Hitman with a Badass System - Chapter 1445

Then, with a deafening bang, a powerful, invisible explosion ripped through the Richmen Club. It was not the fiery, chaotic blast of Michael's planted explosives in the spy hub; this was something different, something far more contained, yet devastatingly potent. It was a force of pure, concussive energy, originating from the golden bubble surrounding the woman. Tables and chairs, once neatly arranged, were instantly transformed into splintered projectiles, hurtling through the air with deadly force. Patrons, caught completely unaware, were thrown from their seats like ragdolls, their bodies slamming against walls, crashing onto the floor, their screams swallowed by the overwhelming roar of the blast.

Even gods like Michael and Gaya were not spared. Michael, who had been standing near the bar counter, was violently hurled backwards, his body crashing through the polished wood and shattering countless bottles of expensive elven liquor. He landed heavily behind the counter, his senses reeling, the taste of blood and broken glass filling his mouth. The orc bartender, who had moments before been polishing glasses, was slammed against the far wall with bone-jarring force, his body slumping to the floor in an unconscious heap.

Gaya and Alyndra, further from the epicenter of the blast, fared even worse. The concussive wave slammed into them with brutal force, sending them flying through the air like discarded toys. They crashed against the far wall, the impact reverberating through the very structure of the building, and then slumped to the floor, their bodies limp and unresponsive, knocked out cold by the sheer power of the blast.

The Richmen Club, once a picture of opulent tranquility, was instantly transformed into a scene of utter devastation. The plush carpets were littered with broken glass, splintered wood, and the scattered bodies of patrons and staff. The golden containment barrier surrounding the elven woman, however, remained intact.

On the other hand, Kentan, the portly merchant, and his two guards, who had been standing closest to the woman, were also caught in the blast. They were thrown backward with incredible force, their bodies slamming against the floor with sickening thuds. Kentan, his considerable bulk working against him, landed heavily on his back, his potbelly jiggling obscenely as he lay there, unconscious and utterly vulnerable, with his fat belly facing the ceiling like an overturned fucking turtle. His guards fared no better, their armor providing little protection against the raw, concussive force of the magical explosion. They lay sprawled on the floor, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles.

Michael, though dazed and disoriented from the blast, was still conscious, his godly resilience keeping him from succumbing to unconsciousness. Death, encased within the golden energy sphere, was the only other being seemingly unaffected by the concussive wave. Everyone else in the tavern, mortal and god alike, lay scattered and unconscious amidst the wreckage. Michael also felt a subtle, yet unmistakable distortion in the very fabric of space around them, a sensation of being… locked in, contained. The entire tavern, it seemed, was now sealed off from the outside world.

Cautiously, Michael retrieved a large shard of broken glass from the shattered remains of a liquor bottle, carefully positioning it on a shelf behind the bar counter. Using the reflective surface as a makeshift mirror, he could observe the scene unfolding in the tavern without exposing himself to direct view. The glass reflected the image of Death, still trapped within the shimmering golden cage, her expression unreadable. What struck Michael as odd, however, was her complete lack of resistance. She had not moved, had not attempted to break free, had not even tested the strength of her magical prison.

"What the fuck is she planning?" Michael muttered under his breath. He could not fathom why Death, a being of immense power, would allow herself to be so easily contained.

But before Michael could formulate any further theories, or devise a plan of action, another anomaly occurred. A swirling vortex of dark energy, shimmering with an unnatural, sickly green light, materialized in the center of the devastated tavern. From within this vortex, a figure emerged, stepping out of the swirling chaos and into the ruined room. The figure was cloaked in brown robes, their face obscured by a deep hood, making it impossible to discern their features. But Michael did not need to see the newcomer's face to recognize them. A pungent, nauseating stench, a miasma of decay and disease, filled the air, an unmistakable signature that assaulted his senses. He knew that fucking stink.

It was Morbus, the God of Plague, one of the Three Horsemen.

Morbus, his form still shrouded by the concealing brown robes, looked at Death, trapped within the shimmering golden cage. He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that echoed through the devastated tavern.

"So, brother," he said, his voice a low, guttural growl, tinged with amusement, "you're disguised as a woman this time. That's… creepy. Even for you."

Death, however, did not rise to the bait. She remained calm, her expression serene, betraying no hint of fear or concern.

"Morbus," she replied. "You and your brothers seem to have, as usual, gotten yourselves in over your heads."

Morbus simply broke into laughter, a harsh, barking sound that seemed to amplify the stench of decay emanating from him.

