Chapter 116: The Seat of the Nest II
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His movements were efficient, but each motion carried tension — as if part of him wanted to rip his own hands off for obeying, and another part of him had already accepted the leash wrapped around his blood.
Auri watched him closely, expression unreadable.
Sekhmet waited until the hall fell into a stable silence.
Only then did he speak.
His voice was calm.
Not loud.
Calm was worse than loud in a place like this, because calm meant control.
"How many," Sekhmet asked, "are you?"
Raka answered immediately.
"Fifty-three," he said. "Including me."
Sekhmet’s gaze sharpened slightly.
"Only fifty-three," he repeated.
Raka’s mouth tightened, as if he disliked admitting weakness in front of men who used to worship his strength.
"We had more," Raka said. "Over a hundred."
Sekhmet leaned back slightly in the stone seat.
"Where did they go," he asked.
The thugs shifted uneasily.
A few glanced at each other.
Some looked down.
Raka’s jaw tightened further.
"They left," he said.
Sekhmet’s tone remained steady.
"Why," he asked.
Raka’s eyes flickered as he spoke, remembering things he likely did not enjoy remembering.
"We are criminals," Raka said. "Thugs. Robbers. We take from those who can afford to lose. We punish those who deserve it. We do not sell poison to children. We do not cut down civilians for entertainment."
A few of the men nodded subtly, as if clinging to that as the last shred of pride they still owned.
Raka continued, voice rougher now.
"Some of them became bored," he said. "They wanted more blood. They wanted easy money. They started killing anyone who looked weak. They started selling illegal drugs. Not small things. Not quiet things. The kind that ruins bodies and turns people into walking hunger."
His lips curled with disgust.
"I tried to stop them," Raka said. "They laughed at me."
The thugs’ faces tightened, remembering.
Raka’s fist clenched once.
"A chaos rank two left with thirty-plus people," he said. "And the rest I kicked out. Or I broke them until they ran."
Sekhmet listened without visible reaction.
He did not care about Raka’s morality.
Not because he admired killing.
Because he had learned something in purgatory that cities liked to forget.
Every place had predators.
Some wore armor.
Some wore smiles.
Some wore law.
It was not his job to clean the entire city. He had just returned. He had a business to save, enemies to handle, power to build. If the city guards could not handle criminals, that was the city guards’ shame.
But it was useful information.
Because it meant Raka’s group was smaller than it could have been.
It meant Raka’s group had fractures.
It meant there were more criminals out there — another gang, another faction, another pressure point.
Sekhmet nodded slowly.
"So there are no more members in your group," Sekhmet said. "This is it."
"Yes," Raka replied instantly.
Sekhmet’s mind moved.
"Fifty-three bodies.
Fifty-three food sources.
Fifty-three potential ghouls.
Fifty-three eyes and ears in a city full of secrets."
He did not allow his expression to change, but something cold and practical settled in his chest.
He had not planned to build an underworld faction.
He had planned to hunt and feed quietly.
But Null did not reward quiet forever. Null rewarded preparation. Null rewarded leverage. Null rewarded those who built foundations that could survive pressure.
Sekhmet looked down at the thugs again.
They still did not understand.
They still believed this was a temporary nightmare. That Raka would snap out of it. That some hidden trick would break.
They did not realize that Sekhmet did not need Raka’s heart.
He needed his blood.
Sekhmet asked, "Did you bring any of your people into my city streets?"
Raka shook his head once.
"No," he said. "We do not bring underground problems into the city openly. The association would punish us if we caused trouble that spilled above."
Sekhmet nodded.
That rule mattered. It meant there were boundaries. It meant the underground market association had teeth.
Which meant this place, as lawless as it felt, still belonged to someone.
And Sekhmet was not yet interested in fighting the association.
Not until he understood them.
Bat Bat yawned on his shoulder.
Then she whispered, half asleep already, "Master talk too much."
Sekhmet ignored her.
His gaze returned to Raka.
"Are there any other threats in this hideout," Sekhmet asked.
Raka’s voice remained steady.
"No," he said. "You broke them."
Sekhmet’s eyes flicked briefly across the hall, observing injuries, observing fear, observing who stared too long.
He saw one man with a swollen lip staring at him with too much defiance.
The man’s eyes had the look of someone who hated uncertainty more than pain.
That kind of man was dangerous.
Because fear did not control him. Pride did.
Sekhmet stored that face in his mind without reacting.
Then he spoke calmly.
"I have fed on most of you," Sekhmet said. "Not enough to kill. Enough to remind you that your blood belongs to your body only if I allow it."
Several men shuddered. One man swallowed hard.
Raka’s hands twitched once, as if resisting the urge to step forward and apologize on Sekhmet’s behalf for them even existing.
Sekhmet continued, tone unchanged.
"I have not fed on Raka," he said. " and the two strongest."
He looked at Raka.
"Bring them," Sekhmet ordered.
Raka turned immediately.
His eyes landed on the two almost rank two men who had followed him earlier. Both were injured, but not broken. Both stood stiffly, trying to hide fear behind anger.
Raka’s voice hardened.
"Forward," he snapped.
The two hesitated. It was a brief hesitation.
But Raka noticed. His eyes narrowed.
The men stepped forward quickly, like dogs realizing the leash had become a whip.
They approached the raised seat and stopped a few steps away.
One of them —the tiger blood— glared at Sekhmet. He did not speak. But his eyes said enough.
Sekhmet stood up from the stone seat slowly.
The hall tensed.
He stepped down from the platform, moving closer until he stood in front of the two men.