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They stormed into a dim chamber lit by a single lantern, where men sat around a table counting stones and sharpening knives.
The hideout carried the smell of sweat and dirty smoke.
A large man leaned back in a chair at the table, face half-hidden in shadow. He was not the leader.
But he was close enough. Vice leader.
His eyes were sharp, like someone who enjoyed breaking rules only because it made other people afraid.
The thugs staggered in, bruised and pale.
"Vice," one of them rasped. "We got jumped."
The vice leader lifted his gaze slowly.
"Jumped," he repeated. "By who."
The thug swallowed.
"A young guy," he said. "Came out of nowhere. Beat us. Broke my wrist."
He flexed his hand, still trembling.
The other thug nodded angrily.
"He made us look like fools," he said. "If news spreads... our rep is done."
The vice leader’s gaze hardened.
"Where," he asked.
"Near the market edge," the thug said. "Close to the exit path."
The vice leader leaned forward slightly.
"And what did he take," he asked.
The thugs hesitated.
"Nothing," one said quickly. "He didn’t even rob us. He just... beat us."
That made the vice leader’s eyes narrow.
"Just beat you," he repeated slowly. "So he did it for pleasure."
The thug nodded, anger burning.
"Yeah," he said. "For pleasure."
The vice leader tapped the table.
TAP... TAP...
"That is worse," he murmured. "A man who beats for pleasure is a man who might do it again."
He leaned back.
His voice turned cold.
"Our gang is the second strongest underground group in this city," he said softly. "If we let a random nobody do this, people will laugh."
He lifted his hand.
Ten men stood immediately.
More followed.
Thugs with knives, clubs, runed chains, and dirty chaos energy flickering around their fists.
The vice leader’s voice was calm.
"Take them," he ordered. "Bring him here."
One thug grinned.
"Dead or alive," he asked.
The vice leader’s eyes gleamed.
"Alive," he said. "Cut his hands and legs if you must. But bring him."
The thugs laughed.
A cruel, hungry sound.
Then they moved.
They did not search the market randomly.
They went straight to the entrance and exit paths.
Because that was where customers had to pass.
Because that was where prey had to walk.
They took positions in shadowed corners and behind stalls, waiting like wolves.
Back to Sekhmet...
He and Bat Bat were nearing the exit stairs, talking quietly.
Sekhmet’s coat swayed with his steps.
Bat Bat’s eyes glowed faintly in the lantern light.
Sekhmet’s mood was calm.
Too calm.
Because he did not yet know that revenge was waiting.
Ahead, near the shadowed corridor leading up...
A group of men shifted. Knuckles tightened. Weapons were readied.
Eyes fixed on Sekhmet like he was a prize.
One thug whispered, voice low.
"That’s him."
Another grinned.
"Pretty boy," he muttered. "We’ll break him."
They crouched in the shadows, letting Sekhmet come closer.
Letting him step into the trap.
Sekhmet walked toward the exit, unaware that the underground market was about to test him again.
A few moments later...
The sound was faint here, far above the gutters of the underground market, but it still existed. The underground always had water somewhere, always had something leaking, always had something rotting quietly out of sight.
Sekhmet walked toward the staircase that led up to the surface. His steps were calm. His posture was relaxed.
His mind was lighter than it had been when he entered.
He had fed just enough to stop the hunger from screaming. He had bought blood that made his future feel less empty. He had even managed to bargain like a proper Dawn merchant without getting hexed into a toad.
Bat Bat sat on his shoulder like a small red crown, unusually quiet, but its ears twitched constantly.
"Exit smell," Bat Bat whispered.
Sekhmet hummed in acknowledgment. He did not see the ambush.
Not yet.
But he felt something. A subtle shift in the air, like a crowd holding its breath. A pressure that did not come from chaos energy, but from intent.
Sekhmet’s eyes narrowed slightly. His blood eyes flickered on without him thinking. It was his instinct.
One by one, the crowd turned into numbers.
[Overall Battle Power: 1800]
[Overall Battle Power: 2200]
[Overall Battle Power: 3900]
[Overall Battle Power: 1500]
[Overall Battle Power: 6100]
That last number made Sekhmet pause for a second. He did not stop walking, but his awareness sharpened like a blade sliding out of a sheath.
"Six thousand one hundred."
Not impossible. But high enough to be dangerous if it came with numbers.
Bat Bat leaned closer to Sekhmet’s ear, whispering with the seriousness of a seasoned scout.
"Many bad smell," it said. "Like angry people."
Sekhmet kept moving. He adjusted his path slightly, drifting closer to the wall, giving himself space.
He let his hand rest casually near his coat pocket, where his fingers could reach blood control faster if needed.
The exit corridor was narrower than the main market.
Lanterns hung low.
Shadows were thicker.
The walls were closer, like the underground itself was guiding people into a choke point.
Sekhmet’s lips pressed into a thin line.
"Classic."
He remembered Uncle Ben’s old voice again. "Do not stare. Do not walk like prey."
Sekhmet did not stare. He walked like he owned the corridor.
That was when the first man stepped out.
A thug, broad shoulders, dirty leather armor, a club in one hand with runes carved into the wood. His face was scarred, and his eyes held the confidence of someone who believed numbers were everything.
Behind him, another man stepped out, then another, then another.
Ten.
No.
More.
Fourteen total.
They emerged from behind the stones, from shadowed corners, from the gaps between pillars like rats crawling out after a meal.
And with them—
The two thugs Sekhmet had beaten earlier. They stood at the back, bruised and pale, eyes burning with anger.
Sekhmet’s blood eyes read them instantly.