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Warm light struck Sekhmet’s face like an insult disguised as kindness. For a breath, he simply stood at the mouth of the cave-castle, squinting into the wide sky, trying to remember what it felt like to be under real sunlight instead of torchfire. It was brighter than he expected, too honest, too sharp, and it made his eyes water like his body was complaining that it had grown accustomed to misery.
Ssssss!
A faint wind slid over the rocks, carrying dust and dry scents. It was not a pleasant breeze. It was the kind that scraped the throat and tasted like old stone. It rolled across a jagged valley of black cliffs and red-brown ground, dotted with thorny shrubs that looked like they had been designed by someone who hated hands.
Sekhmet raised his palm to shield his eyes and slowly took in the landscape. The cave-castle sat on the side of a mountain like a wound in the rock, its entrance a dark mouth that now felt far less frightening than what lay outside. Beyond the mouth of the cave, the lower domain of purgatory stretched in all directions. The terrain rose and fell in uneven ridges, and distant hills looked like sleeping beasts.
Somewhere far away, something howled.
A long, dragging sound that went up and down like a dying instrument.
Awoooooo!
Sekhmet’s spine tightened. He did not need the system to tell him that the wilderness was alive and hungry. The sound alone did it. He had survived in purgatory for years. He knew the rules. The sun did not mean safety. In Null, daylight only meant that you could see what was trying to kill you.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his breath steady. His body still felt weak. His stomach still felt empty. His ribs still remembered Benimaru’s follower’s punch like a personal grudge.
He tried to ignore the smell that clung to him. Blood. Orc blood. Too much of it. It was in his hair. It was under his nails. It was on his coat like a permanent accusation. He had emptied a treasure room into his Void Land, gained a blood system, summoned a tiny bat, received gifts from two gods, and somehow he had not even managed to find soap.
His eyes flicked to the sky again, then to the ground around the cave entrance. There were scattered stones, broken bones, and old tracks hardened into the dirt. The orcs had lived here like parasites. Their comings and goings had carved paths that now meant nothing to him.
He lowered his hand and started walking.
Tap... Tap... Tap...
His boots crunched on gravel, and every step felt too loud. He forced himself to slow. He did not move like a man leaving a dungeon. He moved like a man stepping into a battlefield that had never ended.
He walked twenty paces and stopped again, turning his head to listen.
The wind hissed.
The sun warmed his cheek.
And somewhere, deep in the valley, something moved in the brush with a soft rustling.
Rsssst!
Sekhmet’s gaze narrowed. He instinctively reached toward the side of his body where a sword would normally hang. There was nothing there. No metal. No scabbard. Only a torn coat and dry blood.
He breathed out and thought of the skill.
"Blood Sword."
The system did not chime this time. It did not need to. Sekhmet’s chaos energy moved like a muscle he had just discovered he owned. Blood gathered from the stains on his sleeve and from his still-damp palm. It floated and twisted into a crude blade, the red glimmering in sunlight like dark ruby.
Shhhh!
The blade formed in his hand, warm and pulsing.
He held it low and watched the brush.
A small creature burst out.
Skitter! Skitter!
It was not a beast worth fear. It was a lizard-like scavenger, low to the ground, with too many legs and a face that looked permanently offended. It took one look at Sekhmet and froze, then darted away as if it had just seen the bill for its own funeral.
Sekhmet let his breath out slowly and lowered the blood sword. He felt ridiculous for a moment, then he felt angry at himself for feeling ridiculous. In purgatory, hesitation was how people died. Fear was not weakness. Ignoring fear was.
He glanced down at his hand and noticed something he had not paid attention to since waking up in chains.
Four rings.
Plain metal rings sat on his fingers, their surface dull in sunlight. They looked almost normal, almost harmless. But Sekhmet felt their weight now that he was moving again. It was not physical weight alone. It was a pressure in his bones, like gravity itself had been turned up slightly for him and only him.
His father’s training tool.
The rings.
He had not removed them. He had not even tried. Part of him had been too busy surviving or being possessed.
Sekhmet stared at them and clenched his jaw.
"So you stayed on me even when I was chained. Even when I was dragged. Even when I was nearly eaten.
Of course you did."
He forced himself to call the system without speaking aloud. He did not like how often he was beginning to talk to something in his head, but the world was already insane, so he might as well be efficient inside it.
System, the training tool. What is it?
The system responded with smooth certainty.
[Ding! System notification-
Detected: External Training Tool. Classification: Weight Restriction Artifact. Function: Suppresses host combat output. System Note applies: Removing increases effective battle power.]
Sekhmet’s throat tightened slightly.
So the system knew. It acknowledged what his father had imposed. It called it a restriction, not a promise.
He stared at the rings. A small part of him wanted to tear them off immediately. He could already imagine it. A sudden lightness in his limbs. More speed. More strength. More stamina. The difference between escaping a beast and being eaten by it.