"You're in no position to lecture us, Death. You are the one who is captured. And we, my brothers and I, are going to use you to achieve true, unbreakable immortality. No more of this half-assed existence." he retorted with mockery.

"Immortality," Death sighed softly, a sound of weary resignation. "You already possess that, Morbus. What you seek is not true life, but a perversion of it, a twisted, foolish ambition."

Morbus growled, a low, animalistic sound that vibrated through the room, his amusement vanishing, replaced by a simmering rage.

"You don't know what it's like, do you?" he snarled, suppressed fury.

"You don't know what it feels like to be constantly afraid, to be always looking over your fucking shoulder, waiting for that son of a bitch, the God of Darkness, to come out of nowhere and take us out like yesterday's fucking trash!"

Hidden behind the bar counter, Michael stifled a chuckle. It seemed Morbus, the God of Plague, was scared shitless of him. And frankly, it made perfect sense. He had taken out Rainar, the God of Rain, and Agra, the God of Chaos, proving to the entire realm of the Gods that even they were not invulnerable. He had shattered their illusion of invincibility, and the fear he had instilled in them was clearly palpable, even now.

Meanwhile, having heard Morbus's rant, Death simply snickered, a soft, almost pitying sound.

"And what makes you think, Morbus, that using me will somehow save you from your inevitable demise? You misunderstand the very nature of existence."

Morbus, however, merely chuckled darkly, dismissing Death's words with a wave of his hand.

"Stop trying to stall, brother," he said, his voice dripping with condescension.

"Your philosophical musings are wasted on me."

Before Death could reply, another voice, harsh and impatient, echoed through the ruined tavern, cutting through the tense atmosphere like a jagged blade.

"Morbus! Stop fucking playing around and drag him into the portal! Now!"

Morbus's confident smile faltered for a fleeting moment, a flicker of annoyance, perhaps even fear, crossing his features as he recognized the voice. Michael, hidden behind the bar counter, could not identify the speaker, but the tone – commanding, impatient, laced with a barely concealed threat – suggested someone of considerable power, someone Morbus clearly did not want to displease.

He continued to watch the unfolding drama in the reflection of the broken glass, trying to piece together the puzzle. Morbus, visibly composing himself, chuckled again, though this time the sound was forced, lacking his earlier amusement. He seemed to believe Death was securely contained within the golden energy sphere. So, with a renewed air of confidence, his chest puffed out in a display of bravado, he approached the containment cell. He reached out and began to drag the cell, along Death, towards the swirling vortex of the portal, inching closer with each step.

However, just as the cell, with Death seemingly trapped inside, was a mere few inches from the swirling vortex of the portal, a sudden, unexpected shift occurred. Death simply… collapsed. Her body, still disguised as the elven woman, crumpled to the floor of the containment cell, seemingly lifeless. Morbus, momentarily startled, stopped pulling, a frown creasing his brow beneath the concealing hood of his robes.

But before he could react, could even process what had just happened, one of the elven waitresses, previously presumed unconscious amidst the debris, stirred. She slowly rose to her feet and cracked her neck.

Morbus froze, his entire body stiffening in sudden, stark terror. He immediately took a clumsy step backward, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, a stark contrast to his earlier, confident swagger. In his haste and fear, he tripped over a discarded chair, his bulky form crashing to the floor with a loud thud that echoed through the devastated tavern. Because Morbus knew, with a chilling certainty that sent ice through his veins, that the seemingly ordinary waitress was not herself. She was possessed, controlled, animated by the very being he had sought to capture – Death. And that realization scared the living hell out of him.

"No…No…No," Morbus stammered as he crawled backwards.

Observing the scene unfold in the reflection of the broken glass, Michael finally understood the sequence of events, the masterful deception that Death had orchestrated. When the elven woman, seemingly Death's chosen disguise, had closed her eyes for that brief, seemingly insignificant moment earlier, it had not been a sign of fatigue or meditation. It had been the moment of transference. Alerted by Michael's hastily scrawled warning, she had subtly, swiftly, transferred her consciousness, her true essence, into the body of the nearby, unconscious waitress.

The elven woman's form, now lying seemingly lifeless within the golden containment cell, was merely a shell, a decoy containing only a sliver of her awareness, a fraction of her true power. Andohr and Morbus, in their arrogance and haste, had captured nothing but an empty vessel, while Death, in all his terrifying power, now stood free, disguised as a seemingly harmless elven waitress.

And now, Michael knew with a chilling certainty, Morbus, the arrogant, foolish God of Plague, was about to pay a very heavy price for his monumental blunder. He was utterly, hopelessly, and gloriously fucked.