The neon glow of Tokyo's skyline bled into the night like a lover's whispered promise—beautiful, fleeting, and ultimately deceptive. Michael perched on the edge of a skyscraper, his silenced pistol steady in his grip, the city's hum a distant roar below. He'd always loved this view: the chaos of lights mirroring the turmoil in his soul. But tonight, it felt heavier. His target, a corrupt Yakuza boss named Hiroshi Tanaka, paced in the penthouse across the street, oblivious to the reaper watching him.
Michael's thoughts drifted to Layla, his handler—and more than that, his forbidden flame. She'd been with him through a dozen ops, her voice in his earpiece a lifeline in the shadows. "Ghost, you're clear," she'd say, her tone laced with that sultry edge that made his pulse quicken. But love in his line of work? It was a weakness, a betrayal waiting to happen. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the shot. Wind: negligible. Distance: 300 meters. Tanaka lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke that curled like a serpent.
*Now.* The bullet whispered through the air, finding its mark in Tanaka's chest. He crumpled, blood blooming on his silk shirt. Alarms would blare soon, but Michael was already rappelling down, heart steady as a metronome. His earpiece crackled. "Good hit, Ghost. Extraction at the alley—two minutes."
Layla's voice. It stirred something human in him, a crack in his armored detachment. He'd trusted her, let her in past the walls built from orphanage scars and bloody contracts. As he hit the ground, slipping into the shadows, he allowed a rare smile. Maybe after this, they'd disappear together. Retire to some island, leave the killing behind.
But as he reached the alley, headlights pierced the darkness—not the safe SUV, but a black van screeching to a halt. Doors flew open, masked figures spilling out with assault rifles. "Traitor!" one snarled, opening fire.
Bullets ricocheted off dumpsters as Michael dove for cover, his mind racing. *Betrayal.* Layla's doing? The thought hit harder than any slug. He returned fire, dropping two assailants with precise headshots, their bodies thudding wetly on the pavement. The air reeked of gunpowder and rain-slick asphalt, his breaths coming in sharp, controlled bursts.
"Why?" he growled into the earpiece, but static answered. Another round clipped his shoulder, pain blooming hot and fierce. He gritted his teeth—survive first, answers later. Rolling out, he emptied his clip, but they kept coming. *Setup from the start.*
As the world blurred from blood loss, a surreal hum filled the air, vibrating in his bones. The gunfire faded, replaced by an ethereal light enveloping him like a cosmic shroud. Visions assaulted him: Layla's face twisted in regret, orphanage beatings that left him broken, and then... three radiant beings in a void, their forms shimmering like stars.
"He is the one," the first intoned, voice like thunder.
"Too volatile," the second countered, ethereal robes flowing.
"The system will balance him," the third decided, a hand gesturing. "Send him."
Michael's scream echoed as reality tore apart.
When awareness returned, it wasn't to concrete and sirens. Soft earth cradled him, the scent of moss and wildflowers filling his lungs. Birds sang overhead, sunlight dappling through ancient canopy. His body ached, but the gunshot wound was gone—healed? No, different. Smaller hands, frailer frame. He sat up, heart pounding, and a flood of foreign memories crashed in: Mu, an orphan in this backward village, beaten by drunkards, left for dead in the woods after stealing bread. Abuse, hunger, isolation—echoes of his own past, but in a world of swords and sorcery.
"What the hell..." Michael's voice—higher, younger—trailed off as a holographic interface materialized, glowing azure script hovering in the air.
**Badass System Activated. Host: Michael (Ghost). Body Integration: Mu (Deceased).**
**Reward: 100 Badass Points for Transmigration Survival.**
**Current Status: Mortal Realm, Level 1. Cultivation: None Detected.**
**Primary Directive: Earn Badass Points through feats of dominance, cunning, and power. Exchange for enhancements, skills, and revelations.**
**Warning: This world is unforgiving. Adapt or perish.**
Michael stared, waving a hand through the projection. It flickered but held. "A game? Some VR bullshit?" But the details were too vivid—the itch of coarse rags on his skin, the distant howl of beasts, the vulnerability of this scrawny body. His hitman instincts surged: Assess threats, exploit weaknesses. If this was real, the system was his edge.
He tested his limbs—agile, but weak. Mu's memories supplied basics: This was the continent of Elon, where cultivators harnessed "arch energy" to defy gods. Sects ruled, the strong preyed on the weak. *Fitting. I'll climb.*
A rustle in the underbrush snapped him alert. A horned rabbit—Mu's mind labeled it a low-level spirit beast—charged, eyes glowing with feral hunger. Michael's reflexes kicked in; he sidestepped, grabbing a jagged rock. The beast lunged again, and he smashed it down, cracking its skull with a sickening crunch. Blood splattered, warm and sticky, the metallic tang mixing with forest loam.
**Badass Action: Improvised Kill. +50 Badass Points.**
**Experience Gained: 20/100 to Level 2.**
**Hint: Consume core for minor energy boost.**
Panting, Michael knelt, prying a glowing crystal from the corpse. He hesitated—human revulsion at the act—then popped it in his mouth. Warmth spread through him, easing aches, sharpening senses. *Strategic. No room for squeamishness.*
The system updated: **Quest Unlocked: Reach the Nearest Village. Reward: 200 Points, Basic Weapon.**
A minimap appeared, arrow pointing east. Michael stood, wiping blood on his rags. Betrayal stung fresh—Layla's face haunting him—but this new world? It was a fresh slate. "They thought they could end me," he muttered, voice hardening. "But I'm just getting started."
As he trudged through the foliage, leaves crunching underfoot, the cosmic vision replayed: Those beings had chosen him, implanted this system. Why? A grand game? He'd uncover it, turn their scheme against them. For now, survival. Dominance.
But deep down, the hitman wondered: Was love always betrayal? Or could this world offer something real?
The village loomed ahead, smoke rising from chimneys. Unbeknownst to Michael, a pack of wolves shadowed him, drawn by the blood scent—his first true test awaiting.