Hitman with a Badass System

Almost ten hours later, Vorlag was back in the mess hall, a tankard of ale in his hand, his laughter echoing through the chamber. The mess, the chaos, the overturned tables and spilled food… it was all… normal.

A crowd of Agra worshippers had gathered, their faces painted with the usual grotesque symbols, their eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and… something else. Fear? Reverence? It was hard to tell with these guys. Many of these were new recruits, eager to prove their loyalty to the God of Chaos. They'd heard stories, whispers of Agra's power, his… unpredictability. And they were… fascinated. Terrified, but fascinated.

"So, Captain," one of the younger cultists asked, his voice a mix of awe and apprehension, "what's he… like? Agra, I mean."

"He's… intense," Vorlag chuckled, taking a long swig of ale. "Unpredictable. You never know what he's gonna do next. One minute, he's all charm and smiles, the next… well, let's just say you better hope you're not standing too close."

"Is it true… he can… control chaos itself?" another cultist asked, his eyes wide.

"Control it?" Vorlag snorted. "He is chaos, you idiot. He's the goddamn embodiment of it. He doesn't control it, he… becomes it."

"But… how did he… become the God of Chaos?" a third cultist asked. "I mean… isn't that title… kinda… self-proclaimed?"

The question wasn't unique to these new recruits. It was a doubt shared by many in the realm of the Gods. Gods without domains – without a specific… area of expertise, like War, Healing, Wisdom, Time, or Space – were often viewed as… second-class citizens. They were the gods of… nothing, really. And without a domain, without a reason for mortals to pray to them, to offer them their devotion, their worship energy… they were… powerless.

And power, in the realm of the Gods, was everything. It was what fueled their ascension, what determined their place in the godly hierarchy. Without worshippers, without that steady stream of worship energy, a god couldn't climb the ranks, couldn't gain influence, couldn't be a proper god. They were… irrelevant. And Agra… Agra didn't tolerate irrelevance. He demanded respect. The kind of respect that came with power, with fear, with… worship. He wouldn't accept being a second-class citizen in the divine hierarchy. He would be a god. Whether the others liked it or not.

"Back in the day," Vorlag began, wiping a bit of ale foam from his beard, "Agra… he was a nobody. A god without a domain. He wandered from place to place, like a… cosmic hobo, trying to find his purpose. Now, he was a handsome bastard, I'll give him that. And the mortals well, they loved him. He slept with… pretty much anyone who'd have him. Men, women… didn't matter. He broke hearts wherever he went. Left a trail of satisfied worshippers in his wake."

The cultists around him chuckled, a mixture of awe and vicarious pride in their god's sexual conquests.

"But… no matter how many mortals he… blessed… with his… divine presence," Vorlag continued, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "there was always… something… missing. He wanted… respect. He wanted the mortals to worship him. To look at him the way they looked at Seshat, or Fortuna, or Zorian. With… reverence. With… fear. "

Agra's actions, his… indiscretions, hadn't gone unnoticed by the Pantheon. They saw him as an… embarrassment. A stain on their… divine reputation. Thus, Zorian, the God of Sun, the self-proclaimed leader of the Pantheon, had decided to… intervene. He'd sent his angels to… retrieve Agra. To bring him back into the fold. To make him… behave.

But Agra didn't like being told what to do. One day, Zorian's angels had found him engaged in a rather enthusiastic orgy. And Agra, though less volatile back then, still had a temper. A fiery, unpredictable temper. And when those prissy angels had barged in, interrupting his fun, seen him in all his glory, he'd felt… humiliated.

They wouldn't have dared to interrupt another god's… private time. But Agra? He was just… Agra. The god of… nothing.

And that day, Agra lost his shit. He didn't try to reason with them, didn't even bother to cover himself. He just snapped. He unleashed his power, raw and untamed, and slaughtered them all. The angels, the mortals… everyone who'd been participating in his festivities. He went from horny god to homicidal maniac in the blink of an eye.

"And when the people of Luxor heard the commotion…" Vorlag continued, taking another swig of ale.

"Luxor?" one of the cultists interrupted. "Isn't that… the God of Wealth's domain?"

"Yep," Vorlag confirmed, grinning.

"Shut up, Gork," another cultist said, elbowing his friend in the ribs. "Don't interrupt. We're getting to the good part."

Vorlag chuckled. "So, the Luxor folks, they burst into the room… and they see… blood. Chaos. Bodies everywhere. Screaming, crying… the whole nine yards." He paused, taking another drink. "Now, most gods, especially domainless gods like Agra back then, they would have freaked the fuck out. They would have tried to fix things. Explain themselves. Beg for mercy. But not Agra."

"He liked it. The chaos. The fear. It… filled him up. That emptiness he'd been feeling that yearning for something… it was… satisfied. He wasn't like Xyloth, that murder-loving prick. Agra didn't get off on the killing itself. No, it was the chaos that followed that turned him on. The fear in the mortals' eyes. The screams. The… mayhem. It was intoxicating," Vorlag said taking a slow sip of the ale.

