---
If sold correctly, hidden to the right buyer, the value would be absurd.
Alchemists would pay fortunes for bloodlines. Bone crafters would bid like mad. Beast tamers, ritualists, undead cults, desperate nobles trying to strengthen heirs — every kind of monster in refined clothing would crawl out of shadow with open purses.
It would bring money. It would bring fear. It would bring attention. Too much attention.
Sekhmet's jaw tightened.
Selling Benimaru's corpse in Slik would be like hanging a burning banner from Dawn House and inviting every greedy madman to visit.
And greed was not even the worst risk.
Benimaru was the son of a true god.
Even if the father did not care, even if divine families were cruel enough to ignore dead offspring, the bloodline itself mattered. Divine residue drew hunters. Priests. Blood readers. Opportunists.
And if one of them traced the corpse back to him…
"No.
Too dangerous."
Sekhmet dismissed the thought completely.
