Hitman With A Badass System

"We can worry about taking out those sanctimonious bastards later. For now, we need allies. We can't keep hiding in the shadows, relying on Seshat to clean up our messes," Michael said, his voice low and steady.

With a nod to Fayeth, they stepped back through the portal, leaving her to deal with the renovation of the Verdant Sanctuary. Read exclusive adventures at empire

They reappeared in a dark, narrow alleyway, the familiar smells of smoke, metal, and something vaguely unpleasant assaulting their nostrils. They were back in Sagespire, the blacksmithing capital of the realm of the Gods.

The streets were a hive of activity, the clang of hammers against steel echoing through the air. Rows of smithies, their entrances open to the street, lined both sides of the alley, each one a miniature inferno of sparks and glowing metal. Dwarves with their faces grim and arms thick with muscle, hammered away at glowing ingots, shaping them into weapons and armor, their grunts and curses a rhythmic counterpoint to the ringing of the anvils.

Customers, a mix of elves, humans, and halflings, haggled over prices, their voices a mix of eager anticipation and frugal reluctance.

"Fifty gold pieces for that dagger? You're out of your goddamn mind, dwarf! I'll give you twenty. And a slightly used goblin's ear."

"Twenty gold pieces and a goblin's ear? You insult me, elf! This is masterwork steel, forged in the fires of Mount Cinder! Forty gold pieces, and I'll throw in a free sharpening."

Michael and Gaya, their attire a familiar sight in this rough-and-tumble district, passed through the crowds unnoticed. At the end of the street, a tall, imposing building, crafted from polished obsidian, loomed over the surrounding smithies.

The Blacksmith Guild.

The last time Michael had been here it hadn't been pleasant. Rin, that bloodthirsty little psychopath, and her merry band of Xyloth worshippers, had redecorated the place. They'd slaughtered every blacksmith in the guild, leaving a trail of bodies and a lingering stench of blood and fire. Thanks to Michael, Rurik was the only master Blacksmith who survived the massacre.

But now, judging by the steady stream of customers flowing in and out of the Guild's doors it seemed Rurik had rebuilt.

Michael grinned, a hint of anticipation in his eyes. He'd always enjoyed collaborating with Rurik. The dwarf was a master craftsman, his skill with metal unmatched in the the realm of Gods for that matter. If anyone could fix his dented armor, and upgrade Gaya's stealth suit to her godly specifications was Rurik.

And besides, Michael thought with a chuckle, it was always fun to watch Rurik squirm. The dwarf, despite his gruff exterior, his boasts of dwarven resilience and what not, was always intimidated by gods. And Gaya well, Gaya was a whole new level of intimidating.

At that moment, Michael was clad in his usual black ensemble – long coat, turtleneck, trousers, and boots, with his twin swords crossed on his back – and Gaya, wearing a similar outfit, but with a more feminine cut, and the God Slayer crossbow slung casually over her shoulder, strolled down the street with their gazes sweeping over the displays of weapons and armor.

"That's one hell of a crossbow," one of the dwarves whispered, his eyes wide as Gaya walked past.

"Damn, that's a fine piece of work, " another dwarf muttered, his gaze lingering on the intricate carvings on the weapon's stock. "Who's the lucky lady carrying it?"n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Looks like trouble, " a third dwarf grunted, shaking his head.

As they neared the entrance to the Blacksmith Guild, a small, shadowy figure darted out from an alleyway, his movements quick, furtive. He bumped into Michael, his hand reaching for something in Michael's pocket.

"Not so fast, buddy," Michael chuckled, grabbing the halfling's wrist in a vice-like grip.

"Fuck off, you little shit," Gaya growled, twisting the halfling's ear as her crimson eyes narrowed dangerously. "Trying to pickpocket us? You've got balls, I'll give you that. But they're about to become souvenirs."

The halfling, his face pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and indignation, yelped, rubbing his ear.

"Easy there, lady!" he protested. "A guy's just trying to make a living." He wrenched his hand free and darted back into the crowd, disappearing into the throng of shoppers and haggling dwarves.

"Even Seshat, with all her wisdom, can't rehabilitate these little bastards," Michael chuckled, shaking his head.

They continued down the street, the sounds of hammering and haggling growing louder with each step, until they finally reached their destination - the imposing obsidian structure of the Blacksmith Guild. Two tall, stern-faced elven guards, clad in gleaming silver armor, stood sentinel at the entrance, their gazes sweeping over the crowd, ever watchful.

Michael and Gaya joined the queue, blending in with the other customers, their presence… unremarkable. The mortals around them had no idea they were standing beside… gods.

