Chapter 133: Contract Market XI
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Mira’s eyes softened a fraction. That last line mattered. Not because Sekhmet was a saint. But because a man who bothered to include it was not completely rotten.
The clerk lifted the silver knife.
"Blood signature or ink signature," he asked.
Mira answered first.
"Ink."
Sekhmet’s lips curved faintly.
"Blood," he said.
The reason Sekhmet chose blood for the same reason a veteran chooses a lock that cannot be picked. Ink is clean, polite, and socially acceptable, but in Null it is also negotiable in all the worst ways.
Blood signature is a proof of intent in a way ink is not. You cannot sign in blood without feeling it. Even one drop forces a deliberate moment: a cut, a sting, a choice. That makes it harder for anyone to later say, I did not understand, or I was tricked, because the contract authority treats blood as a higher tier of consent. The contract does not only record a name; it records a living imprint.
For Sekhmet specifically, blood does something else: it anchors responsibility to him, not to paper. If the contract ever becomes contested, his blood mark ties the obligation to his identity and power, making it harder for rivals to twist the agreement or claim the contract holder is ’uncertain.’ It also discourages internal corruption. A clerk might gamble with ink. A clerk thinks twice when the contract recognizes the holder through blood and the consequences can bite back.
Most importantly, Sekhmet is building a household where protection is not a promise, it is enforcement. Blood signature tells Mira something ink cannot: he is putting his own body into the contract, meaning he cannot pretend it was just business if she is wronged. In Null, that is not romance. That is the strongest kind of guarantee.
Mira looked at him, confused for a heartbeat. Then she remembered what city rumors whispered and decided confusion was unhealthy.
The clerk did not react. The Contract Market had seen everything.
He offered the knife to Sekhmet.
Sekhmet pricked his thumb lightly.
A single drop of blood formed.
He pressed it to the seal line.
The drop sank into the scroll like thirsty soil drinking rain.
The runes flared once, then calmed.
Mira took the quill. Her hand did not shake.
She wrote her name.
The moment the final letter finished, the suspended metal ring above the pedestal hummed louder.
A thin thread of light dropped from it and touched the scroll.
The paper pulsed.
Then a faint sigil appeared on Mira’s inner wrist — small and clean, like a stamp of invisible ink that only gods could see.
The clerk nodded.
"Bonded Retainer Contract sealed," he announced. "Candidate is now bound. Contract Holder is now responsible."
Mira stepped back off the platform.
She did not smile.
But her shoulders loosened slightly, as if the world had stopped pressing quite so hard.
The clerk rolled up the first scroll and handed it to an assistant, who placed it into a locked case.
"Copies are stored in the Contract Market archive," the clerk stated. "Tampering is... discouraged."
The guard near the door let his palm rune glow a little brighter, as if to demonstrate what "discouraged" meant here.
Then the clerk turned to the second scroll.
His smile became thinner.
Because this one was heavier.
"Concubine Contract," the clerk announced. "Twin Offering. Candidates: Vera and Vela. Condition: full debt settlement prior to sealing. Debt total: three million chaos stones."
The assistants produced a crystal ledger and placed it on the pedestal beside the scroll.
Numbers shimmered within it, alive like trapped light.
The clerk looked at Sekhmet.
"Debt settlement is paid to creditors through the Contract Market," he said. "A processing fee applies."
Sekhmet’s voice stayed flat.
"How much."
The clerk answered quickly.
"Two percent."
Auri’s eyes narrowed.
Two percent of three million was not a fee. It was a small mansion.
Sekhmet did not argue.
He simply reached into his storage ring.
Hundreds of stacks of chaos stone bags appeared on the bench beside him with a soft thud that made a few nearby spectators glance over.
Sekhmet did not use Void Land to pay for a reason that had nothing to do with convenience and everything to do with survival. In Null, the moment you reveal a secret that cannot be explained by normal wealth, you do not simply gain curiosity. You gain greedy eyes.
Before leaving Dawn House that morning, Sekhmet had gone into the old vault room where the Dawn family kept practical merchant tools, the kind that never raised questions because they were common enough to be boring. He took a storage ring from the house stock, a plain one with standard space capacity and a maker mark that could be traced to legal markets. Then he moved eight million chaos stones into it, put them into bags and sealed stacks the way a careful merchant would. A normal method. A normal rich young master doing normal rich young master things.
The clerk’s eyes brightened with religious devotion. "Three million," Sekhmet said. "Plus fee."
The assistant began counting with a rune device that flashed as it verified authenticity.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
The crystal ledger drank the payment, and the numbers shifted until the "Debt Outstanding" line changed.
Debt Outstanding: 0
The air in the room changed.
Vera and Vela went still.
Not because they suddenly trusted Sekhmet.
Because three million being paid meant the coffin lid had been lifted.
They could breathe again.
Even if the air was still someone else’s.
The clerk cleared his throat and began reading.
"Concubine Contract. Parties: Contract Holder, Sekhmet Dawn. Contract Candidates: Vera and Vela. Twin Clause: inseparable. Contract terms apply jointly."
Vera’s gaze was steady.
Vela’s jaw tightened.
"Status Clause," the clerk read, "Candidates shall hold concubine status under Contract Holder’s household. Concubine status grants residence, protection under household authority, and recognized bond."
Auri’s gaze flicked once to Sekhmet, as if silently asking whether he truly wanted this political complication.
Sekhmet did not look back.
He watched the twins.