Chapter 142: Fight Back II
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Not sloppy enough.
The spear assassin pushed forward again and jabbed toward Sekhmet’s ribs.
Sekhmet tried to catch the spear with blood threads.
The threads snapped.
The spear struck his ribs.
Pain burst.
Sekhmet slammed into the wall.
Thud.
The alley spun slightly.
He tasted blood, and that taste tried to turn into hunger again, a starving animal clawing at the inside of his throat.
His vision sharpened from adrenaline, then blurred from poison.
He forced himself upright.
Blood Sword formed again, wobbling in his grip, trembling like it might shatter mid swing. His fingers shook, not fear, energy loss.
The blade assassin stepped in, calm, and swung for Sekhmet’s neck.
Sekhmet raised Blood Sword to block.
Clang.
The blood blade fractured further, spider cracks running through it, and the impact numbed Sekhmet’s forearm. The spear assassin stabbed again.
Sekhmet tried to dodge, but his legs were slower now.
The spear scraped his hip and tore another line of pain into him. He fell to one knee.
The needle assassin finally tore free of the last bat and flicked again.
A needle flew straight toward Sekhmet’s eye.
Sekhmet lifted his hand at the last second and used blood to deflect. The needle hit the wall.
Ping.
But another needle followed immediately.
Sekhmet’s shoulder burned as it embedded deeper.
His breath hitched.
His chaos energy dipped again.
He was losing.
Not slowly.
Quickly.
And the worst part was that he still did not know why.
Who?
Iron House.
Someone wanting to stop the auction.
Someone who feared his rise.
Someone who wanted Lily hurt by proxy.
Sekhmet’s mind flashed Lily’s face, and anger tightened his chest like a fist. He was glad they waited. If they attacked when Lily was with him, he would have done something reckless, something loud, something that would have painted the city with consequences.
Now it was only him.
And his summoned bats.
And his blood.
The blade assassin raised his weapon again.
"This ends," he said.
Sekhmet’s jaw tightened.
He forced blood to rise around him in a thin spiral, trying to create a barrier. The blood wavered like smoke, too thin, too weak, his control slipping because poison and exhaustion were chewing him from inside.
The spear assassin stepped in.
The needle assassin moved his wrist.
Three attacks prepared at once.
Sekhmet’s mind screamed for a solution, and his blood minion bats threw themselves forward instinctively, swarming the needle assassin’s arm, slapping the spear tip, clawing at the blade assassin’s face. It bought him one breath.
One breath was not enough.
Then—
Footsteps.
Not light.
Not stealthy.
Heavy.
Confidence.
Fast.
A presence slammed into the alley like a door kicked open.
The spear assassin’s eyes widened.
He turned—
And a fist caught him in the face.
Wham.
The spear assassin flew backward and hit the wall.
Thud.
The blade assassin spun in surprise.
The newcomer stepped forward into the dim light.
A man.
Calm posture.
Cold eyes.
A faint, unnatural obedience in his aura that did not belong to free will.
Raka.
Sekhmet’s chest loosened slightly, not in relief, but in the awareness that the board had just changed.
Raka’s gaze flicked over Sekhmet’s injuries.
Then he looked at the assassins like they were bugs.
"Master," Raka said, voice flat and obedient. "You are harmed."
The needle assassin’s eyes narrowed.
"Raka," he hissed. "You are interfering."
Raka tilted his head slightly.
"I am obeying," he replied.
Sekhmet forced himself to breathe, blood dripping down his side. His vision steadied just enough to see the three remaining assassins shift their stances. They were no longer sure, because this was no longer a clean execution.
This was a fight that could go wrong.
Sekhmet’s hand tightened around his fractured Blood Sword, while his blood minion bats hovered in the air like restless red knives waiting for a command.
His voice came out low and rough.
"Raka," Sekhmet said.
Raka turned instantly, like a weapon waiting for instruction.
"Yes, master."
Sekhmet’s eyes narrowed toward the assassins.
"Do not let them leave."
And the alley, already soaked with tension and blood, tightened further — because now the hunters had become the hunted.
Sekhmet’s breath scraped in his chest. Poison still gnawed at his nerves. Blood still slid down his side in slow, warm lines. The fractured Blood Sword in his hand trembled like a warning.
But his eyes were steady now.
Because Raka was here.
And that changed the math.
The three assassins did not run yet. They were professionals. They adjusted. The blade assassin shifted his stance to keep Raka in his peripheral vision. The needle assassin’s fingers flexed, already preparing another throw. The spear assassin wiped blood from his mouth, jaw clenched, hate bright.
They were calculating too.
Raka alone did not make this safe.
But Raka made it possible.
Sekhmet lowered the broken Blood Sword. Not because he surrendered. Because he no longer needed to pretend he was fighting like a normal man.
He needed to fight like what he was.
He let his blood minion bats scatter higher, fluttering around the alley mouth like red shadows, cutting off angles, forcing the assassins to keep looking up and down at once.
Then Sekhmet exhaled slowly and turned his left hand palm up.
His fingers spread.
His gaze dipped to the cracked stone beneath his boots.
And the air around him changed.
Not temperature.
Pressure.
Like a door opening inside reality, letting something else breathe.
"Void Land," he murmured, voice low enough that only Auri would have heard if she were here.
The space behind his palm rippled.
It looked like heat distortion, except the "heat" was darkness. A thin oval of black formed, edges trembling like torn cloth. The alley’s torchlight bent near it, the shadows stretching toward the opening as if curious.
The assassins felt it immediately.
The needle assassin’s eyes narrowed.
"What is that," he hissed.
The spear assassin took an instinctive step back.
The blade assassin tightened his grip.
Raka did not move. He simply stood slightly forward, body angled to shield Sekhmet, because blood puppet obedience understood the threat.