Chapter 117: The Seat of the Nest III
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He did not summon bats. He did not raise a weapon. He simply lifted his hand and placed two fingers under the tiger blood man’s chin, tilting it slightly.
The man stiffened.
Sekhmet leaned in. His mouth opened. He bit him hard.
Chomp.
The hall went silent.
Warm blood surged into Sekhmet’s mouth, thick and strong. It carried chaos energy like a heated current. It tasted metallic, animal, and stubborn. It tasted like a man who believed he could survive anything because his body was tougher than rock.
Sekhmet drank. Not gently. Not like a polite sip.
He drank with hunger and control, taking enough to fill the wound in his body and calm the predator inside him.
The man’s body jerked.
"Mmph—!"
His hands clenched. His eyes widened. His knees buckled slightly.
Sekhmet stopped before the man collapsed entirely. He pulled away and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
The man stumbled backward, panting, face pale, blood running down his neck.
Sekhmet turned to the second strong thug.
The man’s face twisted with fear now. His confidence had evaporated like mist under fire. He opened his mouth to speak.
"Please—"
Sekhmet didn’t listen. He bit him too.
Chomp.
Warm blood.
Less animal, more sharp and bitter, like a man who had spent his life bargaining with violence and losing pieces of his soul each time.
Sekhmet drank. The world steadied inside him. His ribs stopped screaming quite as loudly. His bruised muscles loosened.
The aches faded into manageable heat.
His chaos body absorbed the nourishment greedily. He could feel his wounds knitting, not magically instant, but faster than any normal man should heal.
Sekhmet released him before death.
Both men collapsed to their knees, breathing hard, alive but wrecked.
Sekhmet looked at Raka.
"Now you," Sekhmet said.
Raka’s face did not change. But his eyes flickered. He stepped forward as if walking to execution. He stood in front of Sekhmet.
Sekhmet studied him for a moment.
Raka was a chaos rank three. His blood held power. His blood held experience. His blood held violence condensed into discipline.
It would taste different. It would feed Sekhmet differently.
Sekhmet leaned in and bit.
Chomp!
Raka’s blood surged into him like molten iron. It was heavy. It was dense. It carried chaos energy like a storm held in a bottle.
Sekhmet’s entire body reacted. Not just relief. Not just satisfaction.
A sharp, brutal increase in strength, as if his bones remembered what it meant to be hard instead of merely surviving.
Raka’s eyes widened for the briefest moment. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped.
Sekhmet drank. He forced himself to stop. Because if he did not stop, his hunger would demand everything.
He pulled away.
Raka inhaled slowly, shoulders rising and falling, still standing. He was pale around the lips now. But he did not fall. His battle power was too high. His body could withstand the loss.
Sekhmet wiped his mouth again and exhaled.
His injuries had improved. The cracks in his ribs no longer felt like knives. The ache in his spine faded into dull warmth. His breathing steadied.
Then, inside his mind, a soft chime.
A notification that Bat Bat could not see, could not hear, could not understand.
[Ding! System notification: Blood Proficiency has reached 100%. The host may upgrade one skill.]
Sekhmet did not speak the notification aloud. He simply let the information settle. He glanced down at his hands.
They looked steady.
Too steady for a man who had been slammed into stone and nearly broken minutes ago.
The blood was a blessing. The blood was a curse. Both at once, always.
"Not now," Sekhmet told himself.
"Not in a criminal nest.
Not while I am surrounded by fifty-three unstable idiots and a rank three puppet with a leash on his soul and blood.
I will upgrade later."
He stepped back and turned toward the gathered men. His voice became colder.
"You will stop robbing," Sekhmet said.
The thugs blinked. Confusion flashed. Then fear. Because robbing was their life. Their identity. The one skill they had besides dying.
A few murmured quietly, unable to stop themselves.
Thug one: "What—"
Thug two: "How—"
Thug three: "We—"
Raka’s head snapped toward them, eyes sharp.
"Silence," Raka snarled.
The hall froze.
Sekhmet continued, calm but absolute.
"You will work under me," Sekhmet said. "I will provide funds. You will not touch civilians for your own profit. Your job is gathering information. Your job is obedience. Your job is doing what I tell you to do without bringing trouble to me and my house."
Raka’s jaw clenched again. But he nodded.
"Yes, master," Raka said.
Sekhmet’s gaze moved across the thugs.
Some looked relieved. Funds meant survival without risk. Some looked furious. Pride hated leashes. Some looked terrified because they realized this was permanent.
Sekhmet pointed at Raka.
"Your first task," Sekhmet said, "is the Iron House."
The thugs stiffened. The Iron House was not a small name.
Even underground criminals respected the wealth and cruelty of large merchant houses. Not because they admired them.
Because large houses could buy assassins the way common men bought bread.
Sekhmet’s voice stayed steady.
"I want dirt," he said. "Every shady business. Every illegal trade. Every connection to the market. Every bribe. Every murder hidden under clean clothing. I want names, places, times, habits. I want everything."
Raka nodded. "Yes, master," he said.
Sekhmet’s eyes narrowed.
"Destroy them slowly," Sekhmet added. "Not loudly. Not with explosions. With rot. With leaks. With whispers. With business bleeding one coin at a time until they do not realize they are dying until the last breath."
Raka’s expression remained blank, but his eyes flickered with something like grim satisfaction.
"Yes, master," he repeated.
That was when one thug —swollen lip, defiant eyes, the one Sekhmet had noticed earlier— could not keep his mouth shut.
He raised his head slightly and spoke.
"Why should we obey," the man asked, voice shaking with anger rather than fear. "Who are you to order..."