Hitman with a Badass System - Chapter 1400

"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?"

"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.

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.