, they became dumber than a sack of hammers.

"She said… if Agra has any… balls between his legs… he should… face her himself. In the forest. Instead of hiding behind… mortals. Like a… fucking coward."

And that was it. Agra snapped.

He didn't think, didn't strategize, didn't even consider the possibility that this might be… a trap. All he could see were the faces of his followers, their eyes fixed on him, questioning, doubting. His carefully constructed persona, the fear he'd cultivated, the respect he'd demanded… it was all crumbling around him.

Someone had dared to send him body parts. Had dared to call him a joker. Had dared to question his… manhood.

"That fucking bitch!" he roared, his eyes blazing with a manic fury. He stomped on the cultist's head, the force of the blow crushing the man's skull like a eggshell. Blood and bone splattered across the ground, painting a gruesome tableau of chaos and violence.

The other worshippers, momentarily stunned by the sudden outburst, quickly recovered. Some, their faces pale with fear, took a step back, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. Others, their eyes gleaming with a sick excitement, grinned, eager to witness their god's… power. They lived for this. For the chaos. For the violence. For the sheer, unadulterated madness of it all.

Agra, his face contorted in a mask of rage, began to stomp on the corpse, again and again, his laughter echoing through the night, a harsh, discordant sound that sent shivers down the spines of even his most hardened followers.

"You think you can mock me, you bitch?!" he shrieked, each word punctuated by a sickening crunch of bone. "You think you can challenge me? I am Agra! The God of fucking Chaos! I'll rip your guts out and feed them to the dogs! I'll flay your skin and wear it as a goddamn trophy! I'll…" He trailed off, his laughter turning into a guttural growl, his gaze sweeping across the faces of his followers.

"I'll show you… what happens to those who… disrespect… chaos!"

"Now," he snarled, turning towards his followers, his eyes blazing with a manic energy, "grab your fucking torches! We're going hunting! We're gonna burn that goddamn forest to the ground! And that bitch Fayeth… I'm gonna rip her apart! Limb by limb!"

The cultists, their fear momentarily forgotten, erupted in cheers.

"For Agra!" they roared.

"Death to the Ava worshippers!"

"Burn the forest!" n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Let chaos reign!"

They'd forgotten about their fallen comrade, the one who'd been crushed to death for simply relaying the message. Intead, they were too caught up in the excitement of the hunt, the promise of violence, the thrill of… chaos.

Agra, blinded by his rage, his ego bruised, had no idea he was walking into a trap. And Fayeth… Fayeth wasn't the only one waiting for him in the forest.

With shouts of glee and bloodthirsty anticipation, they grabbed torches from the walls of the temple. Then, they followed Agra as chaotic group in black robes with manic laughter, eager to unleash their fury upon the world.

Agra could have teleported. Flown. But he wanted to… make an entrance. He wanted to… savor the moment. He wanted to show his followers, and that… bitch Fayeth, that he wasn't afraid. That he was the God of Chaos, and he answered to… no one.

"Vorlag!" he barked, gesturing towards the wooden boxes that held the… gifts. "Bring those… trophies! I want that little bitch to… admire our handiwork. Before we… return the favor."

Vorlag, his face pale, his stomach churning, hurried to obey, dragging the boxes behind him as Agra, hopping and dancing like a demented jester, led his followers towards the forest.

Anyone watching could tell… this wasn't going to end well.

Meanwhile, deep within the forest, Michael was preparing.

He knew, of course, that there wasn't a trap in existence that could harm a god. Not really. But Agra wasn't coming alone. He was bringing an army. A chaotic, undisciplined rabble, sure, but still… numbers. And they were armed. And they had torches. And they were planning to… burn the forest to the ground.

"Not on my goddamn watch," Michael muttered, his eyes hardening.

He moved with a speed that defied comprehension, a blur of motion as he darted through the trees, using his Lightning Dash spell and Shadow Teleportation to cover vast distances in the blink of an eye. He dug pits, concealed them with leaves and branches. He planted mines, small, metal spheres that hummed with runes. He scattered gas bombs, glass vials filled with a concoction that would knockout mortals.

He wasn't just preparing for a fight. He was setting a stage and creating a narrative.

Agra, in his arrogance, would assume these traps were the work of… Fayeth. Of the Ava worshippers. He'd never suspect a god would resort to such mundane tactics.

And that… that was exactly what Michael wanted.

He wasn't particularly worried about Agra himself. The Chaos God, powerful as he was, was still only a Greater God, a Level 3 on the godly hierarchy. Michael, having ascended to Prime God level after absorbing Don's blood, had him outmatched. He could take Agra in a straight fight, no problem.

But there were… other considerations.

The Pantheon. And Raphael.

The medallion, combined with the lingering effects of Don's blood, would mask his energy signature, make it harder for them to… pinpoint his location. But a battle between gods… that was a different story. It was like a cosmic fireworks display, a surge of celestial energy that would ripple through the realm of the Gods, alerting anyone who was… paying attention.

They would sense the fight, even if they couldn't see it directly.

It was a risk. A calculated risk. But Michael was willing to take it. He needed to kill Agra. To complete Gaya's quest, to unlock her godhood, to… well, to have her fighting by his side, at her full potential, when the real shit hit the fan. He wasn't going to face Andohr, the other gods, and those goddamn Omegas, with one hand tied behind his back. He needed Gaya. He needed her power.

Soon, Michael and Gaya rejoined Fayeth, who was waiting patiently by the pond, her gaze fixed on the approaching cultists.

"Ready?" Gaya asked with a predatory gleam in her eyes. "What's the plan?"

Michael grinned, his gaze sweeping across the forest, his mind already mapping out the battlefield, the locations of his traps, the escape routes, the… kill zone.

"You… make sure those… fuckers… trigger the traps. And try not to… burn the forest down. I'll… take care of Agra."