Chapter 144: Fight Back IV
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A rare bat struck his face again, claws scraping his cheek, leaving three lines of blood.
Now Sekhmet’s hunger surged.
Warm blood.
Fresh blood.
Close.
He felt his body react like a starving animal.
But he forced himself to remain cold.
Not yet.
Not until the alley belonged to him.
Sekhmet turned his head slightly, eyes sharp.
He spoke to Raka without looking.
"Break one arm," Sekhmet said, voice flat. "Do not kill."
Raka answered immediately.
"Yes, master."
And the assassins finally understood.
This was not a random merchant boy they could erase quietly.
This was a predator with a pack.
And now that the pack was fully out, the alley was no longer a trap for Sekhmet.
It was a cage for them.
Raka’s fist was still raised when Sekhmet’s bats hit the assassins again, not like random animals, but like a drilled squad that had learned the difference between feeding and dying.
The alley had become a cage of wings.
The needle assassin tried to retreat into the darker end, but a rare bat snapped down at his wrist, not biting deep, just enough to make his fingers jerk and ruin his throw. A second bat clipped his ear, tearing skin, forcing him to flinch and cover his head.
The blade assassin attempted to break through the swarm by brute force, slashing in wide arcs to clear space. He succeeded in cutting cloth and air and a few unlucky feathers, but every wide swing created the same weakness.
Open ribs.
Open throat.
Open eyes.
Sekhmet’s blood threads did not try to stop the blade. They did not wrap the weapon. He had already learned that coated steel laughed at blood constructs.
Instead, his threads went for joints.
A thin line tightened around the blade assassin’s elbow.
Another looped his ankle.
A third wrapped around the back of his knee.
Not to bind him fully. Just to steal timing.
The assassin’s next step landed a fraction late.
That fraction was enough.
A rare bat slammed into his face again, claws scraping the bridge of his nose. Blood sprayed. The assassin roared and tried to grab it.
He grabbed nothing but wings.
The bat twisted away, and a dozen smaller bats swarmed his forearms, biting, scratching, distracting.
Raka moved like a storm with manners.
He did not chase wildly. He chose targets.
He stepped to the spear assassin first because spear range was annoying. His hand still clamped the spear shaft like it was a child’s toy. He yanked once.
The spear assassin stumbled forward, forced close.
Raka’s knee rose.
Thud.
The assassin’s ribs took the hit. Air left his lungs in a wet cough. He bent, instinctively protecting his stomach.
Raka’s fist came down on the back of his shoulder.
Crack.
Not death.
Exactly what Sekhmet ordered.
The spear arm dropped uselessly, hanging like dead weight. The assassin fell to his knees, choking, face pressed to stone.
The needle assassin saw that and finally made the smart decision.
Run.
He spun toward the alley mouth.
He did not get two steps.
A rare bat struck his forehead hard enough to make him stagger. Another hooked its claws into his cloak collar and yanked backward. He tried to tear free, but the swarm clung, not heavy, not strong enough to hold him like chains, but strong enough to slow.
Sekhmet’s blood thread snapped around his ankle.
The assassin hit the ground.
His elbow slammed stone.
He snarled and tried to roll.
Raka’s foot came down beside his face with a calm finality that promised teeth if he moved again.
Raka did not crush his skull.
He did not need to.
His presence alone made the man freeze.
The blade assassin was still fighting, still trying to force a path to Sekhmet, because assassins understood one law.
Kill the center.
But his breath was ragged now. His eyes kept blinking against blood. His swings were losing precision.
Sekhmet stepped sideways, just out of reach, and flicked his fingers.
Blood threads tightened.
The assassin’s ankle twisted.
He stumbled.
Sekhmet’s hand moved, sharp and short.
A blood spike formed, thin as a needle, and punched into the blade assassin’s shoulder joint.
Crack.
The assassin screamed and dropped his weapon.
The sword clattered, then slid across the stone and stopped near Raka’s boot.
Raka did not look down at it. He looked at the assassin like he was deciding how to package him.
The last assassin, the grapple one Sekhmet had already ruined earlier, lay half-conscious, arm limp, throat bruised, eyes wide with terror as he watched his team collapse.
Four Chaos Rank Two assassins.
Brought in to kill him quietly.
Now pinned in an alley by bats, blood, and a Chaos Rank Three thug leader who called Sekhmet master.
Sekhmet’s breathing steadied, but the poison still gnawed at him, a cold crawl under skin. His chaos energy remained low, but the worst danger had passed.
He looked at the assassins one by one.
Then he looked at Raka.
"Why are you here," Sekhmet asked.
Raka turned instantly as if the question was an order.
His posture straightened. His voice remained flat, but something in his eyes sharpened with purpose.
"I was investigating the Iron House," Raka said. "As you commanded."
Sekhmet’s gaze narrowed slightly.
Raka continued without hesitation.
"I moved my men around their outer businesses first," he said. "Not the main estate. The estate is guarded. But their money trails are not guarded. Their mouth trails are not guarded. Their servants talk when they drink. Their drivers talk when they gamble."
He pointed slightly with his chin toward the assassins.
"These four were sent through a broker," Raka said. "Not directly from the Iron House. But the broker’s stone carried the Iron crest marking on the money bag."
Sekhmet’s eyes became colder.
"Dickon," Sekhmet said softly, not a question.
Raka nodded.
"Yes," he replied. "Dickon Iron."
He stepped closer to one assassin, grabbed the man’s hair, forced his face up.
The assassin’s eyes flashed with hate, but his body trembled because now he understood he was not leaving.
Raka spoke again, still calm.
"They were told to kill you when you would be alone," Raka said. "They were told to kill you quietly and dump you where it could look like a random alley robbery. They were offered a bonus if your face was ruined enough that identification became difficult."
Sekhmet’s jaw tightened.
It was not just murder.
It was an insult.
It was looking down on the Dawn house.
Raka released the assassin’s hair and looked back at Sekhmet.
"I found the plan an hour ago," Raka said. "I came immediately. I arrived late because the Iron House streets are watched. I had to move through the lower lanes to avoid attention."
Sekhmet stared at Raka for a long moment. Then he spoke, voice quiet.
"You did well."
Raka froze. It was not fear. It was the way a dog froze when it heard its owner finally say good boy after years of being kicked.
For the first time, something warm cracked through the obedient emptiness in Raka’s body.
Pride.
Simple, ugly, honest pride.
His lips tightened as if he did not know what to do with praise.