Hitman with a Badass System

As Michael and Gaya continued their discreet surveillance, the older elf finally made a move. He subtly gestured towards a passing waitress, calling her over to his table. He ordered a glass of wine, his voice low and calm, barely audible above the tavern’s muted hum. Meanwhile, the elven woman remained still, her gaze sweeping across the room, seemingly content to simply observe for the moment. When a waitress eventually approached her, inquiring about her order, the woman politely declined.

“I haven’t decided yet,” she said with a gentle smile, her voice soft and melodious. “Please, come back in a few minutes.”

This exchange, however, was frustratingly inconclusive for Michael and Gaya. Neither the older elf nor the woman had yet done anything that could definitively reveal their dominant hand, leaving them both as potential candidates.

But as fate, or perhaps just sheer dumb luck, would have it, the waitress, as she was turning away from the elven woman’s table, stumbled slightly, the tray in her hand tilting precariously. A glass, thankfully empty, tumbled from the tray, clattering onto the floor. The older elf, reacting with surprising speed, bent down and deftly scooped up the fallen glass and tray. And there it was, the tell. He picked up the items predominantly with his right hand, a clear indication of his natural dominance.

With that simple, reflexive act, the older elf was eliminated as a suspect. But this elimination triggered a shocking realization in both Michael and Gaya. If the older elf was not Death, then, by process of elimination, the woman must be. Death was disguised as a woman, a possibility they had dismissed based on Pink’s information, now staring them in the face.

Their gazes snapped back to the woman, now their prime, and only, suspect. They watched her like hawks, scrutinizing every movement, every gesture. And then, they saw it. She was subtly fiddling with a small, ornate candle stand on her table, manipulating it almost unconsciously with her left hand. And, to their further surprise, her gaze kept flickering towards the tavern entrance, as though she was keenly expecting someone’s arrival. The pieces of the puzzle, scattered and confusing moments before, were now snapping together with frightening clarity.

However, before Michael or Gaya could react, could formulate a plan to approach and warn Death, the doors to the Richmen Club swung open once more. This time, a burly man entered, his presence immediately drawing attention, though not for particularly flattering reasons. He was large, with a prominent potbelly that strained against the confines of his gaudy, overly-embroidered robes. He was completely bald, his head gleaming under the tavern’s lights, and he was flanked by two heavily armored guards. To top it all off, the man was drenched in a cloyingly sweet perfume, so strong it almost visibly wafted through the air.

Seeing this ostentatious display, Alyndra snorted derisively.

“Ah,” she muttered with disdain, “the big pig of Golden Barrel Merchants has arrived.”

Gaya, without taking her gaze away from the elven woman, who she still did not fully trust as Death, subtly questioned Alyndra. “Who is he?” she asked, her voice a low murmur, barely audible above the tavern’s ambient noise.

Alyndra rolled her eyes slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features. “That,” she whispered back, her voice laced with disdain, “is Kentan. He is a pig of a leader of the Golden Barrel Merchants. They deal in exotic and rare goods, mostly stolen, if you ask me.”

Michael, his mind racing, instantly connected the dots. If this woman was indeed Death, and she was meeting with this Kentan, a merchant known for dealing in rare and exotic goods, then their meeting must be significant. It could not be a mere coincidence. While his primary objective was to alert Death to Andohr’s impending trap, there was no harm, and potentially a great deal of benefit, in gathering more information. Knowledge, after all, was power, especially in the treacherous game they were playing.

“What kind of goods?” Michael asked Alyndra casually, keeping his voice low and his gaze seemingly unfocused, though his attention was sharply divided between the approaching merchant and the woman at the nearby table.

Alyndra took a delicate sip of her wine, “Ores, creatures, books, spells, weapons… anything, really,” she whispered.

“If it’s rare, if it’s valuable, if it’s potentially dangerous, that pig, Kentan, is the man you want to talk to. Or, more accurately, the man you do not want to talk to.”

Meanwhile, Kentan, the portly merchant, had reached the woman’s table, his guards flanking him like silent, watchful sentinels. He stopped before her, his gaze sweeping over her with a mixture of appraisal and surprise.

“You must be Mariyaan,” Kentan said, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for such a large man, a hint of uncertainty coloring his tone.

“Well, I did not expect a woman.” He looked surprised as fuck.

The woman, suspected by Michael and Gaya to be Death in disguise, simply offered him a serene smile.

“Most do not,” she replied, her voice calm and melodious.

Finally, with a grunt of effort, Kentan lowered his considerable bulk into the chair opposite the woman, the wooden frame creaking ominously under his weight.

“Are you sure you want to talk business here, in the open?” he inquired, his voice a low rumble, glancing around the tavern with a hint of unease. “We could go somewhere more… private. More discreet.”

The woman simply smiled, a serene, enigmatic expression that did not reveal her thoughts.

“Before we do that,” she replied, her voice calm and measured, “I wanted to see you for myself, to assess your… capabilities. Are you the man everyone says you are, Kentan? Can you truly find what I am looking for?”

Kentan chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that shook his ample belly. “Depends on what you’re looking for, my dear,” he responded, his voice oozing with a self-assured confidence.

“If it’s rare, if it’s tangible, if it exists within this realm or even beyond… I can get it for you. For a price, of course. Everything has a price.”