"And that day," Vorlag finished, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper, "Agra realized… he was the God of Chaos. And the rest… as they say… is history."

But as he was basking in the awed silence of his audience, a commotion erupted at the entrance to the mess hall. A figure, clad in the standard-issue black robes and white face paint of Agra's followers, came stumbling into the room, tripping over an overturned table and landing face-first in a puddle of ale and what smelled like piss..

The mess hall erupted in laughter.

"Look at that dumbass!" one of the cultists roared, pointing at the fallen figure. "Can't even… walk straight!"

"He's probably drunker than a skunk on fermented berries!" another cultist chuckled.

"Get up, you clumsy oaf!" a third cultist yelled. "You're embarrassing us!"

Even Vorlag, still perched on the table, couldn't help but grin.

"What the hell's the rush, Gribble?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement. "You running from… your own shadow?"

The cultist, Gribble, picked himself up, ignoring the laughter and jeers, his face pale beneath the white paint. He hurried towards Vorlag, his voice a shaky whisper.

"Captain… there are packages. At the temple entrance. For Agra."

"Packages? Left by who?" Vorlag's brow furrowed.

"The note says 'regards from Ava's worshippers who had enough.' "

The mess hall erupted in laughter again.

"What kind of packages did those tree-hugging pussies leave, Gribble?" one of the cultists yelled. "A bouquet of fucking wildflowers? A strongly worded letter of complaint? A gift-wrapped pile of shit?"

"Maybe it's Ava's… dirty underwear?" another cultist chuckled, his voice laced with crude sarcasm. "Agra always did have a thing for goddesses."

"Or maybe," a third cultist chimed in, "it's a bomb. You know those Ava worshippers, they love to experiment with… organic bombs. Imagine if they sent heads as presents? Heads of their own people, maybe, with their eyes and mouths sewed shut?"

"Well, let's not keep our lord waiting for his presents, shall we?" Vorlag cackled, hopping down from the table. "Let's go see what those tree-hugging pussies left us."

The cultists, their curiosity piqued, followed Vorlag out of the mess hall and towards the temple entrance.

Outside the temple gates, a group of Agra worshippers were gathered around several wooden boxes, poking and prodding them with sticks, their faces a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

"What do you think's inside?" one of them whispered.

"Maybe it's a trap?" another suggested, his eyes wide.

"Don't be such a pussy," a third scoffed. "What are they gonna do? Send us a singing crystal?"

"Maybe it's a bunch of rabid squirrels?" another cultist chuckled.

They scattered as Vorlag approached, their faces a mix of fear and respect.

"What the fuck are you dumbasses waiting for?" he snarled, glaring at the boxes. "Open them!"

"But… Captain," one of the cultists stammered, "what if they explode? Or some kind of… thing jumps out?"

Hearing them, Vorlag let out a harsh laugh.

"You know, for a bunch of brain-dead, shit-for-brains morons, you're surprisingly cautious," Vorlag said, shaking his head in amusement. "Fine. I'll do it myself."

But before he could reach for one of the boxes, a voice, booming and laced with a manic energy, echoed from the sky above.

"Who left me presents?"

Vorlag froze, his hand hovering inches from the nearest box. The other cultists, their faces pale, turned towards the sound, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and… excitement. At that moment, Clad in a purple robe and green hair, a figure descended from the sky, landing lightly on the ground before them. Agra.

"My lord!" the cultists chorused, falling to their knees, their heads bowed in reverence.

"Agra! You have returned!"

"We are ready to serve, my lord!"

But Agra ignored them, his gaze fixed on the wooden boxes, a predatory grin spreading across his painted face.

"Presents?" he purred in a seductive rumble. "For me? How… thoughtful."

Then, with a dramatic flourish, he picked up one of the boxes, its wooden surface smooth and polished, and ripped off the lid. But the moment, he opened the box, his grin faltered, his eyes widening slightly, as he stared at the… contents.

A severed head, its eyes wide and staring, its face frozen in a mask of terror, lay nestled among a bed of wildflowers.

Vorlag, who'd been standing beside Agra, stared at the head with his jaw slack while the other cultists, their gazes fixed on Agra, held their breath, waiting for his reaction.

Then, Agra laughed.

"A note!" he exclaimed, pulling a small, folded piece of parchment from beneath the severed head. "How… civilized."

He cleared his throat and read the note aloud.

"'We are fighting back,'" he said, his voice laced with a mocking amusement. "'And we will never surrender to a pathetic… joker… like Agra.'"

The words, carefully chosen by Michael to ignite Agra's fury, to stoke the flames of his ego, had the desired effect. Michael knew Agra. Knew his insecurities, his desperate need for recognition, his fragile ego that masked a deep-seated inferiority complex. Being called a joker by a bunch of mortals…

It was the ultimate insult and what Agra needed to personally take care of the matters in the forest.

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