Midtown—Somewhere Near the Mansion
Michael stepped out of the taxi with reluctant movements. Sneaking out of the mansion hadn't been part of the plan. He'd originally intended to stay and focus on building his strength, but the pull of unfinished business was too strong. He needed to confirm that his magic was still intact.
The job before him, however, made him reconsider. His client had tasked him with eliminating a B-Rank oracle, but killing an oracle felt… beneath him. Oracles weren't known for their physical defenses; most relied on divine guidance or premonitions that often failed them.
This wasn't going to help his stats. What Michael needed now was physical training and proper sparring, not this. But the payout—10 million berries—was too tempting to ignore. Money had been tight lately, and he needed every bit of it.
One last job, he told himself.
The building was a dimly lit synagogue. Flickering candle flames lined its corners, casting eerie shadows that danced along the stone walls. The thick, cloying scent of incense choked Michael's senses. He gagged as he stepped further inside, muttering under his breath.
"Let's get this over with."
His target knelt on a straw mat at the altar, chanting strange incantations. The oracle didn't even flinch as Michael entered the room, nor did he turn his gaze from the dimly glowing candles before him. It was as if he'd been expecting this.
Oracles were curious beings—some were conduits of divine will, others were just self-proclaimed prophets of cults with no real power. This one, however, had dared to cross a powerful client, and Michael had been sent to clean up the mess.
"You can pray all you want," Michael said coldly, drawing his knife. "No god is going to save you."
The oracle's chanting slowed. His voice wavered as he spoke, trembling under unseen weight.
"I… I see it," the oracle stuttered. "Your lifeline… it's so disastrous… so short-lived…"
"Spare me the theatrics," Michael snapped. "You believe your gods are omniscient, but you'll still die here."
"But your fate…" The oracle opened his eyes, his gaze fixed and filled with worry. "It clashes with your purpose. You won't be able to avenge her."
Michael froze. His hand gripped the knife tighter.
"What did you say?"
"That young girl," the oracle whispered, his tone almost mournful. "She gave her life for you, but her sacrifice will be wasted. You will die, and her death will mean nothing. Your weakness will—"
The blade plunged into his chest before he could finish. Blood spilled from his lips as his wide eyes met Michael's.
Michael glared at him, his silver eyes glinting dangerously in the flickering candlelight. He looked less like a man and more like a devil.
"Focus on your own destiny," Michael growled, yanking the blade free. The oracle crumpled to the floor in a lifeless heap. "Asshole."
A glowing card materialized in Michael's hand, an animated depiction of the oracle's corpse imprinted on it.
[YOU HAVE EARNED 10,000 CASH FOR ELIMINATING A B-RANKER]
[SKILL: ORACLE. CATEGORY: SPECIAL. RANK: B]
[PROCEED WITH SKILL ABSORPTION?]
[YES | NO]
Michael twirled the card between his fingers as he considered the options. Oracles were tricky. Their powers could be useful, but they could also be maddening if left unchecked.
Still, the ability to see into the future was intriguing. He didn't care much about grand visions or prophecies. He was more curious about smaller things, like whether Lexa's aloof attitude would ever give way to something more… physical.
"Fine, I'll keep it," he muttered.
Michael's unique ability was his Skill Stealer system—a power that allowed him to absorb and store the mana of defeated rankers, rewriting his stats as needed. He could store up to 43 skills in total, but could only equip three at a time, depending on their rank and compatibility.
The math was tedious:
A B-Rank skill could pair with another B-Rank.
A C-Rank skill could form trios.
Mixed ranks required balance, like B + C + C.
Michael didn't care much for the specifics; he just liked having an edge in his battles.
He knelt beside the oracle's body, pulled out a knife, and cut off his middle finger. Wrapping the grisly evidence in a napkin, he stuffed it into his pocket.
"Oh well. I guess I'm done here."
---
The Client's Office
"I told you to stop bringing body parts to my office!" the client hissed, glaring at the bloodstained napkin on his desk. "Do you want to get me arrested?!"
Michael shrugged, unbothered. "I like to provide evidence."
"Fine," the client muttered. "How much do you want?"
"12 million."
"TWELVE?! The standard rate for a B-Rank assassination is 10 million! And it was just an oracle!"
Michael leaned forward, his silver eyes gleaming with danger. "I can take your head as evidence if you prefer."
The client cursed under his breath and tapped at his phone. A moment later, Michael's device pinged with the transfer confirmation.
"Done." The client grumbled. "Now what am I supposed to do with this?" He gestured to the napkin.
Michael smirked. "Got a daughter?"
The client frowned. "Why do you ask."
"Give it to her." Michael said as he turned to leave. "She'll know what to do with it."