Hitman with a Badass System

1266  Face to face with the real orc, not a clone

Nostalgia washed over Michael as he perched in a tree branch, reminiscent of his first deadly encounter in this world with the nagas. Now, three years later, he was back in a similar position, lying in wait, but this time his quarry was Torug and his band of followers, not the serpentine nagas.

Listening intently, he caught the sound of rustling leaves and snapping twigs, signaling the approach of his targets. “Word really travels fast,” Michael murmured to himself, acknowledging how swiftly the rumors he’d seeded had lured Torug into his trap.

Touching the medallion on his chest, he activated his armor. Dark plates materialized and encased him completely, the skull emblem on his chest gleaming ominously with red eyes. Under the shadow of his hooded skull mask, Michael’s gaze was fixed and intense as he observed the group entering the ruins.

Leading the band was a bulky orc, unmistakably Torug, or at least one of his clones, Michael had previously encountered. But something told him that discerning the real Torug from his decoys would be crucial. To ensure he targeted the true enemy, Michael contemplated seeking assistance from the system that had aided him so often in the past, hoping it would provide the insight needed to unmask the real Torug amidst the deceptive clones.

Torug and his cronies, a ragtag band of orc warriors and miscreants, entered the ruins, their eyes scanning the shadows. Torug, massive and menacing, his muscles bulging under his battle-scarred armor, led the group with a palpable aura of anger and vengeance.

“This is the place,” grunted Torug, his voice gravelly with hatred, “where that damn god of darkness is said to roam.”

His cronies, a mix of burly orcs and sly-looking smaller creatures, murmured among themselves, their unease evident in their furtive glances. “Can we really take on a god?” one of the bolder orcs dared to ask, skepticism lacing his tone.

Torug’s reaction was swift and brutal. In a display of raw power and fury, he grabbed the questioning orc and, with a single, powerful squeeze, crushed him, his body going limp in Torug’s iron grasp. Dropping the lifeless form, Torug glared at the rest of his band, his eyes burning with an unhinged resolve.

“If Rainar can be killed,” Torug growled, addressing his stunned followers, “then so can the god of darkness.” His statement was a chilling declaration of intent, silencing any further doubts among his group.

While perched stealthily in the shadows, blending seamlessly with the darkness, Michael focused on Torug below. “Is there a way to pinpoint the real Torug? I don’t want to waste time on another clone.” He whispered to the system.

[Locating the real orc using his energy signature will require 100,000 badass points]. The system responded promptly. “Yes, proceed.” Michael quickly affirmed, slightly taken aback by the cost, which was surprisingly affordable given the track record of system requirments. Then, he watched his pool of badass points decrease, a small price to pay if it meant unmasking the true enemy. After the transaction, the system began its analysis, processing the energy patterns emanating from Torug and his cronies.

Soon, the system provided its insights. [The real Torug must maintain proximity to his clone to sustain its stability. Tracking this clone should lead you directly to the original.]

Michael, now armed with this crucial information, readied himself to follow the clone.

“Tear this place apart. Look for any trace of the god of darkness. He’s been lurking around here, I can feel it.” Torug, with a commanding growl, ordered his henchmen, As the cronies scrambled to obey, overturning rocks and sifting through the debris of the ancient ruins, one of them, a nervy orc with a less imposing stature than Torug, approached him cautiously. “Boss, we’ve been wreaking havoc like bandits for ages now, but there’s been no word from God Agra,” he said, his voice trembling with unease.

Instead of lashing out, Torug paused, reflecting on the question. “Merely attacking merchant carriages and offing nobles trying to reshape Nimbosia in their vision isn’t enough,” he finally responded, his tone serious and contemplative. “Catching Agra’s eye requires more significant acts of chaos and destruction.”

In the dim light of the ruins, Torug’s simmering hatred for the god of darkness was palpable. His eyes, full of loathing and grief, scanned the sky, where dark clouds roiled, yet devoid of the rain that once signified Rainar’s presence.

“We lost everything when Rainar fell,” Torug muttered to his followers, his voice a mix of fury and sorrow. “The god of darkness will pay for what he’s done.”

The cronies around him nodded, their own expressions a mirror of their leader’s turmoil. The sight of the dry, stormy sky seemed to twist the knife of their collective loss, fueling their desire for vengeance.

