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If Sekhmet had hesitated, he would be dead.
Dead men did not keep promises.
Dead men did not find mothers.
Dead men did not reach godhood.
Dead men did not meet gods in halls.
Sekhmet's breathing slowed.
His hands stopped shaking little by little.
He stared at his rings again.
Still heavy.
Still there.
Still forcing him to endure.
And now his blood thirst was another chain, but a different kind.
Not iron.
Biology.
But…
System.
Fate.
Sekhmet's eyes narrowed.
"I will not let this control me. But I will not pretend it does not exist."
He looked down at the corpse again, then at the bat perched on his shoulder.
The bat's eyes were bright. Its small mouth opened.
"Batbatbatbat."
Sekhmet exhaled, then spoke quietly, voice rough.
"You want it," he said.
The bat nodded in the only way it could, bouncing slightly.
Sekhmet's lips twisted into a grim expression.
"Fine," he muttered. "Eat. At least someone should benefit from this mess besides my trauma."
He grabbed the corpse by the arm. It was heavier than it should have been, partly because of his rings and partly because his body was still recovering. But the blood he drank had given him enough strength to drag it.
Scrrrrk!
He pulled the body a short distance away from the overhang, toward a darker patch where the scent would not linger as strongly.
The bat fluttered off his shoulder and landed on the corpse like a tiny vulture pretending to be terrifying.
It opened its mouth.
Shhhh!
It fed.
The bat drank the blood remaining first, small mouth working quickly. The corpse drained in a way that looked unnatural, as if the bat's body was a hole leading somewhere else. Then it began nibbling flesh with tiny bites that would have looked ridiculous if the situation was not so grim.
Sekhmet watched for a moment, then looked away.
He could not stomach watching too closely.
He had already crossed one line tonight. He did not need to stare at it until it became normal.
He returned to the overhang, sat, and forced himself to think.
He was still in purgatory.
The city was three months away.
He had been chained for three weeks.
He had lost time, strength, and sanity, but he had gained a blood system, a void storage, a blood puppet skill, and now the brutal knowledge that his body needed blood to function properly.
He also gained something else.
Clarity.
His enemies would not be the only monsters in purgatory.
He would also be one.
Sekhmet closed his eyes briefly.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, he saw chains again.
He heard dripping water.
Drip… Drip… Drip…
He heard Benimaru's laughter.
Ha Ha Ha
He felt the frozen red essence shoved down his throat again.
He felt his pendant dissolving.
He felt that blood god presence pressing over his soul like a heavy hand.
Sekhmet's breathing tightened.
His chest clenched.
He opened his eyes quickly, forcing himself back to the present.
Night.
Wind.
Stone.
The bat feeding in the distance.
He was alive.
He had survived.
He would keep surviving.
The bat fluttered back a while later, landing on his shoulder again. It looked slightly rounder, if that was even possible. It blinked lazily and made a satisfied sound.
"Batbat."
Sekhmet glanced at it.
"You look smug," he muttered.
The bat blinked again, then curled slightly against his neck like it was settling into a comfortable perch.
Sekhmet exhaled slowly.
He could not stay under the overhang. The scent of blood would attract predators. The fight had made noise. Renn's howls would carry. Staying here was a mistake.
He needed height.
He needed cover.
He needed somewhere beasts could not easily surround him.
A tree.
There were scattered trees farther along the ridge, twisted and thorny, but climbable.
Sekhmet stood slowly, feeling the rings drag at his limbs. The fatigue that had been crushing him earlier was gone, but his body still carried damage. His shoulder bled. His ribs ached. His back stung where claws had cut.
Still, the blood he drank kept him upright.
He gathered what little he had outside of storage, checked that the water skin was still with him, then whispered the command.
Void Land.
He stored the remains of the camp's loot and any leftover items he had not already stored, making sure nothing valuable remained to tempt scavengers.
Whooomp!
Then he moved.
Tap… Tap… Tap…
He climbed, moving along the ridge toward the nearest tree silhouette. The moonlight made everything sharper and more cruel. Shadows deepened. Rocks looked like crouching beasts. Sekhmet's ears strained for movement.
He heard something far away.
A howl.
Not Renn's.
Another.
Then another.
Awooooo…
Awooooo…
Sekhmet's spine tightened.
Werewolves.
Plural.
Renn had not been alone in the world.
If others heard him, they might come.
He increased his pace, ignoring the sting in his shoulder.
He reached the tree.
It was gnarled, thick, with dark bark and thorny branches. It looked like a tree that had grown up in purgatory and learned early that softness got eaten.
Sekhmet grabbed the trunk and began climbing.
His rings made his arms heavy, but his body was used to hardship. His fingers found holds. His boots pressed into bark. He climbed with quiet determination, moving higher until he was above the ground enough that something could not easily jump and drag him down without effort.
He found a branch wide enough to sit on and wedged himself into the crook of the trunk, back against bark, legs bent, arms wrapped around himself.
The bat clung to his shoulder, then crawled into his coat pocket again, warm and sleepy, as if murdering a werewolf and eating him was just another day's work.
Sekhmet stared out at the moonlit wilderness.
He could see the ridge.
He could see the overhang in the distance.
He could see nothing else.
But he could feel the purgatory watching him.
Waiting.
He touched his mouth lightly with his fingers.
He could still taste blood.
Metallic.
Warm.
Wild.
The taste made his stomach twist and his throat tighten at the same time.
His mind replayed the moment he bit into Renn's neck.
The crunch.
The shock.
The first swallow.
The way his fatigue vanished like it had been a lie.
Sekhmet's eyes narrowed.
Trauma sat in his chest like a stone, heavy and unmoving.
But beneath the trauma, something else lived now.
Acceptance.
Not peace.
Not comfort.
But acceptance, the kind you forged when reality refused to bend.
He whispered into the night, voice so low it barely existed.
"I drank blood," he said.
The words felt obscene.
He swallowed, forced himself to continue.
"I did it," he repeated, voice steadier. "And I survived because of it."
The wind moved through branches, making the tree creak softly.
Creeeak…
Sekhmet's jaw tightened.
"I do not want this," he admitted. "But wanting has never mattered here."
He stared at the moon.
"If the system says blood is what keeps me alive," he whispered, "then blood is what I will drink."
His throat tightened again.
He hated the sentence.
He hated the reality.
But he hated dying more.
Sekhmet closed his eyes slowly, breathing in the cold night air, letting the tree's rough bark ground him.
He listened to distant howls fading, to insects clicking, to the soft rhythm of the bat's tiny breathing in his coat pocket.
His last thought before sleep finally dragged him down was not of gods or gifts or treasure.
It was the taste of blood.
And the frightening truth that his body had called it relief.