Chapter 145: Fight Back V
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"Thank you, master," Raka said.
His voice was still flat, but his eyes burned slightly brighter.
Sekhmet looked away before the moment became uncomfortable. He did not like emotions when he was bleeding. He did not like softness when poison was still inside him. He turned back to the assassins.
"Who else knows you were sent," Sekhmet asked.
The needle assassin tried to sneer.
Raka’s hand moved.
Wham!
One punch to the gut.
Not enough to kill.
Enough to make the man retch and cough bile onto the stone.
Raka leaned down, voice even.
"Answer," he said.
The assassin wheezed, eyes watering, and finally spoke through pain.
"Broker," he gasped. "Only broker. No names. Only crest mark. Only payment."
Sekhmet’s eyes narrowed.
A broker meant deniability.
It meant Dickon could pretend clean hands while still sending knives.
Sekhmet felt his hunger rise again, not just for blood, but for control.
He looked at the assassins’ exposed necks, the pulse lines under skin.
Warm.
Alive.
Full.
Poisoned, yes, but blood was blood.
He swallowed once.
His lips parted slightly.
Bat wings fluttered in anticipation, sensing what was coming.
Raka remained still, watching.
Sekhmet stepped closer to the first assassin, the spear one whose arm was broken and who could barely breathe.
He crouched.
The assassin’s eyes widened.
"Wait," the man rasped. "You don’t—"
Sekhmet did not answer.
He leaned in and bit.
Chomp.
Warm blood surged into his mouth.
It hit like heat poured into cold bones.
His body reacted instantly, drinking greedily, pulling strength from life itself.
The poison in his veins fought back, but his chaos energy surged, burning through the toxin like fire through frost.
He drank deeper.
The assassin’s body jerked.
His fingers clawed weakly at Sekhmet’s shoulder.
Then his strength drained quickly, frighteningly, because Sekhmet did not sip this time.
He fed.
Not until death yet.
Until near-death.
Until the man’s heartbeat became a weak stutter instead of a drum.
Sekhmet pulled away and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
The spear assassin slumped, skin pale, lips blue.
Still alive.
Barely.
Sekhmet moved to the blade assassin next.
The assassin tried to crawl back.
A rare bat landed on his chest, claws pinning him in place, eyes glowing like a tiny demon judge.
Sekhmet leaned in and bit again.
Chomp.
Blood poured.
His chaos body drank it like starving earth drinks rain.
His wounds began closing faster now, skin knitting where earlier it had been torn.
He could feel the poison losing its hold, not gone, but pushed back, suppressed by fresh power.
He drank until the blade assassin’s struggles slowed, then stopped.
Sekhmet pulled back, breathing steady, eyes cold.
Two down.
Two to go.
The needle assassin started to shake now.
Not because he lacked courage.
Because he understood he was not being killed quickly.
He was being harvested.
His professional mask cracked.
"You’re a monster," he whispered.
Sekhmet looked at him calmly.
"Yes," Sekhmet replied. "And you still accepted the job."
Then he drank.
Chomp.
The needle assassin’s body tensed, then trembled, then weakened rapidly.
Sekhmet drank until his pulse became faint, then released him.
Only the grapple assassin remained, the one Sekhmet had already ruined earlier.
He stared at Sekhmet with terror so open it was almost funny, like a man who had spent his life hunting deer and suddenly realized the deer had teeth and a family.
Sekhmet crouched beside him.
The man whispered, "Please—"
Sekhmet tilted his head slightly.
"Were you thinking please when you aimed poison at my eye," Sekhmet asked.
The assassin tried to speak.
No words came.
Sekhmet bit.
Chomp.
The final mouthful of warm blood hit Sekhmet like satisfaction.
Not joy. Not happiness.
It was a relief, Power and Control.
The last assassin went limp.
Sekhmet lifted his head slowly, blood on his lips, eyes calmer now. His chaos energy pulsed stronger again. His muscles no longer shook.
The poison’s cold burn had dulled to a faint ache.
He exhaled once, long, controlled.
Then the bats moved.
Sekhmet did not even command them verbally.
They felt his permission through bond.
The rare six bats descended first, not like a messy flock, but like disciplined predators taking assigned prey.
One rare bat latched onto the spear assassin’s throat.
Another went to the blade assassin’s wrist, where blood flowed easiest.
Two more pinned the needle assassin and fed from the shoulder, careful not to snap bone.
The remaining rare bats and the stronger common bats spread out, selecting victims like they were picking fruit from a tree.
There was no mercy in their feeding.
But there was no waste either.
Sekhmet watched. He did not stop them. He had chosen this. He had built this.
The assassins’ bodies twitched weakly, then stopped.
Their hearts slowed.
Their eyes glazed.
And the bats kept drinking until there was nothing left worth taking.
One by one, the assassins died.
Not as martyrs.
Not as warriors.
As food.
Sekhmet felt the growth ripple through the bond like a wave.
The rare bats’ bodies trembled.
Their wings beat harder.
Their eyes brightened.
Their chaos energy shifted, thickened, stabilized.
The air itself seemed to recognize the change.
And then the system chimed inside Sekhmet’s mind, crisp and merciless.
[Ding! Blood Summon Bond Feedback Detected.]
[Ding! Rare Blood Bat Evolution Progress: Major Threshold Reached.]
[Ding! Six Rare Bats have advanced to Chaos Rank One.
Note: Rare units possess superior growth curves. Continued feeding on higher-quality blood will accelerate evolution.]
Sekhmet’s gaze sharpened slightly.
Chaos Rank One.
They were not children anymore.
They were not fragile.
They could survive real fights now.
He watched one rare bat lift its head, mouth red, eyes glowing with a satisfied hunger that felt almost proud through the link.
Bat Bat would have been screaming with excitement if she were here.
Sekhmet did not smile, but something in his chest loosened.
This, he thought, is why I endure.
Raka stepped forward cautiously.
He looked at the dead assassins, then at the bats, then at Sekhmet.