Chapter 220: A quiet Hall? III
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Sekhmet’s heartbeat hit harder once.
Ba - dum.
He could feel the blood god Will inside him stir like a beast hearing a rival enter its territory. Rage rose — hot, sharp, tempting. Not his rage. Something deeper. Something that wanted to tear these three apart and drink until the world went quiet.
Elena’s hand lifted slightly, not pointing, not dramatic, just enough to signal she was between Sekhmet and them.
"You are in Slik City," Elena said. "There are rules."
Sofia smiled wider. "Rules," she repeated, tasting the word like candy. "We followed the rules. We walked in. We paid the associations. We did not break gates. We did not kill in your streets."
Her eyes glittered. "Yet."
Alex’s voice remained calm. "We are not here for your city."
His gaze shifted fully to Sekhmet now, and the temperature in the hall seemed to drop.
"We are here for the one who made the blood ripple."
Natasha’s eyes narrowed. "Original One."
That word did not echo in the hall, but it echoed in Sekhmet’s bones.
Elena’s voice tightened by a fraction. "He is my young master and under Dawn House protection / my protection."
Alex’s lips curved faintly again. "Protection," he said. "From you."
Sofia’s gaze slid back to Elena. "You are hiding too," she murmured. "Concealment. Old habit."
Elena did not deny it. Her eyes stayed steady. "You are not taking him."
Natasha’s voice was almost bored. "Then you will die first."
Elena’s stance did not change.
Sekhmet finally spoke, keeping his voice controlled. "Why are you here?"
Alex answered without hesitation. "To confirm."
Sofia’s smile softened into something that looked almost sweet and was therefore more dangerous. "To claim."
Natasha’s expression stayed empty. "To remove competition."
Sekhmet’s jaw tightened. The words were too clean. Too honest. Predators did not waste time with lies when the prey was already cornered.
Above them, on the second floor, the shadows near a private balcony shifted.
Someone was there. Someone who had not left.
Someone who had been watching since the fight with Iron House ended, concealed behind the architecture and the assumption that the upper level belonged only to nobles and clerks.
It was Lady Seraphiel.
She kept her presence wrapped tight, not because she feared these three, but because she understood that revealing herself too early would change the board. She leaned slightly forward behind the railing, her eyes were sharp, her heart was heavy.
"Three half-god vampires," she thought, and her mind moved with the cold speed of someone who had survived gods. "Three. And they came together. Yesterday I felt them. So they are here for him."
Her gaze locked on Sekhmet. "Eyra’s boy."
The truth in her chest tightened like a fist.
"He is in danger."
Then her eyes flicked to Elena and the world tilted.
Elena stood below, posture calm, chaos energy compressed, expression unchanged.
Seraphiel’s breath caught for a heartbeat.
"Elena. It’s been so long since I saw you."
She had not seen her in almost twenty years. Not properly. Not without distance and rumor filtering truth into something safer.
And here she was, standing in an empty auction hall like time did not touch her, like years did not erode her spine, like she had simply stepped out of the past and into the present without permission.
"She looks the same," Seraphiel thought, shock tightening into disbelief. "No... she looks a few years younger than before. Stronger. Sharper. More controlled."
As if the years had not aged her but honed her.
Seraphiel’s mind flashed back to the old days. A House corridors. Eyra laughing once, rare and real. Elena is standing behind him like a quiet wall. Seraphiel remembered thinking back then that Elena was not just a servant.
She was a shield for Eyra.
And now, watching Elena face three half-gods without flinching for Sekhmet, Seraphiel realized that the shield had become someone else entirely.
"If Elena falls," Seraphiel thought, "Sekhmet dies."
Her fingers tightened slightly on the balcony rail. It wasn’t fear. It was decision pressure.
Below, the three vampires shifted their weight, subtle alignment, each one testing the air, testing Elena’s posture, testing Sekhmet’s restraint.
Sofia’s gaze flicked to Sekhmet again. "You look calm," she said. "That is either courage... or ignorance."
Sekhmet’s eyes narrowed. "It is discipline."
Natasha’s lips curved faintly. "Good," she murmured. "Discipline makes blood taste cleaner."
Elena’s voice cut in, sharper now, still controlled. "Enough."
Alex took one slow step forward. Just one... But the step felt like death closing in.
His energy pressed into the hall, heavy, refined, ancient. It was not chaotic like a raging beast. It was structured like a throne.
Sekhmet’s Blood Eye remained open, but the numbers already told him what mattered.
Ninety-five thousand plus. Each of them. He could not win this alone.
Even Elena, whatever she truly was, would be fighting three against one.
And the worst part was that Sekhmet could feel his own blood answer their presence. His hunger sharpened. His contained Bloodlust pressed against the system’s restraint like a beast hitting cage bars.
Elena’s voice lowered to Sekhmet without looking away from them. "Young master," she said quietly, "when I say move, you move."
Sekhmet did not argue. He only nodded once.
Ba - dum!! Ba - dum!!
The hall felt smaller again. Lantern light flickered.
On the balcony above, Lady Seraphiel stayed hidden, breath slow, eyes locked, already preparing to act if the next heartbeat turned into a blood bath.
Meanwhile, Far from the auction hall, the rest of Dawn House moved like all was normal.
Mira walked briskly through the connected corridor toward the mansion wing, ledger pressed to her chest, mind already sorting tomorrow’s receipts and buyer disputes. Auri stayed one step behind her, cloak neat, posture calm, as if the earlier violence had been routine. The three "maids" followed in silence, their concealment tools active again, faces soft, eyes lowered, returning to harmless shapes so perfectly that any passing guard would swear they were ordinary girls carrying towels.
They reached Dawn House’s courtyard gate, lanterns swaying gently, and stepped inside without sensing the predator pressure gathering back at the auction hall.
Across the city, Dickoff Iron moved fast. In public streets.
He marched toward Iron House with one remaining Chaos Rank Three escort beside him, jaw clenched, breath controlled, rage boiling behind a mask of dignity. His voice cut low and venomous.
"That boy," he hissed. "That filthy Dawn brat."
The escort said nothing. Dickoff’s fist tightened.
"I will rip his house apart," he swore, and his steps did not slow even once. "I will tell everything to him. The one who wants the dawn house business destroyed."