Michael's medallion, combined with Don's blood, effectively masked his divine aura. And Gaya… well, Gaya's godhood was a bit more… obvious. So Michael had… persuaded the System to… tone it down a bit. It had cost him a whopping 200 million Badass Points, but it was worth it. He didn't want to cause a scene, didn't want every mortal in Sagespire bowing and scraping before them. They'd never get anything done.

Besides, most gods didn't exactly travel incognito. They arrived with an entourage of armored angels, their clothes shimmering with celestial energy, their presence announced with fireworks and fanfare. But Michael and Gaya? They preferred a more low-key approach.

They entered the Guild, the cool air of the spacious hall a welcome change from the heat of the forges outside. Glass cases, displaying a variety of weapons and armor, lined the walls, their surfaces gleaming under the bright light of the torches that flickered along the walls. Elven women, their movements graceful and efficient, strolled through the hall, attending to customers, answering questions, and occasionally… flirting with the more… attractive… patrons.

Michael and Gaya approached a marble counter, its surface polished to a mirror sheen, where a young elven woman, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, her eyes sharp and intelligent, sat, a stack of parchments and a quill pen in her hand.

"We'd like to see Rurik," Michael said casually, meeting the receptionist's gaze

The elf looked up, surprised. Master Rurik was the most renowned blacksmith in the realm, his skills legendary, his creations coveted by gods and mortals alike. She studied Michael's face, his ruggedly handsome features, the easy confidence in his eyes, and then glanced at the woman beside him. There was something… unsettling about them. Something different.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, hesitating.

"Tell him John is here to see him," Michael said with a hint of amusement in his voice. "He'll come."

John was the name he decided to use in the realm of the Gods because the name "Ghost", though badass, was becoming a bit too recognizable. He didn't need the extra attention, the whispers, the reputation that followed him like a shadow. Besides, "Ghost" wasn't exactly subtle. And subtlety, in the realm of the Gods, was a valuable commodity.

Recognizing the implications of refusing a request from someone who knew Master Rurik personally, the receptionist wisely decided to cooperate.

"Please, wait here," she said, her voice a hushed whisper, and hurried towards a spiral staircase that led to the upper levels of the Guild, where Master Rurik maintained his workshop, his office, and his personal stash of dwarven ale.

Meanwhile, Rurik was in his office. Which was, as Michael remembered from his last visit, a chaotic mess. Parchments, covered in sketches and diagrams, were scattered across the floor, alongside tools, half-finished weapons, and empty ale mugs. A small anvil, its surface blackened and dented from countless hammer blows, sat in one corner, beside a half-empty barrel of ale.

At the center of the room, a massive mahogany table, its surface scarred and stained, dominated the space. And behind that table, perched on a stool that looked… dangerously close… to collapsing under his weight, sat Rurik.

He was muttering to himself, his thick, bushy beard practically vibrating with frustration.

"Damn it, where the hell am I supposed to get clay? Nimbosia's dried up. The caravans aren't coming. And these idiots keep breaking their molds."

He'd never thought clay would be a problem. It was dirt, basically. You dug it up, mixed it with water, and voila! Clay. But Rainar's death had changed things. No rain meant no good clay. The stuff from Nimbosia, Rainar's domain, had been special, fine-grained, malleable, able to withstand the intense heat of the forge without cracking. It was perfect for creating molds, casting intricate designs and pretty much everything a blacksmith needed clay for.

And without good clay,, the molds broke, the weapons warped and customers got pissed.

He drained another mug of ale, letting out a satisfied sigh as the potent brew warmed his belly.

"Master Rurik, there's… someone here to see you, Master Rurik." The elven receptionist said, gently knocking on the door.

"What is it now? Unless you're here to tell me the rain's back and I can get my hands on some decent fucking clay, I don't want to hear it!" he grumbled, rummaging through a pile of parchments, searching for something.

"I don't have time for visitors. Tell them to come back when I'm less busy."

"He said his name is John. And that you'll want to see him." The elven receptionist's voice, muffled by the thick wooden door, replied hesitantly.

The name John made Rurik choke on his ale, the liquid spraying across the table, soaking the parchments. He nearly fell off his stool, his face turning a rather alarming shade of purple.

John.

The God of Darkness., the one who'd saved his ass from Rin and her bloody massacre that nearly destroyed the guild and the one who'd treated him with respect and friendship, unlike those other arrogant bastards who looked down on mortals as if they were insects. Well, except for Seshat as she was different.

If the God of Darkness was here, it had to be important.

"Give me a minute," he sputtered, wiping the ale from his beard, his mind racing. "Tell him I'm coming."

He scrambled to his feet, righting his overturned stool, trying to impose some semblance of order on his chaotic workspace. He smoothed down his beard, adjusted his leather apron, and took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.

He had a feeling… a good feeling… that this visit could be beneficial. He might even get a chance to impress the God of Darkness again like he had with that God Slayer crossbow.