Chapter 414:Quiet Decisions
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Sekhmet walked out of the prison side of the Void Land alone and let the silence around him settle properly before he allowed himself to think. The dark there had a way of stripping unnecessary noise from the mind. Good. He needed that. Too many things had stacked themselves together over too few days. Mihos. Iron House. Leaf and the Bloodlands. Sofia and Natasha. The old myth. The offer of service. The vision of Lucard dying with betrayal all around him.
He did not slow.
He did not stop.
But inwardly, the decision formed.
He would not claim the Blood God title.
Not now. Possibly not ever.
He will create his own title.
He did not want a dead god’s throne, and he did not need some ancient broken race looking at him as if he had crawled out of their oldest prayer. Titles like that came with chains hidden under the gold. Expectations. Histories. Enemies that arrived before loyalty did. A throne could wait. If it wanted him badly enough, it could keep waiting.
That part was simple.
The harder part was this.
The myth was not useless.
That was the truth he did not like.
He had a vision of Lucard’s death in his head, one that had not come from rumor or vampire myth but from the blood itself. He had powers that matched too much. He had already created things he should not have been able to create if Sofia’s story held even half its shape. Lily. Mira. Leaf. A Cruoraphim bride, a Crimson Gorgon, and now a Sanguifey with a full Trinity in the Void Land. That was not normal vampire authority. That was not even high vampire authority. That was something wider.
Interesting.
Troublesome.
But real enough to matter.
So he made the private decision there in the dark before he reentered the living parts of his hidden world.
He would not touch the old vampire groups yet.
He would not claim any blood title.
He would not trust Sofia and Natasha.
But he would prepare.
That meant one thing clearly above the others.
He would upgrade Vampire Creation as soon as possible.
Not later. Not when convenient. As soon as he could force it.
Because if the system’s answer held true, the next rank would open a higher branch of control. Stronger conversion. Better binding. New ways to handle superior bloodline subjects. That mattered more than any myth. Myths made noise. Skills made results.
He also decided something else.
He would build his own bloodline first.
Not inherit some ruined one.
Not kneel into old politics and old factions and old promises carried by vampire houses that had already proven they could split, lie, or serve themselves when fear got sharp enough. No. If a bloodline was going to gather around him, it would be one he built with his own hands, his own choices, and his own monsters. Lily. Mira. Leaf. The twins. Perhaps more later. The old vampire world could wait outside the walls until he had something worth forcing them to face.
That thought pleased him.
He crossed the last stretch of the Void Land and stepped back into the Dawn House.
The air changed immediately.
Void silence gave way to house silence, which was never true silence at all. A large estate always breathed. Somewhere in the house, servants moved. Somewhere farther off, water ran. The doors opened softly. A lamp was being trimmed. A maid crossed a corridor and nearly stiffened at the sight of him before lowering her head quickly and continuing on.
Sekhmet went straight toward the study room.
He wanted the map table.
He wanted the ledgers.
He wanted numbers.
Something in the living world that had the decency to stay where it was placed.
He had barely crossed half the room and put one hand on the table’s edge before Raka arrived.
That alone told him the report was urgent, because Raka did not move like a polished servant who announced himself from doorways. He came in like a man built from lower-market pressure and alley survival, all hard steps and straight lines. Tonight was no different. He entered with dust still on his boots and the kind of grin men wore only when destroying someone else’s business had gone better than expected.
Raka bowed only as much as he needed to and said, "Young master."
Sekhmet looked at him. "Report!"
Raka’s grin sharpened.
"We are cutting them from all sides."
That got to the point fast enough to be worth hearing.
Raka came farther into the room and planted one hand against the side of the table. "Routes hit. Buyers turned. Small stores were pressured. Two side depots emptied by our people before dawn. Three merchant carriers decided that the Iron House money was suddenly unlucky to touch. One warehouse line already stopped moving entirely. Another is moving, but only under guard, which means they are paying more to protect less."
Bat Bat was not there to make noises at the efficiency of that, which was a blessing.
Sekhmet said, "How long?"
Raka did not hesitate.
"One week."
Interesting.
That fast.
He asked the next thing that mattered. "Are you certain?"
Raka nodded once. "If they keep bleeding at this rate, yes. Less if they panic. A little more if Mihos suddenly grows a useful brain inside their side of the board. But Iron House by itself?" His mouth moved without humor. "Done."
Sekhmet looked down at the map while Raka kept talking. The marked points, warehouse cuts, merchant contacts, pressure lines, and rumor zones already showed the shape clearly enough. What had begun as sabotage and pressure from Iron House had turned. Now Dawn House and Raka’s line were cutting back harder, smarter, and from directions the merchants trusted more. Once trade confidence broke, it never returned cleanly. Iron House had relied on force, fear, and influence. That worked until buyers started smelling weakness.
Raka tapped two more points on the edge of the map.
"These were theirs yesterday. Not anymore. The owners will not say it publicly yet, but they have already started making their quiet peace with us." He looked up at Sekhmet. "People love morality until the money gets frightened. Then they remember who they think will still stand next week."
That sounded true enough to keep.
Sekhmet asked, "Dickoff?"
Raka’s expression grew uglier in a pleased sort of way. "Running. Shouting. Paying too much to the wrong people. Making threats that sound expensive."
"Good."
Raka nodded once. "He is a fool when under pressure."
That matched what Sekhmet had seen so far.
Useful in peace. Worse in war. Men like that always rose too high under family shelter and then acted surprised when actual opposition arrived with teeth.
Raka straightened slightly. "Within a week, Iron House business in this territory will be finished unless Mihos reaches down and holds it together personally."
There it was.
The real line.
Not Iron House.
Mihos.
Iron House had become the hand. Mihos remained the mind behind it.
Sekhmet’s eyes rested on the table for one breath longer before he said, "Keep pressure on them. No overreach."
Raka nodded. "Done."
"Do not let victory make anyone sloppy."
That got a smaller nod.
Then Sekhmet added, "And watch for sudden help from outside."
Raka’s grin vanished completely.
"Yes."
He understood.
Because any fool could see where this went now. If Iron House was losing that badly and that fast, Mihos would either let them die or interfere. A man like Mihos did not enjoy losing, and he looked far too polished to have built the habit of accepting it with grace.
Far outside the city, in the camp dressed like a temporary palace, Mihos Dawn was learning exactly that lesson.
The afternoon light had already thinned by the time the latest reports reached him, and he hated every line of them.
He had read the first two himself.
He had listened to the next three in silence.
In the sixth report he made the messenger repeat, not because he had not heard it, but because Fury always preferred confirmation before choosing where to bite.
Iron House routes were being cut.
Merchants were shifting.
Confidence was breaking.
Side warehouses were falling or had already been emptied.
Dawn House was not only surviving his pressure. It was taking the board back under his nose and doing it fast enough to make the whole affair look ugly.
Mihos did not like ugly.
He liked control.
He liked polished victory.
He liked the kind of world where his name arrived before him and did half the work.
This was not that world.
He stood near the open side of the pavilion, one hand behind his back, the other holding the latest report with a grip just short of tearing it. His camp remained orderly around him because order had been beaten into everyone near his life long before they had learned loyalty. Servants kept their heads down. Guards stood still. Beasts tethered in the farther lines snorted and shifted but did not cry out.
None of that improved his mood.
Dickoff had become an embarrassment.