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His body had endured.
Sekhmet had sat on that cliff and forced the thought into shape.
"My real battle power probably does not surpass seven or eight thousand."
He did not know.
He could only guess.
Whatever the case, guessing did not make him safe.
So he made a rule.
He would avoid everything over five thousand battle power.
He would not gamble against unknown numbers.
Not yet.
Not in purgatory.
Not when the city was still over a month away and he could not afford to die on the road like an idiot with treasure in his void land.
One month remains now.
One month until he reached the edge of purgatory and the border territory of the city's influence, where the wilderness still killed but at least roads existed and people were less likely to eat your face without negotiating first.
That thought alone kept him moving on days when his body wanted to collapse.
Tap… Tap… Tap…
Two months passed like this.
And in those two months, something else changed.
Not Sekhmet.
Something smaller.
Something louder.
Something that had started as a three-inch hatchling that could only say one word in the language of annoyance.
The bat.
At first, it had been simple.
Feed it.
Hide it.
Let it scout ahead sometimes by fluttering through small gaps and peeking over ridges.
Batbatbat.
It had been a tool with personality.
Then, gradually, it became more.
It learned patterns.
It learned danger.
It learned that staying quiet meant it got fed.
It learned that peeing on enemies meant Sekhmet yelled at it, but also that the enemy got distracted, which meant the bat could bite without being swatted away.
It learned humor.
Or at least, it learned that Sekhmet's face twitched when something ridiculous happened, and the bat decided that making Sekhmet twitch was a worthy life goal.
It also learned words.
Not all at once.
Not magically.
The bat learned chaos language the way a child learned language.
By listening constantly.
By repeating sounds.
By failing loudly.
By succeeding at the most inconvenient time.
The first time it spoke, Sekhmet almost dropped it.
It was late evening. Sekhmet had camped inside a hollowed rock pocket, fire hidden, coat wrapped around him. He had been staring at his status window while the bat chewed on a chunk of cooked beast meat like it was a king tasting tribute.
Sekhmet had muttered to himself, voice tired.
"Tomorrow I need to find better prey."
The bat had paused mid-chew.
Then, in a voice that sounded like a small animal trying to imitate a human who had swallowed a pebble, it said:
"Bett… err… pray."
Sekhmet had frozen.
His eyes had snapped to the bat.
The bat had stared back, eyes wide, then tried again.
"Bet… prey."
Sekhmet had blinked.
Then he had said slowly, "Did you just speak?"
The bat had puffed up proudly, then ruined the moment completely by adding:
"Me… hun… gree."
Sekhmet had stared.
He had not laughed.
Not immediately.
He had been too shocked.
Then the absurdity hit him, and a low sound escaped his throat.
A laugh.
Short.
Rough.
Real.
The bat had blinked, delighted, then repeated its new favorite word.
"Hun… gree."
Sekhmet had rubbed his face and muttered, "Of course. The first thing you learn is how to demand food."
The bat had responded with the confidence of a creature who believed it deserved the world.
"Hun… gree."
After that, language came faster.
Not perfect.
But enough.
The bat learned to say simple words.
Food.
Danger.
Hide.
Go.
No.
Yes.
It learned how to call Sekhmet without making the full Batbatbatbat war cry.
It learned how to whisper.
Mostly.
Sometimes it forgot and yelled anyway.
It also learned how to imitate.
It could copy a wolf growl.
Poorly.
It could copy a frog croak.
Offensively.
It could copy a human cough.
Perfectly, which was disturbing, because Sekhmet had started waking up to the bat coughing like a dying old man just to see if Sekhmet would panic.
Sekhmet had panicked the first time.
Then he had realized what was happening and had nearly thrown the bat into a bush.
The bat had laughed.
A strange little "heh" sounds like a child making mischief.
And in that moment, Sekhmet realized he did not have a summon.
He had a companion.
A tiny, hungry, chaotic companion who might one day become a nightmare in the sky.
In the second month, the bat's battle power climbed again.
It had fed on everything Sekhmet killed.
Frog beasts.
Voidfang wolves.
Insectoids.
A pair of humanoid monsters that tried to jump Sekhmet from behind a boulder and ended up donating their blood to science.
A horned stag beast with a chaos core that burned like coal.
The bat absorbed everything.
It grew.
Not in size much yet, but in presence.
Its wings became sturdier.
Its fur thickened.
Its eyes became sharper, more aware.
Its bite became faster.
And its speech became clearer.
By the end of the second month, it spoke like a young child with a mouth full of marbles.
Not elegant.
But understandable.
It could even argue now, which was the worst evolution possible.
It happened on a morning when Sekhmet woke up to the bat poking his cheek.
Poke! Poke!
Sekhmet groaned.
"Stop," he muttered.
The bat poked again.
Poke!
Sekhmet opened one eye.
"What," he hissed.
The bat fluttered up and hovered above his face, wings buzzing softly.
Bzzzz…
Then it said, very clearly for the first time:
"I… need… name."
Sekhmet froze.
He sat up slowly, blanket sliding off his shoulders.
"What," he said.
The bat hovered closer, eyes serious.
"I need name," it repeated. "You… call… bat. You… say batbat. But… no… name."
Sekhmet stared at it.
The bat crossed its tiny arms in midair, which looked ridiculous because its arms were basically tiny claws attached to a body designed to fly.
"I learn talk," it said proudly. "I hunt. I scout. I fight. I pee… on enemies."