Chapter 101: That Smelled Like Trouble IV
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He spat out a tomato seed as if it had offended his ancestors. His guards moved instantly.
They can’t watch their young master get beaten in public and do nothing. They must earn their pay.
Step —step— step!
They charged toward Sekhmet like wolves released from a leash, one with a fist already coated in dense chaos energy, the other drawing a short blade that flashed under the sun.
Sekhmet’s eyes sharpened.
He activated his Blood Eye without speaking.
His vision shifted. The world gained quiet labels.
Information appeared.
[Name: Iron Guard #1
Race: Human
Chaos Rank: 1
Overall Battle Power: 10,800]
[Name: Iron Guard #2
Race: Beastkin (Wolf blood).
Chaos Rank: 1
Overall Battle Power: 10,200]
Sekhmet’s gaze slid to Dickon.
[Name: Dickon Iron.
Race: Human.
Overall Battle Power: 9,000]
Not Chaos Rank one yet.
Sekhmet’s lips curled faintly.
"Lower than me," he thought. "And still he acts like a god."
The first guard attacked.
Boom!
A fist swung toward Sekhmet’s face, air cracking from the force. It was a trained strike — fast, heavy, meant to break bone and end the fight instantly.
Sekhmet stepped aside with minimal movement, his body slipping like a shadow. The fist crashed through empty air, carrying the guard forward.
The second guard slashed.
Slash!
The blade cut toward Sekhmet’s ribs, aiming to draw blood and force panic.
Sekhmet tilted his torso just enough. The blade missed by a hair’s width, slicing only fabric. His coat fluttered.
People gasped.
"Oh!"
"He is fast!"
"His movement is clean!"
Auri’s eyes narrowed. She did not move yet. She waited for Sekhmet’s command. She was a blade in a sheath.
Sekhmet did not want blood spilled in the street. Not here. Not today. He wanted humiliation, not murder. He wanted a message that would grow legs and run through the entire city by nightfall.
He raised his hand slightly.
Blood Control.
The blood on his body was minimal, but the city itself provided enough small traces — scraped knuckles from laborers, butcher stalls, raw meat vendors, tiny cuts from careless merchants. Blood residue lived in the air like invisible dust.
Sekhmet pulled it together.
A thin line of blood formed in the air, barely visible, trembling like a spider thread.
The guard lunged again.
Sekhmet snapped his wrist.
Whip — crack!
The blood line struck the guard’s forearm like a whip.
Smack!
The guard’s arm jolted. His grip loosened.
The blade clattered to the ground.
Clang!
The sound echoed louder than it should have, because silence followed it for half a breath — everyone realizing this was not a normal street scuffle.
The crowd reacted instantly.
Onlooker one: "A blood user!"
Onlooker two: "Blood Control!"
Onlooker three: "That is not normal chaos shaping!"
Onlooker four: "He did not even draw a weapon!"
Sekhmet stepped forward and delivered a short punch to the guard’s ribs.
Thud!
Not a killing blow.
A lesson.
The guard staggered back, choking, eyes wide as pain flooded his lungs. He did not expect a merchant heir to hit like a trained fighter.
The second guard roared and charged.
Sekhmet moved like a shadow.
He grabbed the guard’s collar and twisted, using the guard’s momentum against him.
Wham!
The guard hit the ground hard. Dust burst upward.
Auri finally moved.
She stepped forward calmly and placed one foot near the guard’s neck — not crushing, not killing, just close enough that the guard felt the truth of it.
Her voice remained soft.
"Remain still," she said.
The guard froze.
He could feel death under her shoe.
Dickon stood up fully now, face twisted, cabbage leaf still hanging from his hair. His expensive sleeve was stained red with tomato juice. It looked like the street itself had slapped him.
"You," he hissed at Sekhmet. "You dare."
Sekhmet walked toward him slowly.
The street parted instinctively. People backed away, not from fear of death, but from fear of being caught in something bigger than their pay grade.
Sekhmet stopped in front of Dickon.
Dickon’s eyes flicked toward his guards, both down. His pride trembled. His voice tried to remain sharp.
"You think you can touch Iron House and live," Dickon said.
Sekhmet leaned slightly closer, voice low enough that only Dickon heard clearly.
"I lived through purgatory," Sekhmet said. "You live through rumors."
Dickon’s face twitched.
Sekhmet straightened and spoke louder so the street could hear.
"Do not touch me again," Sekhmet said. "Do not block my path. And do not spread your filth near Dawn House."
Dickon’s jaw clenched.
"You will regret this," Dickon spat.
Sekhmet’s eyes became colder.
He lifted his hand and flicked two fingers.
The thin blood line snapped again.
Smack!
It hit Dickon’s cheek lightly —more insult than injury— leaving a red streak across his face like a mark of disgrace.
The crowd exploded in reaction.
"OHHHH!"
Onlooker one: "Did he just slap him with blood!"
Onlooker two:"That is disrespectful!"
Onlooker three: "Dawn House is back!"
Onlooker four: "That slap was very funny!"
Somebody laughed too loudly. "Ha Ha Ha!"
Somebody else immediately shushed them, because laughing at Iron House was brave only until Iron House remembered your name.
Dickon froze, face trembling. His hands balled into fists. But he did not move.
He could feel it now.
Sekhmet was not the boy he used to provoke for entertainment.
Sekhmet turned away calmly as if the fight was not worth his time.
Auri lifted her foot from the guard’s neck.
Both guards scrambled up, humiliated, breathing hard, eyes burning with hatred but unable to attack again.
Sekhmet walked away.
The vendor cried again behind them.
"My cabbages!"
Someone tossed the vendor a few chaos stones in sympathy, as if paying for the privilege of witnessing history.
Someone muttered, "Iron House will pay for vegetables now," and the street swallowed the sentence with nervous laughter.
Sekhmet did not look back.
Auri followed him silently, eyes scanning the crowd for threats, her presence like a quiet shadow stitched to his side.
A few moments later...