Chapter 108: The Hungry Street II
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A carriage rolled by too slowly, its driver pretending not to look at anyone. A pair of cloaked figures stood at a corner stall that sold nothing, speaking in murmurs like prayers. Even the stray dogs here did not bark. They watched. They learned.
Sekhmet reached the same warehouse door as yesterday.
The same place.
But the guards were different.
Not the lazy "half-drunk" act from before. Tonight, the men standing there had their backs straight and their hands visible on purpose. Their eyes were too steady. Their breathing too calm. Their posture screamed that someone had warned them.
They recognized him the moment the torchlight hit his face.
One guard’s gaze flicked to Sekhmet’s shoulder.
To Bat Bat.
Then back to Sekhmet again.
No greeting.
No joke.
Just a slight shift of weight, like the man was ready to run or stab depending on which order came first.
Sekhmet did not slow.
He did not bargain.
He simply produced the entrance coin again and placed it into the guard’s palm without ceremony.
Clink.
The guard closed his fist around it immediately.
For a heartbeat, Sekhmet wondered if the guard would block him just to prove power.
But the man stepped aside.
Fast.
Too fast.
Like he wanted Sekhmet to go down as soon as possible.
The door opened with a familiar groan.
Creak...
Warm air rolled out from below. Not warm like comfort. Warm like bodies packed too close and torches burning too long.
Bat Bat’s nose twitched hard.
Her claws tightened slightly on Sekhmet’s coat.
"Same hole," Bat Bat muttered.
Sekhmet’s lips twitched faintly.
"Yes," he replied.
They descended, but Sekhmet kept his senses sharper than yesterday. He did not look around with curiosity this time. He looked around like a man walking into a place that might already be waiting to swallow him.
The underground market’s sound hit him before the full view did.
A heavy hum of voices.
Coins clacking.
A distant argument.
Someone was laughing too loudly.
Someone crying behind a curtain and trying to make it sound like a joke.
The torches seemed brighter tonight, or maybe the crowd was thicker. The air felt heavier, saturated with too many lives pressed together.
And the moment Sekhmet stepped off the last stair—
He felt it.
The eyes.
Not casual glances.
Not curiosity.
Attention.
Focused.
As if his arrival had been announced without words.
Sekhmet did not react outwardly.
He only adjusted his pace slightly and let his gaze drift forward, calm and unbothered.
Bat Bat’s nose twitched again, faster now.
Her ears lifted sharply.
"Many smell," she whispered. "There are many bad smells."
Sekhmet murmured, without looking down.
"Find me the worst," he said.
Bat Bat’s ears lifted, then lowered again, as if she remembered something unpleasant.
Tonight was not like the first time.
Last time, Sekhmet had walked these stone lanes as a visitor. Curiosity had been on his shoulders. Hunger had been in his throat. He had tested the market like a man tapping ice to see if it cracked.
But yesterday’s blood did not vanish.
It stayed.
It stayed in people’s memories. It stayed in gossip. It stayed in fear. It stayed in the bruises and bite marks on the men he had left alive.
It stayed in the underground, like a smell that never truly aired out.
Bat Bat sniffed, then stiffened. Her small wings twitched. Her gaze turned toward the lane ahead, not excited now, but cautious.
"Master," Bat Bat whispered, voice smaller than usual. "Bad smell... know you."
Sekhmet did not answer immediately. His eyes swept the crowd without appearing to sweep. He kept walking at an ordinary pace, like a man who did not care.
But his senses were sharp.
Too many faces looked away too quickly.
Too many shoulders angled to block sightlines.
Too many people suddenly found reasons to stand near exits and corners.
The underground market was loud, but there was a pattern beneath the noise.
A pattern of waiting.
His boots sounded calm on stone, but his mind measured every step.
Bat Bat sniffed again, then leaned forward on his shoulder, like a hunting hound catching a trail.
"There," she said softly.
Sekhmet followed her gaze.
Not two thieves. Not a simple robbery.
It was a cluster of men standing too still, pretending to browse a stall that sold broken blade hilts. Their posture was wrong. Their hands were hidden. Their eyes were focused.
And Sekhmet recognized them.
Not all, but enough.
A man with a swollen cheek that had not healed properly.
A man whose neck still had a faint band of dark bruising, like someone had bitten him and stopped halfway.
A man whose lips looked pale, as if his blood had not fully returned.
They were the ones from before.
They had survived.
And survival had made them hungry for revenge.
Bat Bat’s voice dropped even further.
"Yesterday men," she whispered. "They hate."
Sekhmet’s expression did not change, but something cold settled behind his ribs.
Of course.
He had fed on them. He had humiliated their group. He had left them alive as a warning, as potential ghoul candidates, as options.
But options worked both ways.
He had given them time to breathe.
And breathing gave criminals time to plan.
Sekhmet kept walking anyway. He did not retreat. He did not turn. He did not summon.
Because if he reacted too early, the net would tighten faster.
He needed to see the whole trap. He rounded the next corner. And the trap revealed itself.
A line of men stepped out into the lane ahead, blocking it cleanly. Their feet spread, their shoulders relaxed, the way trained fighters stood when they were confident. On the rooftops of stalls, silhouettes appeared one after another, crouched like carrion birds, watching down. Behind him, the crowd shifted, and suddenly the lane he came from was no longer empty.
It was filled.
Not ten.
Not fourteen.
Not a revenge group with one leader.
This time, it was an organized force.
Bat Bat’s claws tightened into Sekhmet’s coat.