Hitman With A Badass System

Chapter 1392  The Chaos Spell

He didn't get any experience points for killing a replica. But he didn't mind. He'd be collecting a hefty sum when he took down the original. n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

The real Agra, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and respect took a hasty step back.

"Get him!" he shrieked, gesturing towards Michael as the other replicas, their grins widening, swarmed the God of Darkness, their daggers flashing in the moonlight.

Seeing an opportunity, Agra raised his arms towards the sky, his laughter echoing through the forest, a chilling sound that made the very air crackle with chaotic energy.

From his outstretched hands, a plume of purple smoke erupted, swirling and coalescing into… screams. Not just any screams. These were the screams of Agra's victims, their voices amplified, distorted, a chorus of pain and terror that echoed through the trees, their faces twisting and swirling within the purple smoke, their pleas for mercy a haunting counterpoint to Agra's manic laughter.

The very ground beneath Agra's feet seemed to wither. The lush green grass turned brown, then black, crumbling into dust. The trees, their leaves once vibrant and full of life, drooped, their branches twisting into gnarled, skeletal shapes. The air itself felt heavy, oppressive, charged with a malevolent energy.

On the other hand, Fayeth, hidden in her hollow within the tree in the garden where the pond of tranquility was, clutched her head, her body trembling. The screams, the chaotic energy they carried, were invasive. They wormed their way into her mind, twisting her thoughts, and making her senses reel. Even Michael, his mind shielded by his helmet felt a momentary… disorientation, a flicker of unease.

This was the power of a god. Raw, untamed, and utterly terrifying.

He wanted to ask the system to cancel the spell's effects, but he needed those Badass Points. He couldn't afford to waste them every time Agra decided to cast a spell. He would need them later, to mask his presence from the Pantheon, to escape them when the need arises. No, the only way to stop this symphony of suffering was to take down Agra himself. And thanks to his earlier investment, he could still see the real Agra, amidst his chaotic entourage of replicas.

"Time to shut you up," Michael growled, unleashing a wave of Frostbite.

The air around him crackled, the temperature plummeting as a wave of absolute zero washed over the replicas, their manic grins freezing in place as they were encased in tombs of ice. The screams, the chaotic energy that had filled the air, momentarily subsided, the forest sighing in relief as Ava's healing magic, though suppressed, pulsed beneath the surface.

Michael, seizing the opportunity, dashed towards the real Agra, who was still maintaining the spell, his arms outstretched, his face contorted in a mask of concentration.

But as Michael closed the distance, the screams returned, louder, more intense, their voices clawing at his mind, trying to tear him apart from the inside. He felt a strange… pull, a draining sensation, as if his very life force was being… siphoned away. Any lesser god would have faltered, their focus shattered, their senses overwhelmed. But Michael's mental fortitude, honed by years of training and controlling his emotions held firm. He gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain, the disorientation, his gaze fixed on Agra.

Seeing Michael's approach, Agra's eyes wide with a mix of fear and disbelief, he broke the spell and turned to flee. But he hadn't accounted for… the Death Range. Still shrouded in the impenetrable darkness of his own making, Michael simply… teleported and appeared directly in front of Agra. Without wasting any time, Michael unleashed a punch—a single, devastating blow fueled by the power of a god, aimed directly at Agra's jaw.

The blow, when it landed, was… devastating.

Agra's body, propelled by the sheer force of Michael's punch, flew backwards, ploughing through the undergrowth, snapping trees, carving a deep furrow in the earth. He landed with a sickening thud, his body a broken, twisted mess, his laughter replaced by a choked gasp of pain.

Meanwhile, Agra's followers were getting restless at the edge of the forest. They'd been waiting for what felt like hours for their god to return with the promised entertainment… now long overdue.

"What the hell's taking him so long?" one of the cultists grumbled, shifting impatiently.

"Yeah," another chimed in. "Did that Fayeth bitch… kill him or something?"

"Don't be stupid, Gork," a third cultist scoffed. "Agra's a god. That little angel's probably… begging for mercy by now."

Even Vorlag, who'd been trying to maintain a semblance of authority, was starting to feel uneasy. He had seen Agra's power firsthand. And the fact that he hadn't emerged from the forest, victorious and dragging Fayeth's lifeless body behind him was concerning.

"Maybe she's good in bed and he is fucking her brains out?" he muttered, more to himself than to the others.

Gaya, perched on a tree branch overlooking the group, a small, black remote with a single, red button clutched in her hand, grinned.

"Time to… light the fuse," she purred, her finger hovering over the button.

She could feel it, the ripples of power emanating from the forest, the clash of divine energies that sent tremors through the very air itself. Michael and Agra were fighting. And judging by that sudden, earth-shattering boom that echoed through the trees… someone was getting their ass kicked.

The cultists, too, felt the tremor, their conversations dying in their throats as they exchanged uneasy glances.

"What the hell was that?" one of them asked, his voice a nervous whisper.

"Sounded like… thunder," another muttered, glancing towards the forest, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his belt.

