Hitman With A Badass System

Returning his attention to the young elf, Michael found her captivating. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, but with elves, it was always hard to tell; they aged differently, more slowly. She could be fifty, or five hundred, but damn, she was hot. Her features were sculpted, almost too perfect: high cheekbones, a straight nose, full lips, and eyes that sparkled with an inner fire. Elvens were naturally blessed with beauty but she was beautiful even by elven standards.

"Yeah, look at other chicks while your wife is sitting right here," Gaya muttered, her voice laced with a sarcasm that did not quite mask the annoyance beneath.

"Great move, human."

Michael chuckled, turning towards Gaya, a playful glint in his eyes. "Jealous, are we?" he asked softly.

The orc, watching the exchange, sighed inwardly. He knew this type, this young miss. This was Alyndra, heiress to the Vael'Ndoren fortune, one of the oldest, wealthiest, most influential families in Luxor. Her father, a sniveling, ambitious elf named Aelrindel, was practically the right hand of Archon Valerius, one of Luxor's favored angels. Thus, Alyndra was arrogant and entitled, used to getting whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. And what she wanted, usually, was trouble.

She had acquired a taste for young women, mostly human or half-elf. It was scandalous, even for Luxor, but money talked, and power silenced. The orc had seen her fixate on others before, seen the way she looked at them, like possessions, like things to be acquired, and he did not like it. Not one bit, especially not when her gaze was lingering on a human, a married human. It was a recipe for disaster.

Meanwhile, the elven waitstaff, their movements quick, efficient, and nervous, scurried towards Alyndra, bowing deeply as they approached.

"Young Mistress," one of them began, his voice trembling slightly, "your usual table is ready, if you will follow me."

But Alyndra, her gaze fixed on Michael, shook her head. "I have changed my mind," she announced, her voice sharp and imperious. "I want that table."

She pointed towards a table near the bar, a table with a clear view of him. The table, unfortunately, was occupied by two elves who, judging by their expressions, were not pleased to be disturbed. Alyndra, however, did not seem to care. She simply smiled, a cold, calculating smile, and turned to her guards.

"Pay them," she ordered dismissively. "And remove them."

The guards, their faces stoic and unreadable, approached the two elves, their movements purposeful and intimidating. One of them tossed a golden ring, a space ring, onto the table, the metal clinking against the wood.

"A hundred thousand Luxor coins," he stated, his voice flat and emotionless. "Take it, and leave."

The two elves, their eyes widening in surprise, looked at the ring, then at each other, then at Alyndra. They might have been pissed, offended, and humiliated, but they were not stupid. They knew better than to argue. They scrambled to their feet, snatching the ring from the table, and bolted from the room, their dignity forgotten.

Alyndra, her smile widening, sauntered towards the vacated table, her hips swaying in a deliberate, provocative manner. She sat down, her gaze lingering on Michael. She could imagine it, the feel of his muscles beneath those clothes, the way he would move, the way he would touch her. She licked her lips, her desire a physical thing, burning in her belly.

The orc, sensing an opportunity to intervene, cleared his throat. "Is there somewhere else you would like to be, perhaps?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

"Somewhere more private?"

He knew he could not outright throw them out, not without facing Alyndra's wrath, but maybe, just maybe, he could make them want to leave. If Michael were an elf, the orc would not have bothered, but he was a human, and in a kingdom filled with elves, the orc felt a strange kinship with a human who was also an outsider like him.

Michael, however, simply raised an eyebrow. "We are fine here," he stated casually.

Meanwhile, Alyndra, her gaze fixed on Michael, turned to the waiter who had appeared at her side, his expression nervous and eager to please.

"Bring me what he is having," she ordered, her voice soft and seductive, her finger pointing at Michael's half-empty mug.

The waiter, a young elf with wide eyes and trembling hands, nodded quickly, his gaze darting between Alyndra and Michael. He knew, of course; everyone in Luxor knew about Alyndra's appetites and her preferences, and he definitely did not want to displease her. He practically fled towards the bar, his movements jerky and uncoordinated.

Alyndra, her attention back on Michael, smiled and signaled to one of her guards, a hulking elf with a scar across his left cheek, to approach. The guard leaned down, his ear close to her lips.

"Who is he?" she murmured, her voice a low, seductive purr, her gaze never leaving Michael's face.

The guard, his expression unreadable beneath his helmet, straightened up, his eyes scanning Michael from head to toe. "I do not know, my lady," he replied, his voice flat and unemotional. "I have never seen him before. Judging by his attire, he is not from here. He must be a traveler from another domain."

Alyndra rolled her eyes, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features.

