Chapter 112: The Hungry Street VI
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It rose like strings being drawn by invisible fingers.
The blood formed a thin blade edge in the air, not yet a sword, just a sharpened line.
Whip — crack!
The blood line struck the thug’s wrist.
Smack!
The thug’s weapon flew.
Clang!
Sekhmet stepped forward and punched the man’s chest.
Thud!
The thug slammed backward into two others, knocking them down like poorly stacked barrels.
Crash!
Bat Bat shot upward, wings flapping hard.
Fwoof!
She landed on a thug’s head.
"Mine!" she shouted, then clawed his head.
The thug froze in horror. "No — NO!"
Bat Bat giggled like a demon child.
"Head is bleeding," she announced, then fluttered off before he could grab her.
Even Sekhmet’s eyes flicked toward her briefly.
Now is not the time, he thought.
But the chaos it created was useful.
Men slipped in the panic, stepping back to avoid the "flying curse."
Someone shouted, "It’s a witch bat!"
Another screamed, "It’s a demon!"
Sekhmet used the fear. He moved between bodies like a shadow with purpose, striking pressure points, cracking ribs with controlled strength, knocking knees sideways.
Thud —Crack— Thud!
He did not kill. He avoided throats. He avoided hearts. He wanted them alive.
Alive meant blood. Alive meant information. Alive meant leverage.
A chaos rank one thug roared and slammed both fists down toward Sekhmet’s shoulders.
Boom!
Sekhmet stepped in instead of stepping back, taking the impact into his arms with his reinforced chaos body.
The floor cracked beneath their feet.
Crk — Crk!
Sekhmet caught the thug’s wrists, twisted, and drove his forehead into the thug’s mouth.
Crack!
Teeth snapped. Blood sprayed.
Sekhmet’s nostrils flared.
Warm.
Fresh.
His throat burned. He forced himself not to bite yet. Not yet. He needed to keep control while the fight still had numbers.
Bat Bat swooped down again, grabbing a thug’s ear.
Chomp!
The thug shrieked.
"Aaah!"
"Bat! Get off!"
Bat Bat yanked, then let go and floated backward smugly, chewing as if it was gum.
"Ear is a snack," she declared.
Sekhmet did not respond. He kept working through them.
Minutes passed. Then more... The fight did not end quickly because there were too many.
It became a grinding, brutal dance — Sekhmet breaking their formation, the bats disrupting their sight, the rare bats striking like knives, dragging men down and forcing them to cover their faces.
The torture rack toppled from a collision.
Clang — Crash!
Knives scattered across the floor.
Shing —Shing— Shing!
The bucket spilled.
Splash!
Dirty water mixed with blood.
The room became a mess of slipping boots and panicked curses.
Thug one: "Hold him!"
Thug two: "Pin him!"
Thug four: "Where is the rope!"
Thug five: "Stop the bats!"
Sekhmet’s coat tore slightly at the shoulder. It wasn’t the nightmare coat. He didn’t wear it today.
Rip!
A knife grazed his arm.
Slice!
Blood ran.
His body reacted immediately.
The hunger surged again, smelling his own blood.
Bat Bat saw the cut.
"Master bleed," she said, alarmed. "Master food for healing?"
Sekhmet’s voice stayed calm.
"No," he replied. "You fight."
Bat Bat nodded violently.
"Bat Bat fight!"
She dove like a tiny missile into a thug’s face.
Smack!
The thug screamed and flailed.
Sekhmet used that opening to knock the man unconscious with a short strike to the temple.
Thud.
He kept counting mentally.
He watched the chaos rank one man especially. They were the only real threat among the swarm. They were stronger, faster, less likely to panic.
But even they started to falter when they realized the bats were endless.
One chaos rank one tried to leap upward to grab a rare bat in mid air.
The rare bat twisted and clawed his face.
Slash!
The man roared and fell, blood pouring from his eye socket.
Sekhmet stepped in and slammed his elbow into the man’s chest.
Thud!
The man collapsed, gasping like a fish thrown onto stone.
Bat Bat floated down and stared at him.
"Fish face," she whispered approvingly.
Sekhmet did not have time to ask why she kept comparing people to fish.
The hour stretched. Not a clean hour. A long hour. A brutal hour. A sweaty hour. A bloody hour.
An hour where Sekhmet’s breath remained controlled, but his hunger never stopped whispering.
By the time the last ten were still standing, the room had become a graveyard of groaning men.
Not dead. But broken. Hands were shaking. Knees were buckling. Eyes were swollen from bat claws and panic.
Sekhmet stood in the center, chest rising and falling steadily.
His bats circled above him like living shadows.
Bat Bat landed on his shoulder again, panting slightly as if proud of herself.
"Master," she whispered, voice excited. "We win."
Sekhmet’s eyes swept the room. "Yes," he replied.
The final thugs tried to retreat.
Sekhmet did not let them. He moved forward, fast, and ended their resistance with efficiency.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Bodies hit the floor.
Silence spread slowly.
Only groans remained.
Only the flutter of wings.
Fwoosh... fwoosh...
Sekhmet exhaled once. His hunger now roared. Because the fight was over.
Because adrenaline faded.
Because now his throat remembered what it wanted.
Warm blood.
Not cold jars.
Not dried fossils.
Warm living blood.
He stepped toward the nearest thug.
The man tried to crawl away.
Scrape... scrape...
Sekhmet grabbed his ankle and pulled him back.
The thug whimpered.
"Please —please— "
Sekhmet did not respond. He bent. His mouth opened. He bit.
Chomp.
Warm blood rushed into his mouth like a river.
The effect hit instantly. It was a relief. It was Power. A sharp clarity.
The burning thirst in his throat eased. His muscles loosened. His mind sharpened as if someone cleaned a dirty mirror inside his skull.
The thug jerked.
"Mmph—!"
Sekhmet held him firmly. He drank enough. Not too much.
He forced himself to stop. He pulled away and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
The thug collapsed, pale, breathing hard, alive.
Sekhmet moved to the next one.
One bite.
Chomp.
Another.
Chomp.
He fed like a disciplined predator, not a monster. Taking, stopping, leaving them alive but weak.