At that moment, Gaya pressed the button. And the moment she pressed the button, all hell broke loose. The ground beneath the cultists' feet erupted, a series of explosions ripping through their ranks, sending bodies flying, showering the area in blood and gore. The mines Michael had planted, triggered by Gaya's remote detonator, had done their work.

The scene was… chaotic. Horrifying. Limbs, severed and still twitching, lay scattered across the ground. Torsos, ripped open and spewing blood, tumbled through the air. Heads, their eyes wide with shock and disbelief, landed with sickening thuds on the blood-soaked earth.

But before they could react, before they could even process the carnage that had just unfolded, a new wave of… unpleasantness… washed over them. A series of popping sounds echoed through the forest, followed by the hiss of escaping gas. A thick, grayish cloud, its edges swirling and undulating like a living thing, began to spread through the trees, its stench acrid, pungent, making their eyes water, their lungs burn.

"Ambush!" Vorlag roared, his voice laced with panic. He slammed his staff into the ground, a surge of celestial energy erupting outwards, forming a shimmering, translucent barrier that protected him and a handful of others from the encroaching gas.

But those who weren't quick enough, those who inhaled the noxious fumes, began to… change. Their eyes widened, their faces paling, their bodies trembling as a wave of… terror… washed over them. They clutched at their throats, gasping for breath, their screams echoing through the forest, a chorus of pure, unadulterated fear.

It wasn't just fear toxin. Michael, ever the pragmatist, had added a little something… extra to the mix. A potent knockout gas, designed to… well, knock the fuck out of anyone who inhaled it.

One by one, the cultists succumbed, their bodies slumping to the ground, their screams dying in their throats.

"Scatter!" Vorlag shouted, his voice barely audible over the screams. "Defensive formations! Now!"

The remaining cultists, their faces a mix of terror and confusion, scrambled to obey. Some summoned shields, shimmering discs of energy that deflected the worst of the gas. Others conjured barriers, walls of fire and ice that momentarily held back the encroaching cloud. And a few, desperate to escape, turned and ran, their torches scattering, their black robes billowing behind them.

"Fucking idiots!" Gaya roared, watching from the trees as a group of cultists, fleeing blindly, stumbled into another of Michael's traps – a pit concealed beneath a layer of leaves and branches, its bottom lined with sharpened wooden stakes. "Are you seriously trying to run while high on chaos juice? Fucking dumbasses,"

They screamed as they fell, their bodies impaled on the stakes, their blood splattering the forest floor, a gruesome counterpoint to the delicate wildflowers that bloomed around them.

"Come out and fight, you cowards!" Vorlag roared, his voice laced with fury. "Show yourselves! Face me like… men!"

Gaya, perched high in the branches of a nearby tree, chuckled softly. "I'm not a man, you dumbfuck," she muttered under her breath. "And you're about to be… extra dead." She wasn't ready for a direct confrontation, not yet. She was still too weak in this realm, her powers a mere shadow of what they'd been in the mortal realm. But she could still manipulate and more than happy to play the role of… pest control.

Then, she leaped from branch to branch and spotted a group of three cultists, their backs turned, heading towards… a particularly nasty surprise Michael had prepared. They were just a few steps away from triggering another one of his landmines.

Gaya raised the God Slayer crossbow, a cruel smile twisting her lips.

"Time for a little… fireworks," she purred, nocking an explosive arrow, its tip glowing with a faint, green light. She aimed carefully, took a deep breath, and released the bolt.

The arrow soared through the air, a silent, deadly projectile, and struck the shimmering barrier, its impact sending out a ripple of energy that made the cultists stumble backward. Their shield held, but the force of the blast knocked them off balance, their feet scrambling for purchase on the uneven ground.

And as they stumbled, they stepped… right where Gaya wanted them to.

The ground beneath their feet erupted, not with the clichéd click and hiss of a Hollywood landmine which was just movie bullshit. Landmines, real landmines, didn't give you… warnings. They would just explode the moment one stepped on, just like the land mines the worshippers stepped on did.

The three cultists, caught in the blast, didn't even have time to scream. Their bodies, ripped apart by the force of the explosion, were flung outwards, landing in a gruesome tangle of limbs and viscera, their blood splattering across the ground.

Deep within the forest, Agra, still reeling from Michael's earlier attack, pushed himself to his feet.

"You think you can… you think you can hurt me, you little… "

He didn't get to finish his sentence when two beams of dark energy, sharp and precise, shot out from the shadows, striking him in the chest. He roared in pain and surprise, as his flesh sizzled and smoked, the smell of burnt skin filling the air.

He was a god, yes. And those dark beams, powerful as they were, couldn't kill him. But they could… hurt.

And he realized, with a sudden, chilling certainty, that the God of Darkness wasn't just trying to… defeat him. He was… toying with him. Making him suffer.

And strangely… a part of Agra, a deep, twisted part of his being, liked it. The pain, the chaos, and the sheer intensity of the moment fueled him. It made him feel… alive.

But he was not going to roll over and die. No, he had more aces up his sleeves and decided to take the chaos to the next level.