Hitman With A Badass System

1379  Meeting Qin Jiu

"Transference of Consciousness," Michael whispered. He focused his will, his gaze locking onto one of the black-robed figures patrolling the perimeter of Agra's temple.

The world around him seemed to shift. Blur. And then he was there.

He saw through the cultist's eyes, felt the rough fabric of the robe against his skin, and smelled the stench of blood and incense that permeated the air. It was disorienting. Overwhelming. But also exhilarating.

He was in the cultist's mind, experiencing the world through his senses, controlling his movements.

He walked along the perimeter wall, his gaze scanning the activity below. He saw slaves, their bodies emaciated, their faces etched with despair, hauling massive blocks of stone, their chains clinking a mournful rhythm against the cracked earth. He saw Agra's worshippers, their eyes gleaming with manic glee, laughing and jeering as they cracked whips, urging the slaves to work faster, harder.

"Did you see that old man? He begged for mercy! Cried like a little bitch!" one cultist cackled, spitting on the ground. "Agra will be pleased. He loves it when they break."

"I flayed that elf girl alive," another cultist boasted, his voice a low growl. "She screamed for hours. It was beautiful."

Michael, listening to their conversations, felt a surge of disgust. These creatures they were monsters. Twisted, sadistic

He watched as a group of new slaves, their eyes wide with terror, were herded into the temple grounds, their chains clanking. He saw other slaves, their bodies broken, their spirits crushed, being dragged away by the cultists, their lifeless limbs trailing through the dust.

"Worthless trash," one of the cultists muttered, tossing a corpse over the edge of a cliff, the body tumbling down to splash into the murky waters below. "Agra has no use for weaklings."

It was enough to make Michael sick.

"These bastards," Michael growled, his anger simmering but he continued to walk, taking in the details of the temple's layout, its defenses.

"Okay, so we've got three layers of wards," he murmured, his gaze tracing the faint shimmer of celestial energy that surrounded the temple grounds.

"Patrol routes… predictable. They change every hour, two guards per shift. Main entrance… heavily guarded. But there's a… weak spot. That ventilation shaft on the east side…"

He continued his patrol, his mind working, piecing together the information, building a map of the temple's defenses, weaknesses, and vulnerabilities. As he patrolled the area, he paused momentarily and looked at the cluster of runes etched into the base of one of the towers.

"Those runes… they're interesting. Some kind of spatial distortion," he murmured, studying the intricate patterns, the way they pulsed with a faint, ethereal energy. "Teleportation, maybe? Typical."

But as he was lost in his observations, a voice, harsh and grating, jolted him back to reality.

"Hey! You! What in Agra's name are you doing?!"

Michael froze, his body stiffening instinctively. He turned, forcing a casual slouch into his shoulders, to see two more figures approaching, their black robes billowing in the wind, their faces hidden beneath grotesque masks.

"You're supposed to be at your post, watching those slaves," one of them growled, his voice a low rumble. "What are you doing out here, sniffing around the runes?"

He'd encountered plenty of unforeseen complications during his assassin days on Earth. He was good at thinking on his feet, at adapting to changing circumstances and lying.

"Just… checking on things," he said, forcing a bored tone into his voice. "Heard a few of those… fuckers talking about how these runes weren't… perfect. Figured I'd take a look."

The two cultists exchanged glances, their eyes narrowing behind their masks.

"What did you do to those… dogs?" one of them asked, his voice a menacing growl.

"Whipped them, obviously," Michael said with a shrug. "Agra wants this temple built on a foundation of pain. They weren't working hard enough."

The cultists stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter, their voices echoing through the night. They clapped each other on the back, their masked faces contorted in grotesque grins.

"Good work, brother!" one of them said, slapping Michael on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Agra will be pleased. Those runes were designed by Lady Qin Jiu herself. They're perfect. Nothing gets in nothing gets out. Now get back to your post, before Agra decides to flay you alive for slacking off."

"Yes, brother," Michael said in a gruff voice. Then he started to walk back towards the post where he'd… borrowed this body. But as he walked, his gaze was drawn to a specific spot on the temple's exterior.

The ventilation shaft.

It was located on the east side of the temple, high above the ground, near the edge of a cliff that dropped off sharply into the churning waters of the corrupted sea below. The shaft itself was a narrow, metal-grated opening, barely large enough for a man to squeeze through. And below it, there was nothing. No ledge, no scaffolding, and no safety net. Just a sheer drop into the churning abyss.

It wasn't the most obvious entry point. But it was there. And for Michael, who'd made a career out of exploiting weaknesses, finding those hidden cracks in even the most formidable defenses… it was an opportunity.

He continued his patrol, forcing himself to stay focused, to blend in, to act normal. Back at his post, he released his control over the cultist's body, the connection severing with a faint, mental pop.

"Did I… fall asleep?" the cultist mumbled, his eyes blinking open, his head lolling back against the wall.

