Chapter 7 - 07: Flashback

Chapter 7: 07: Flashback ---

The memory did not arrive gently.

It hit Sekhmet like a sudden shove from behind, dragging him out of the torchlit ruin and throwing him into a different light, a different air, a different version of himself.

Whoosh!

The smell of blood vanished.

The crackle of torches faded.

The cold stone under his boots became polished floor beneath bare feet.

And the world brightened.

Slik.

The city was called Slik, and even in memory it felt loud.

Slik was the biggest city in the Lower Domain of Null, the beating heart of trade in the power domains. It was not beautiful in the soft way upper world cities pretended to be. It was beautiful like a blade was beautiful. Like a predator’s teeth were beautiful.

A city built on deals.

A city built on blood.

A city built on the fact that everyone wanted something and someone was always willing to sell it for the right price.

Tall black towers rose into a sky that never looked fully natural. Streets wound between markets and fortified mansions. Chaos lamps hung from chains, glowing faint green and purple, lighting alleys where monsters bargained with humans and humans bargained with monsters as if it was normal.

And in the center of it all, behind walls carved with protective runes and iron gates thick enough to stop a charging beast, sat a merchant house that everyone in Slik recognized.

Because its owner always delivered.

Sekhmet stood inside that house.

He was fifteen.

Younger, thinner, faster to smile, faster to argue, and still carrying the fragile confidence of a boy who had not yet learned how hard Null could bite.

His hair was black and neat, combed back with a little stubbornness. His eyes were sharp already, but at fifteen they still carried curiosity rather than exhaustion. He wore clean training clothes, dark and fitted, and his boots were new, not full of holes and tragedy like the ones he wore now.

His father stood across from him.

A human.

Not tall, not muscular, not flashy, not the kind that won respect by crushing someone’s skull in public.

He won respect by surviving.

He was a reputable merchant in Slik, which meant he had learned the most important skill in Null.

He could smile while holding a knife.

His father’s face was calm, lined with quiet patience. His hands were clean. His sleeves were expensive. His eyes were steady the way a man’s eyes became after making a thousand deals with people who wanted to eat him.

On a table between them sat a box.

It was not the red lacquered box Benimaru had held.

This box was black wood reinforced with metal corners, engraved with protective symbols that shimmered faintly when the light hit them.

Sekhmet’s father placed both hands on it and opened it slowly.

Click!

The lid lifted.

Inside were four rings.

At first glance, they looked normal.

Plain metal bands. No gems. No obvious chaos energy swirling around them. No dramatic glow. Nothing that screamed dangerous artifacts.

They looked like the kind of rings a bored noble might wear to pretend he was important.

Sekhmet leaned forward slightly, squinting.

"That is it," he asked, unimpressed. "Four rings."

His father did not smile.

His father rarely wasted smiles.

"Yes," he said. "Four rings."

Sekhmet’s eyebrows lifted. "Are they expensive?"

"They are priceless," his father replied, voice flat.

Sekhmet blinked.

That got his attention.

His father reached in and lifted one ring between two fingers. The ring looked simple, but the moment his father touched it, Sekhmet felt something. A faint pressure in the air, like the room, had gained invisible weight.

Sekhmet’s posture straightened without him realizing.

His father held the ring out.

"You will wear them," his father said.

Sekhmet frowned. "All of them."

"Yes."

"For what."

His father placed the ring down again and lifted the second. Then the third. Then the fourth. One by one, he held them up like a teacher showing tools to a student who had not earned them yet.

"You will wear them for five years," his father said. "During your training."

Sekhmet’s throat tightened slightly.

"Five years," he repeated.

His father nodded once.

"You are going to purgatory," his father continued. "You will survive there. You will train there. You will not return until you are twenty."

The words landed heavy.

Sekhmet had known this was coming. In Slik, boys grew up hearing stories of purgatory. Of monsters. Of dark gods. Of places where even the air tried to kill you. His father had always spoken of it like a necessary poison.

But hearing it stated so plainly still made Sekhmet’s stomach twist.

"Why the rings," Sekhmet demanded, because fear always made him talk faster.

His father’s gaze remained steady.

"They are a weight tool," he said.

Sekhmet blinked.

"A weight tool," he repeated. "Like training weights."

His father’s expression did not change, but his voice sharpened just a little.

"Not like training weights," he said. "It is worse."

Sekhmet opened his mouth to protest, but his father continued before he could.

"The rings will become heavier with time," his father said. "The more your body adapts, the more they increase."

Sekhmet stared at the rings again.

They still looked normal.

They looked harmless.

Which in Null usually meant they were either the most dangerous thing in the room or the most expensive.

"You will get comfortable," his father said. "Then they will make it difficult again. You will get stronger. Then they will punish you with more weight."

Sekhmet’s eyes widened.

"That is not training," he said. "That is cruelty."

His father finally allowed a small, tired exhale that was almost a laugh but not quite.

"Training in Null is cruel," he said. "You survive it, or you become someone’s entertainment."

Sekhmet’s jaw tightened.

Around them, the merchant house moved like a living machine. Servants walked quietly through the halls. Guards stood in corners with polite eyes that missed nothing. The air smelled of incense and expensive oils, the smell of wealth and safety.

But Sekhmet knew safety was temporary in Null.

Then the door to the room opened softly.

A line of young female servants stepped in, carrying trays, fresh water, fruit, and folded cloth. They were all young, all dressed neatly, and all far too excited to be in the same room as Sekhmet.

They tried to hide it.

They failed.

One of them glanced at Sekhmet, then quickly looked away, cheeks coloring. Another stared a moment too long. A third whispered something to the fourth, and they both giggled behind a hand as if Sekhmet’s mere existence was a joke they loved.