The woman’s smile did not waver. “The price is not a problem,” she stated simply, her voice conveying a sense of limitless resources.

Michael, listening intently with his enhanced hearing, strained to catch the next part of their conversation, the crucial detail of what, exactly, Death was seeking. But before Kentan could inquire about the object of her desire, the ever-present, and at this moment, incredibly inconvenient, waitress approached their table again.

“Can I get your order, sir, madam?” she asked, her voice polite and deferential.

Gaya silently cursed the waitress under her breath, her frustration simmering. This fucking interruption was delaying their chance to gather vital information.

“Bring us your best wine,” Kentan, with a dismissive wave of his hand, addressed the waitress.

“Two glasses. And make it quick.” The woman did not object to the order, simply inclining her head in acknowledgment. Kentan then turned back to the woman, leaning forward slightly.

“Let’s not talk about this here, in the open,” he suggested, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.

“Let’s have our wine, and then we can go somewhere more… private. Where we won’t be overheard.”

Michael, his gaze fixed on the woman, observed her carefully. She seemed to be appraising Kentan, studying him with an almost unnerving intensity. It was not just a casual glance; it was a deliberate, calculated assessment. He could sense that she was not merely interested in his words, but in his manner, in his confidence, in the way he carried himself, in his very body language. Even Michael, with his considerable experience in reading people, could tell that Kentan was not boasting idly. He might look like a bloated, overindulged pig, but he exuded an aura of capability, of someone who had connections, who knew the underworld, who could, indeed, acquire almost anything, for the right price. In simple terms, he looked like a fat fuck who knew what he was talking about.

But Michael and Gaya were running out of time. Michael knew Andohr could strike at any moment, launching his carefully orchestrated trap. He had to alert the woman, to warn her, even though he was not yet absolutely certain of her identity as Death. It was a gamble, a calculated risk, but one he felt compelled to take.

So, Michael decided to act. He casually took a napkin from their table, then pulled out a quill, seemingly from his system storage, and quickly, discreetly, wrote a short, blunt message: “Andohr plans to capture Death.”

Alyndra, ever curious, tried to peek at what he was writing, but Gaya, without missing a beat, lightly knocked her on the head, a playful but firm gesture.

“No peeking,” she chided, her voice a low murmur.

Alyndra, slightly embarrassed, muttered a quick “Sorry,” and rubbed her head, her attention momentarily diverted.

Michael, his message prepared, stood up from the table, feigning a casual stretch. He then began to walk towards the bar counter, moving slowly, deliberately, not directly towards the woman and Kentan’s table, but rather past it, as if simply heading for a refill. He maintained a safe distance, not wanting to arouse suspicion.

As he neared their table, he subtly, almost imperceptibly, “dropped” the napkin, letting it flutter to the floor, landing directly near the woman’s feet. It was a calculated move, designed to appear accidental, yet ensure the message reached its intended recipient.

As though she had sensed the slight disturbance, the woman’s gaze flickered downwards, drawn to the fallen napkin. Her eyes, for the briefest of moments, scanned the hastily scrawled words.

Meanwhile, Kentan, ever observant, noticed the dropped napkin.

“Hey!” he called out to Michael, his voice booming across the tavern.

“You dropped your napkin, buddy.”

Michael, feigning surprise, turned back towards Kentan, offering an apologetic smile.

“Oh, sorry about that,” he said smoothly, retrieving the napkin from the floor with a practiced ease.

Kentan, his attention momentarily diverted, simply rolled his eyes and dismissed Michael with a wave of his hand, turning back to his conversation with the woman. Michael, seemingly unfazed, continued his stroll towards the bar counter.

However, as he walked, he subtly glanced back over his shoulder, watching the woman. And there it was, a flicker, a barely perceptible widening of her eyes, a subtle tightening of her lips – a fleeting, almost imperceptible reaction to the message, a hint of surprise that betrayed her carefully constructed composure. That was all the confirmation he needed.

Before Michael could even reach the bar counter, a subtle, yet unmistakable change occurred. The woman, suspected to be Death, simply closed her eyes for a brief second, a seemingly insignificant gesture that both Michael and Gaya, their senses on high alert, instantly noticed. Even Kentan, despite his self-absorbed nature, registered the odd pause.

“Are you… meditating?” Kentan asked, a frown creasing his brow, his voice tinged with a mixture of confusion and mild annoyance.

The woman opened her eyes, the serene, almost vacant expression replaced by something… sharper, colder, more predatory. A smile, not the gentle, polite one from before, but a calculated, almost cruel curve of her lips, spread across her face. It was the smile of a predator who had just sighted its prey, a chilling expression that sent a shiver down even Kentan’s spine, despite his considerable bulk and supposed worldliness.

“No,” she replied, her voice still soft, but now laced with an undercurrent of steel. “Just… gathering my thoughts. I do not want to be surprised, you see. I prefer to be… prepared.”

But before Kentan could formulate a response to this unsettling shift in demeanor, Michael felt it – a subtle, yet unmistakable distortion in the very fabric of space around him. It was like the air itself was thickening, vibrating with an unseen energy. And then, it happened. A shimmering, golden bubble, a sphere of pure magical energy, materialized around the woman, instantly isolating her from the rest of the tavern.

Michael, his suspicions confirmed, his instincts screaming danger, knew immediately what was happening. Andohr had finally made his move.

“Andohr…” Michael muttered.