Chapter 66
Even in the silence of his slow mobility, Shaqar knew he could not swerve away from responsibility, for the gaze of Zhulumat Katamtum waiting ahead would become a mirror—a reflection of the consequences born from every negligence.
'There is no time left to think about gifts, let alone mourn the distance from Miara.The sirens have long wailed, and the main office awaits.All team leaders must attend, including this old man—still forced to shoulder a mountain of burdens.'
Thud!All documents must be brought.Twenty books—heavy, thick—but each page is a witness, a silent observer of what I and my nineteen subordinates have endured.Ophistu, once humiliated, Ophistu whom we forced to bow—and now the outcome must be accounted for before one of the High Officers.'I will never forget your deed before this, Zhulumat Katamtum!!'
Shaqar's heart hung between the darkness of loss and the push of duty as he prepared himself.Every movement felt heavy.
Not because of distance or physical weight, but because every step carried him farther from a home now silent—and from memories that would not stop haunting.
The clothing he had worn while facing the Angel Ophistu, the accursed underling of the One, was finally removed and stored neatly in a private locker, as if marking a chapter long concluded in his life.
With a weary body yet an alert mind, Shaqar ensured that every crucial document was secured—records of the exorcism process demanding both courage and precision—around twenty medium-sized books arranged tightly, each page containing details capable of determining the direction of the entire Xirkushkartum Team's decisions.
Holding the stack of documents, Shaqar felt a double burden—both physical and mental—as though every sheet pressed a fragment of guilt and responsibility upon his shoulders.
He looked at the pile with dim eyes, recalling the struggles they had endured, from the start of the mission confronting the cursed angel to the final moments before victory was achieved.
Visions of Miara and his late wife lingered in the corners of his mind, whispering an unspoken longing, while the demand of duty pulled him forward.
Each step toward the Xirkushkartum main office became an unavoidable rhythm, even as his heart screamed for pause—for time to grieve.
His steps were slow but steady, treading corridors that felt hollow and cold, and the stack of documents in his hands became an anchor—binding the past, duty, and the tension of what lay ahead.
The path to the main office was not merely physical, but spiritual—forcing Shaqar to contain every wound, fear, and longing that had piled within.
Each movement seemed to affirm that he was no longer just an aging man weighed by loss, but the leader of Xirkushkartum—one who must face the assembly of the Satanic Council, including Zhulumat Katamtum himself, the obstacle and overseer to all his intentions.
'Just wait until these eyes meet his. If they do—'
Screeeech!
"...."
I beg Your forgiveness!
Accept this wretched plea of mine.
And to the Most Exalted One, the Extension of the Palm, Sanse—Zhulumat Katamtum, I raise my supplication for pardon.
I should have arrived earlier."
The hallway leading to the Xirkushkartum main chamber felt endless and hollow, every step of Shaqar ensnared by the ticking clock that seemed to mock him.
After about five minutes and a second, the frail body finally arrived—before the great, heavy door that seemed to demand courage just to be pushed open.
His breath still weighed upon his chest, burdened from the rushed journey, yet shame was far heavier than any fatigue he bore.
Shaqar knew he was the last to arrive, and that alone etched disgrace into the perception of the other team heads—especially with the undeniable aura of Zhulumat Katamtum already filling the room, marking the presence of one who never permitted the slightest mistake.
As the door creaked open, dozens of eyes immediately pierced toward him.Shaqar, who intended to stride quickly without words, was struck by the harsh reality that every seat was filled—even the seat of honor where Zhulumat Katamtum sat, already occupied by his ominous figure.
In that instant, Shaqar's heartbeat thundered, threatening to burst from his chest.Instinctively, he bowed.
Not fully—only halfway.
A gesture of respect and an apology for his tardiness.
The atmosphere froze, as though the air itself withheld its breath, waiting for the verdict of Zhulumat Katamtum—whose gaze was sharper than a rusted blade that had tasted hundreds of victims.
A faint gesture, nearly imperceptible, emerged from the High Officer's hand.
A brief, simple movement—yet carrying the weight to decide one's fate.
Shaqar understood it at once—a fleeting pardon, granting him only the permission to breathe again.
He immediately moved in short steps, staggering toward the seat at the far left corner of the room, the safest spot—far from the gaze capable of stripping dignity in an instant.His steps were hurried yet heavy, as though each pace toward the chair became a long journey to restrain shame, trembling, and guilt alike.
And finally, Shaqar managed to sit—quietly in the corner, trying to hide the tremor in his hands and the pounding within his chest.
He knew that place was not just a corner of the room, but a fragile fortress he built to protect himself from the gaze of Zhulumat Katamtum—a gaze that could shatter more than just the body.
"One second late—or even a minute—is that not an insult to all of us here?Or do you have a reason—one more valuable than the gaze of the High Officer?"
"In short, you dare to undermine this assembly?"
Barely had he sat when Shaqar once again felt crushed, suffocated by the room's oppressive air.
Not only from the cold stare of Zhulumat Katamtum lingering in his thoughts, but also because of the two other figures seated not far from him.
Makakushi—a man with an odd posture resembling a banana trunk, so limp that his body, like neglected tropical leaves, swayed gently as if touched by an unseen breeze.
The sap dripping from his head-like form exuded a sense of decay, gifting nausea to anyone close enough.
On his arms and legs—gelatinous and translucent—moved strange ripples, twisting as though waiting to cling upon touch, to vibrate, then return to shape once more.
His mere presence was enough to make Shaqar's skin crawl, for within every drop that fell was a promise of oblivion—a pact not to be trifled with.
Across him, Onigakure sat in an elegance both unnatural and terrifying.
Her face resembled that of an ordinary woman, with one eye open—gazing sharply in every direction—while nine others remained tightly shut, obediently waiting for their turn to awaken.
For a fleeting second, Shaqar nearly lost consciousness—his mind dragged into the dreadful illusion flowing from her body.
As if every movement carried a snare, Onigakure's seemingly human form hid within layers of unseen menace.
To the careless, even a brush of her arm or leg could mean the destruction of their life's essence.
Shaqar knew well—her power did not always manifest, but it remained a silent threat that could awaken at any moment she felt danger.
Moreover, the aura radiating from her was not merely power—it was dominion, a shadow capable of binding one's mind until they bowed without resistance.
To be continued…