Chapter 300: The Face of a Mistake
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The Chapter ended there, with the misunderstanding fully grown, the hall clearing around them, and the fight only one breath away.
That breath ended.
Raka moved first.
Not because he had lost control.
Because he believed he already understood the shape of the problem, and men like Raka had survived this long precisely by not waiting too long once that shape became dangerous. In his mind, the stranger standing in his hall was either an Iron House killer sent with stolen symbols and a clever tongue, or someone reckless enough to use Sekhmet’s name without permission. Neither option deserved patience.
His first step was quick, grounded, and hard.
He came in low, not wasting time with theatrical posturing, one hand flashing toward the weapon at his side and the other already rising for a close strike meant to break rhythm before a proper exchange even formed.
The lesser vampire saw all of it.
And moved.
The difference between them revealed itself in that first exchange.
Raka was fast for a rank three.
The lesser vampire was cleaner.
The steel edge of Raka’s drawn blade flashed once in the low market light, aiming for the stranger’s ribs in a testing cut that would have forced most men backward. Instead the lesser vampire shifted just enough to let the blade pass his coat, caught Raka’s wrist with one hand, and drove the heel of his other palm into Raka’s chest.
Everyone heard Thud! sound.
The sound was heavy enough to make the men at the edge of the room wince.
Raka staggered back one full step.
Not because the strike had truly damaged him.
Because it had landed too squarely, too easily.
The lesser vampire did not press immediately.
"Interesting." The lesser vampire thought.
That irritated Raka more than if the stranger had attacked recklessly. Restraint in the middle of a fight always meant confidence, and confidence from an unknown enemy in your own hall was an insult.
He smiled then.
Not warmly.
Not because he was amused.
Because this has become a better kind of problem.
"All right," Raka said.
His men had spread fully to the walls now, creating an open circle in the middle of the hall with the efficient hunger of experienced criminals who knew a good fight when one fell into their house.
No one interfered.
That too was instinct.
Raka had not ordered help, and no one there was stupid enough to insult him by assuming he needed it before the outcome proved otherwise.
The drunken fifteen from earlier looked less pleased with themselves now.
Good. Let them sweat.
Raka rolled his neck once and came again, this time with no testing in it.
He slashed high by turning the cut low. Then kicked for the knee.
The lesser vampire flowed around the whole sequence like someone born half a second outside ordinary reaction time. The high slash missed. The low cut only shaved cloth. The kick struck air where a leg had been and found nothing there but absence and a balance already relocated elsewhere.
Then the lesser vampire struck back.
One clean punch.
Not elegant.
Not styled.
Just hard.
His fist connected with the side of Raka’s face with enough force to turn his head and send him half stumbling into the line of his own next movement.
A few men at the wall made involuntary noises.
That was fast. Too fast for him.
Raka recovered immediately, but now there was color rising under one eye.
He spat once onto the floor and grinned in a way that looked increasingly dangerous to the wrong kinds of people.
"Better," he said.
Then he abandoned the blade.
That choice told the room a lot.
Either he no longer wanted the fight complicated by steel, or he had recognized instinctively that the stranger moved too well for easy cutting and wanted something dirtier.
He threw the blade aside.
The lesser vampire did not.
He had never drawn one.
They closed again.
This time the exchange turned brutal.
Raka came in with the heavy, efficient violence of a man used to lower-city combat, someone who knew how to turn elbows, knees, shoulders, and tight-space momentum into practical damage. He struck for the throat, the liver, the floating ribs, the side of the jaw. He knew how to crowd. How to grind. How to make a fight ugly enough that skill had to survive filth to matter.
The lesser vampire survived it easily.
That was the problem.
He was chaos rank three, yes.
But he was a stronger version of ranked three after being remade through Sekhmet’s blood. His body moved with colder precision. His senses tracked Raka’s shoulders, breath, and shifting center of gravity before the strikes were fully committed. His regeneration had already begun knitting over the superficial lines Raka managed to score with nails and hard knuckles. Most of all, he did not fight like a man protecting pride in his own den.
He fought like a weapon carrying orders.
That made him terrifying.
Raka found the difference by pain.
A hook clipped his mouth.
A knee nearly reached his abdomen and missed only because he twisted.
His attempt to clinch became a mistake when the lesser vampire drove an elbow down into the top of his shoulder and then pivoted hard enough to send him stumbling across the circle.
The room stayed silent.
Men there had seen Raka fight before.
They had seen him win.
They had seen him punish others.
They had not seen him forced this quickly into adaptation.
One of the drunks from the hollow path started to speak and was silenced instantly by three of his own companions hitting him at once, not out of teamwork, but because nobody wanted to be responsible for ruining the spectacle with commentary.
Raka wiped the corner of his mouth and came again.
This time with thought.
Better angles.
Less heat.
He circled once, watched the stranger’s feet, then rushed from the side instead of straight on. Good change.