Chapter 67
Both Makakushi and Onigakure now gazed at Shaqar with eyes that differed in expression yet carried the same meaning.
From their lips escaped a question that felt more like an accusation, questioning how a team leader such as Shaqar could arrive late—even by a single second.
The question came forth without a loud voice, yet it still cut deep, as though every unheard word clung to the skin and seeped into the bones.
Shaqar felt his body grow heavier in the corner seat, his chest pressed by a mix of shame and nervousness, for he knew well that for beings like them, time was not merely minutes and seconds—it was a measure of discipline that decided who deserved to remain within the circle of power, and who deserved to be cast out from history.
"I forgot.I did place the document about Ophistu somewhere, but damn it—I can't remember exactly where."
Thud!
"Haaaaah—"
"Shaqar... Shaqar... sixty years of life, and still tripping over something as trivial as forgetting where you put a document?Do you think this negligence can be tolerated simply because of your age?"
"About that—"
"Stop circling around, Shaqar.Don't let carelessness consume you, and don't drown yourself in the misery you yourself have cultivated.This world is cruel to those who only know how to complain.So I need not explain—you already understand that, don't you?"
"You're right.Fuuuuh…"
The shadows of the room continued to devour, swallowing every breath that dared to escape, emphasizing that Shaqar's tardiness was not merely a matter of time, but a stain that clung to his being.
With a hoarse voice, he tried to explain the reason behind the lost Ophistu document—saying he had placed it somewhere, though he could not recall where.
Forgetfulness became the frailest shield, easily pierced and far too weak to withstand the sharp gazes of those listening.
Onigakure tapped his forehead with a spontaneous motion—an unspoken gesture of weariness that conveyed more disappointment than words could.
Meanwhile, Makakushi only responded subtly, a faint shake of the head, avoiding a storm that might arise from the direction of Zhulumat Katamtum.
Yet in that barely perceptible gesture, there was a subtle sting—one that sank deeper than any open reprimand.
Makakushi spoke in a tone that sounded flat, yet its meaning seeped like venom into Shaqar's soul.
He advised—or rather, taunted—Shaqar not to anchor himself in trivial matters that could bind his own life in chains.
Though it sounded ordinary, beneath that calm surface gleamed a sharp edge, a layer that reminded Shaqar of the oldest wound in his life.
A tragic life—abandoned, cast out from the family circle after his wife's death, denied the right to attend her final sacred moment.
All of it formed a tangled thread that could never be unraveled.
The memory of Miara, his only child who should have been his solace, now became the very source of pain that would not heal.
Miara rejected his presence, hating him with a fire that would not die, seeing Shaqar as nothing more than an outdated shadow to be left behind.
To her, her father was merely an old man—sixty years of age—drowned in empty obsession, chasing after a title, a name that meant nothing when traded for love and family acceptance.
In that room, when Makakushi released his bitter taunt, Shaqar did not argue back.
For what was said was true—and that truth cut sharper than any blade.
"To all the Captains of Xirkushkartum, I offer my deepest respect. Your presence in this sacred place affirms your absolute loyalty to the path that has been decreed.Let us give eternal gratitude to our Senior, the Honorable Sanse, the highest ruler among the Elders.Without His guidance and might, the satanic kind could never have stood firm in this world."
Hufffffhh!
"This gathering today... is no ordinary meeting.Understand this—what we do here today is more than just a conference.This is a turning point, an assault that will determine our future.Therefore, listen carefully to every word.This is not merely an order from a superior—this is the line of fate that must be accepted."
"...."
Shaqar's eyes were locked upon the figure of Zhulumat Katamtum, as though no other space existed in the room besides the majestic shadow emanating from that seat of honor.
Each passing second felt longer than it should, forcing the old body to bear an invisible weight.
His face—a mosaic assembled from scattered pieces—could no longer form a whole reflection of who he once was.
Those fragments quivered beneath the piercing gaze that never missed, making him realize that even silence could be punishment.
When Zhulumat finished his opening speech flawlessly, leaving no room for weakness, Shaqar could only let himself shrink, crushed into the corner chair where he sat.
As the Elder's voice spread through the air, the meeting hall seemed to freeze, compelled again and again to hold its breath lest it stain the perfection of his words.
In Shaqar's chest, his heart trembled in erratic rhythm, trying to match the unseen pounding struck by each of Zhulumat's phrases.
Old memories—long buried—resurfaced once more, bringing forth Miara's face, crystallizing the wound that seemed summoned by those coldly precise words.
What he heard was not merely a voice, but the echo of a past refusing to fade—voices mocking him as a failed father, a fragile satanist unworthy to sit at that grand table.
Between words and memories, the line blurred, leaving Shaqar dragged by a current he could not resist.
His body tried to remain upright, yet behind his eyes lay fragility—cracks spreading outward, spilling silently.
Every breath became testimony that he still existed, though only as a shadow cornered away from the light.
Meanwhile, Zhulumat Katamtum continued to shape the room's atmosphere with almost mechanical precision, while Shaqar felt himself weighed on a scale that knew no mercy.
That corner seat became an isolation chamber, a fragile fortress unable to protect him from either memory or the gazes surrounding him.
Beneath that crushing aura, Shaqar's suffering took on a new form.
Not merely shame for his tardiness, but a spiritual imprisonment—a grim affirmation that he was nothing more than a fragment, a soul broken from its wholeness.
"At this point, I must give recognition.Shaqar, along with your nineteen followers, has brought down Ophistu—the vile angel from the elite ranks of the Cursed One.A feat not to be taken lightly.And to all of you, leaders of Xirkushkartum, from my heart I offer congratulations.Each of you has succeeded—at least once—in banishing a manifestation of a holy being.That is proof of loyalty and perseverance beyond measure toward the Honorable Sanse.However—do not be blinded."
Fuuuuh!
"Your success, including yours, Shaqar, is but a fragment of a fragment."
'Was there a flaw in the Ophistu exorcism ritual? A missed step? Or... a secret I have yet to understand?Enough. It is unwise to assume before everything is laid bare.Haaaaah….'
Though this time the greatest victory was claimed by Team Xirkushkartum, the clamor of triumph was nothing but a faint echo before Zhulumat Katamtum.
For most of the team leaders, exorcising a holy being was a sign of achievement—a validation that their strength could pierce the limits set by their foes.
Yet in the Elder's eyes, it was merely a ripple upon a vast sea.
Not worthy of celebration, nor even of being spoken as cause for pride.
To be continued…