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Smoke meant fire.
Fire meant people.
People meant trouble.
But people also meant water, shelter, information, and possibly a road to Slik.
Sekhmet’s pulse quickened.
He climbed down carefully and began moving toward the smoke.
Tap... Tap... Tap...
As he moved, the ground grew less rocky and more packed, as if something had walked here often. Sekhmet saw faint tracks. Some were old, some new. Some looked like hoof marks. Some looked like claws.
He kept his blood sword ready, forming it briefly whenever his instincts twitched, dissolving it when nothing attacked.
He was almost at the ridge where the smoke rose when something moved in front of him.
Not small this time.
A shadow slid over the ground.
Sekhmet stopped.
He looked up.
Something circled overhead, gliding without flapping. It was a dark shape against the sun, with long wings and a tail that whipped like a rope.
A predator.
A sky predator.
Sekhmet’s stomach tightened. Flying beasts in the lower domain often did not hunt alone. They circled to judge weakness. They waited for the moment you looked away.
His coat pocket shifted.
"Batbat," the bat whispered, as if suddenly concerned.
Sekhmet reached into his pocket and pulled it out again. The hatchling blinked at the sky predator, then opened its mouth.
"Batbatbatbat."
Sekhmet frowned.
"Do not insult it," he whispered. "It can hear you, and I do not want to be eaten because you have confidence you did not earn."
The bat flapped once, then crawled onto Sekhmet’s shoulder, clinging to his coat like a tiny angry ornament.
The shadow overhead circled again.
Sekhmet started moving, not running. Running invited chase. He moved steadily, eyes up, posture controlled, pretending he was not prey.
He reached the ridge.
The smoke was closer now.
He climbed over the ridge and saw the source.
A small camp.
Not a friendly one.
A pit fire burned in the center, sending thin smoke upward. Around it sat a group of creatures that were not orcs and not human. They were leaner, shorter, hunched, with grey skin and long arms. Their faces were sharp, their mouths full of thin teeth, and their eyes were too bright.
Scavengers.
They looked like hyena-men mixed with goblins, the kind of things that lived off battlefields and loved to loot bodies while the killing was still happening.
There were six of them.
Sekhmet’s Blood Eye flickered on instinct.
He focused.
[Carrion Scavenger Battle Power: 2,100]
Another.
[Carrion Scavenger Battle Power: 1,900]
Another.
[Carrion Scavenger Leader Battle Power: 2,700]
Sekhmet’s jaw tightened.
All within the forced range of Blood Puppet, technically. But he had only one slot, and he did not want to waste it on something that smelled like it ate its own morals.
The scavengers had a prisoner.
A man.
Human, judging by the shape, though he was covered in dirt and blood. His hands were tied behind his back with rope. His face was bruised. He was alive, but barely. One scavenger poked him with a stick as if checking if the meat was ready.
Sekhmet’s chest tightened.
He should keep walking.
He should not get involved.
In purgatory, saving people was often a way to die. People attracted trouble like blood attracted flies. But his father’s voice echoed faintly in his mind.
Survive.
And his system’s existence echoed louder.
Power.
Options.
Tools.
Sekhmet could use this.
He could save the man and gain information, maybe a guide. He could take the scavengers’ supplies. He could test the blood puppet later on someone worth it.
He also realized something else.
The scavengers had water.
He could see a skin bag near the fire, bulging, damp.
Sekhmet licked his lips.
His thirst decided that morality was flexible.
He slid down the ridge quietly, stepping with care so loose stones did not betray him.
Tap... Tap...
The bat on his shoulder whispered.
"Batbat."
Sekhmet muttered back.
"Yes," he whispered. "We are about to do something stupid."
The bat’s response was immediate and enthusiastic.
"Batbatbatbat."
Sekhmet ignored it.
He formed Blood Sword silently, letting the blade gather in his hand. He moved behind a boulder closer to the camp, listening to the scavengers’ voices. Their language was rough, full of clicks and snarls, but he caught enough meaning to understand they were arguing about dividing loot.
One scavenger held a small pouch of chaos stones and shook it.
Chink! Chink!
Their eyes glittered.
Sekhmet’s gaze flicked to the prisoner again. The man’s head hung low. His chest rose and fell weakly.
Sekhmet’s jaw clenched.
No time.
He stepped out.
The first scavenger noticed him immediately. Its eyes widened, and it bared its teeth.
"Rkss," it hissed, pointing its spear.
The others turned.
Weapons rose.
The camp’s mood shifted from greed to hunger.
Sekhmet did not speak. He did not negotiate. He was too tired for speeches. He had learned that the lower domain respected action, not words.
He moved.
Whoosh!
Blood Sword flashed.
The closest scavenger lunged forward with its spear, thrusting at Sekhmet’s chest. Sekhmet twisted, the rings weighing his limbs slightly, but he still moved fast enough. The spear grazed his coat, tearing fabric. Sekhmet’s blood sword swept downward and cut through the spear shaft like wet wood.
Crack!
The scavenger’s eyes widened in shock.
Sekhmet’s blade continued, slicing across its chest.
Shhk!
Blood sprayed.
The scavenger stumbled back, clutching the wound.
Sekhmet’s Blood Control reacted almost instinctively. The spilled blood quivered in the air.
Shhhh!
Sekhmet’s hand flicked, and the blood was yanked away from the scavenger’s body, floating toward Sekhmet like a ribbon. The scavenger gasped, choking, as if its life had been pulled out of it.
Sekhmet’s heart was hammered.
So it works like that.
It was one thing to control blood. It was another thing to realize how brutal it could be. It was not a polite skill. It was not a heroic skill. It was the skill of a predator.
The other scavengers screamed and rushed him.
Skreek! Skreek!