“This endless drought… it mocks us,” Torug growled, his gaze fixed on the heavens that remained cruelly barren. Hidden in the shadows, Michael suppressed a chuckle as he observed the growing frustration among Torug’s cronies. Their futile search through the ruins yielded nothing but irritation and unexpected encounters with the local wildlife.

“Damn these snakes!” cursed one of the cronies, jumping back as a serpent slithered out from under a nearby rock. “Everywhere you turn in these cursed ruins, something’s waiting to bite you!”

After surveying the area for a few more hours, Torug saw that their efforts were in vain. There was no sign of the god of darkness, no clue to his whereabouts. With a final, sweeping glance at the desolate scene, he issued the order to pull back. As Torug’s followers dispersed, heading back towards their stronghold, Michael knew this was the moment he had been waiting for. It was time to tail Torug, to track him discreetly to his lair, where the real confrontation would take place.

Employing his mastery of shadow teleportation, Michael trailed Torug with ease, maintaining a discreet distance as the orc navigated through the terrain. His journey ended at an unassuming patch of dirt ground at the forest’s edge, where Torug retrieved a rock adorned with glowing runes from his satchel.

With a practiced motion, Torug placed the rock on the ground, activating its hidden mechanisms. To Michael’s observant eyes, the mundane turned miraculous as a doorway appeared, seamlessly integrated into the earth. Torug, with a final glance around, descended into the revealed underground passage.

Michael waited patiently, ensuring Torug was well out of sight before approaching the spot himself. “Override these runes, unlock the door.” Turning to the system for a more technical breach, he commanded.

[The system requires 10,000 badass points to override the runes] The system promptly responded, “Do it,” Michael confirmed without hesitation.

After the system had overridden the runes, a wry smile appeared on Michael’s face. “Open sesame,” he said as the ground door obeyed, creaking open to grant him access. Descending the dark, narrow staircase, Michael entered a spacious hall that exuded an eerie silence. At the center, he saw the imposing figure of Torug, seated in a meditative pose, his back to the entrance, seemingly waiting.

Surveying the room, Michael’s gaze fell upon a series of tubular tanks, each containing what appeared to be identical clones of Torug, submerged in a mysterious fluid. The sight provided a chilling insight into the orc’s capabilities and the extent of his machinations.

As Michael adjusted to the dim light and the hall’s foreboding atmosphere, he calmly cracked his neck, readying himself for the confrontation. It was then that Torug spoke, his voice resonant and eerily composed. “Welcome to my lair, god of darkness.”

The calmness in Torug’s voice caught Michael slightly off guard. It was not the tone of a creature caught unaware or in distress but that of someone who had been anticipating this meeting, perhaps as much as Michael had. Still facing away from Michael, Torug began to speak, his voice laced with a mix of disdain and anger.

“You think I’m just some run-of-the-mill crony you can lure with dumbass traps?” he asked, a rhetorical question hanging in the air. “Hearing about the god of darkness hanging out in these ruins seemed too damn convenient, especially when I’ve been hunting for you.”

He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing. “You offed God Rainar, and a god who can kill another god ain’t gonna leave a trail that easy to follow. So, yeah, I figured it was a trap… for me,”

Despite Torug’s confident revelations, Michael remained unfazed, his smile hinting at both respect and readiness for the ensuing conflict. “Well, I’m surprised,” he conceded, acknowledging Torug’s acumen. “Thought a big ugly shit like you would be dumb, but guess you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”

Michael stretched, cracking his neck again, his body language relaxed yet poised for action. “But figuring out my trap or not, you’re going down. I know you’re the real deal, not some clone,” he stated firmly, locking eyes with the orc.

Torug responded with a devilish chuckle, rising to his full imposing height. As he turned to face Michael, he flicked his wrist, summoning a long trident to his grasp. The ancient hall suddenly came alive with the glow of intricate runes, and a palpable pressure filled the air, a testament to the orc’s preparedness and power.

“I may not be able to kill you,” Torug declared, his voice echoing in the rune-lit chamber, “but I don’t have to. My goal is to draw Agra’s attention.”

His threat was cut abruptly short as a crimson whip lashed out, slicing him in half, his body disintegrating into a cloud of blood mist. Michael watched, taken aback by the sudden turn of events.

Out of the dissipating mist, a figure with four muscular, crimson arms materialized, its presence both ominous and familiar. As the figure emerged, Michael, taken by surprise yet recognizing the entity before him. “Dagon?” Michael uttered in disbelief.

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