Michael, back in his own body, chuckled softly. It seemed the Transference of Consciousness spell had a… side effect, a temporary blackout for the host.

"Time for round two," he murmured, his gaze shifting to another cultist, this one heading towards the temple entrance, his black robes billowing behind him.

He cast the spell again, the familiar sensation of merging washing over him, and a moment later, he was back in control, walking through the massive, iron-wrought gates of the temple.

"Construction's moving along nicely, brother," the cultist beside him said, gesturing towards the rising walls of the temple. "Agra's pleased. He's sent out more… hunters. To find those rats who are still hiding in the forest. The ones who worship Ava,"

"We'll find them," Michael growled, forcing a sneer onto the cultist's face. "And when we do… they'll learn to… respect Agra."

He stepped through the temple entrance and took in the details of the temple's interior. It was a vast, cavernous space, the air thick with the scent of incense and… something… metallic. Blood. The walls were rough-hewn stone, bare and unadorned. The only source of light came from a few flickering torches, casting long, dancing shadows across the floor. And in the center of the chamber, a massive statue of Agra dominated the space.

It was a grotesque depiction, capturing the God of Chaos in all his… glory. His face was painted with that same white powder the cultists wore, his eyes highlighted with streaks of black that made them seem even wilder, even more unhinged.

There were offerings at the statue's feet – dark, wilting flowers, smoking incense sticks, a bowl filled with what looked suspiciously like… eyeballs.

A group of cultists, their faces hidden beneath their hoods, knelt before the statue, chanting in a low, rhythmic drone, their voices a disturbing counterpoint to the crackling of the torches.

The temple was spacious, its high ceiling lost in the shadows. And a wide, stone staircase, flanked by statues of creatures Michael couldn't quite identify, led upwards towards somewhere, Michael wasn't sure about except he had a feeling that he would find out soon enough.

But Michael's focus wasn't on the grotesqueries surrounding him. It was on a name. A name that had echoed in his mind since those cultists had mentioned it outside.

Qin Jiu.

The architect of the prophecy. The one who'd branded him a villain, a monster, before he'd even been born. The founder of Mazeroth and the mastermind behind Skyhall. She was the reason his family had been torn apart, the reason he'd grown up as an orphan on earth. Thus, his blood boiled at the mere mention of her name. But he forced himself to remain calm, to keep his anger in check. He was playing a role now, wearing a mask, both literally and figuratively.

He had to be… smart. Patient.

But despite his hatred for Qin Jiu, he couldn't deny her talent. She'd been a six-star runemaster back in the mortal realm, one of the most powerful runemasters in existence. And if she was the one who'd designed the runes protecting this temple.

It meant she was still alive. And in cahoots with Agra.

He needed to know more. He needed to understand their connection. What was she doing here? What role was she playing in Agra's grand scheme?

But before he could dwell on it any further, the cultist beside him nudged him sharply. n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Come on, brother, " he hissed. "It's time."

Michael, still lost in his thoughts, frowned. "Time for…?"

"For the prayer, you idiot," the cultist growled. "Get down on your knees. And show some goddamn respect. Agra doesn't like distractions."

He knelt, lowering his head, his gaze fixed on the rough stone floor. The other cultists, who'd been chanting in a low drone, fell silent, their bodies bowing even lower, their foreheads pressing against the ground.

"Lady Qin Jiu," they all chorused in unison, their voices a mixture of reverence and fear.

Michael, his curiosity piqued, risked a glance towards the staircase.

A pair of feet, clad in delicate, silk slippers, appeared at the top of the stairs. They were followed by… her.

Qin Jiu.

The architect of his misery.

She descended the stairs slowly, and gracefully, her movements a stark contrast to the chaotic energy that pulsed within the temple walls. She was wearing a deep purple kimono, its fabric shimmering with intricate, embroidered designs. Her long, black hair, streaked with strands of the same vibrant purple as her robe, was pulled back into an elegant bun, held in place by a silver hairpin that glinted in the torchlight. She looked like she'd stepped out of a Japanese period drama, a vision of serene beauty amidst the ugliness.

The cultists, their heads still bowed, remained silent, their bodies trembling slightly as she approached. Michael, forced to follow their lead, kept his gaze lowered, his jaw clenched and his hands curled into fists within the folds of his robe.

But her voice, when she spoke, was surprisingly gentle.

"You may rise," she said, and the word echoed through the chamber.

The cultists, as one, raised their heads, their gazes fixed on Qin Jiu with a mixture of awe and fear. Michael, risking another glance, saw her standing before the statue of Agra. He wanted to take her out to make her pay for everything she'd done. But he held back. He needed information. He needed to understand why she was here, what her connection to Agra was, and what role she was playing in this madness.

"Your prayers have been answered," she said, her voice calm, and melodic. "God Agra has heard you. He will descend. In two days. He will grace you with his presence."