"No shit, idiot," she drawled, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Do not give me excuses. I want to know everything about him, his name, where he is from, what he is doing here. Everything. And I want him here, in my room, tonight."

If this had been before, before Gaya, before the whole mess with the previous Dark Lord, before he had become a god, well, Michael might have considered it. A beautiful woman, a powerful family, an invitation to indulge—it was tempting. He was a man, after all, with needs and desires.

But things were different now. He was married to Gaya, and he was not about to betray her, not for anything, not for anyone. He had principles and codes. He might be the God of Darkness, but he was not a faithless bastard. He would not cheat on his wife. Besides, Gaya would probably castrate him if he as much as looked at another woman the wrong way, and then resurrect him and castrate him all over again. And truth be told, he was not in the mood to test that theory.

After getting his orders from Alyndra, the guard, his movements imposing and intimidating, approached Michael. The orc bartender, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, wisely retreated to the far end of the bar, busying himself with polishing glasses. Michael and Gaya, however, did not react. They simply watched the guard approach, their expressions unreadable in the reflection of a nearby window.

The guard stopped before Michael, his hand clamping down on his shoulder, his grip tight and unyielding.

"State your name," he commanded, his voice rough and gravelly.

"Your business here, and where you are from. Young Mistress Alyndra wishes to know."

Despite the pressure of the guard's hand on his shoulder, and the veiled threat in his words, Michael remained calm.

"Name is John, buddy," he replied, his voice easy and unhurried. "And I am not from anywhere, really. I travel a lot. And as for my business, well, I am here on my honeymoon." He nodded towards Gaya, a sly smile playing on his lips.

The guard, his gaze fixed on Michael, did not respond immediately. He studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed, as if searching for something. But before he could speak, Alyndra intervened. She rose from her table, her movements fluid and graceful, and approached them, her guards flanking her like obedient hounds.

She stopped before Gaya, her gaze sweeping over her, assessing and dismissive. Then, without a word, she tossed a space ring onto the bar counter, the metal clinking against the wood.

"There are two hundred thousand Luxor coins inside," she announced, her voice cold and imperious. "Take it, and leave. Tonight, the human is mine."

And then, as if to emphasize her point, she reached out, her fingers brushing against Michael's jaw, her touch light but possessive.

But when Gaya heard Alyndra's words and saw her touch Michael, something inside her snapped. Unlike Michael, patience was not exactly her strong suit, especially not when some entitled, self-absorbed bitch was offering to buy her husband like he was some common whore. The audacity of the gesture, the disrespect, the sheer fucking nerve of this elf bitch—it was too much.

As a result, gaya clenched the wooden mug so hard that it shattered into pieces. The sound was sharp and explosive and splinters flew in all directions as she tightened her grip on the jagged remains. The remaining wine splattered across the counter, the floor, and her clothes.

Seeing the human woman's reaction, the elf guard nearest to Gaya moved with startling speed. He grabbed her arm, his grip tight, intending to subdue her, to drag her away. But Gaya, fueled by a primal rage, was faster. She twisted the guard's arm, a sickening crack echoing through the suddenly silent tavern as the bone snapped. Then with a swift, brutal movement, she grabbed his head and slammed it against the bar counter. Once. Twice. Thrice. The sickening crunch of bone against wood filled the air.

The other guards hesitated. They had been trained to protect Alyndra, to obey her every command, but this violence was unexpected and unprecedented.

"Fucking hell, she attacked Alyndra's guards," an elf whispered, his voice trembling.

"By the ancestors, did she just do that?" another gasped, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Seven hells, that is a human?!" a third exclaimed, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon.

"She is as good as dead now," a fourth hissed, fear creeping into his voice.

Whispers, gasps, and curses rippled through the tavern. The patrons, their drinks forgotten, stared at Gaya, at the unconscious guard, at the blood pooling on the counter, their eyes wide with disbelief.

The orc bartender, however, simply raised an eyebrow, his gaze impressed. "Well, I will be damned," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Alyndra, however, was amused. A slow smile spread across her face as she watched the chaos unfold.

Before another guard could intervene, Gaya, her fury still burning, slammed the unconscious elf's head against the counter again. His nose shattered, his jaw cracked, and blood splattered across the polished wood.

Gaya, her chest heaving, her eyes blazing, turned to Alyndra, her voice a low, dangerous growl.

"I am his wife," she snarled, each word dripping with venom. "Not his pimp. And you just made a fucking mistake."

But Alyndra, instead of recoiling in fear or throwing a tantrum, simply smiled. "Now after I have seen you in action," she purred, her voice smooth and seductive, her gaze lingering on Michael, then Gaya.

"I find you both tempting. Now I want you both."