Chapter 68
The exorcism of Ophistu led by Shaqar, once deemed the pinnacle of triumph, still held no meaning when measured against Zhulumat Katamtum's standards.
Indeed, Shaqar's position as team captain briefly drew attention, for few had expected him capable of completing an exorcism against a being ranked as highly as the Defiled One, Ophistu.
Some saw it as a miracle; others regarded it as an anomaly—something impossible to repeat.
Yet the gaze of Zhulumat Katamtum hinted at something far more complex, something impossible to untangle with mere technical assessments of success.
There was a faint glimmer, a silent question hanging heavy in the air.
'Was that achievement truly born of pure ability—or was there another gap, darker, slipperier, and harder to speak of?'
In his silence, Shaqar chose the safer path.
He made no attempt to guess the unspoken thoughts behind the Elder's eyes, nor did he dare to disturb the unvoiced meaning behind that gaze.
For him, it was enough that Zhulumat still spoke calmly, sentence after sentence, leaving no opening for interruption or reprimand before all the team captains.
He swallowed his confusion, masking it behind a barely noticeable bow, concealing the anxiety pulsing within his chest.
Every word that left Zhulumat's lips became an anchor for Shaqar's focus, as though even a single moment of distraction would shatter him and drag him into ruin.
"Though most members of the Xirkushkartum Team have exceeded expectations, there are still many villages left untouched.There remain isolated settlements, strongholds that continue to shelter the followers of the Cursed One.Those descended from Holy Beings and Angels still linger freely, as though your efforts meant nothing.And worse yet—their numbers far surpass your strength.Their spread across dozens of locations is clearly recorded in my data.Meanwhile, this force? Its number does not even reach one-fifth! Its power is fivefold weaker!Can Xirkushkartum truly take pride while such imbalance still exists?!!"
Wuffffhh!!
"Do not be lulled by a handful of victories, and do not be content with merely bringing down one Ophistu.For in truth, the destruction wrought by the Cursed One's emissaries remains far greater than the restoration achieved.You are not merely outnumbered, but outspanned.And that, in itself, is a disgrace that stains every claim of success you proclaim."
In that room, as Zhulumat Katamtum's voice guided every eye and ear to focus solely upon him, the air grew taut.
His explanation of disappointment came with near-mathematical precision, highlighting the vast disparity between the forces deployed and the countless agents of the Cursed One scattered across many points.
Though Team Xirkushkartum had achieved great success, a faint blemish lingered within the narrative of victory.
Zhulumat did not merely count villages or strongholds still occupied by the enemy; he weighed that imbalance as though placing every captain in the position of the accused.
Every passing second became a reminder—a warning—that in his eyes, greatness was never enough so long as even the smallest crack remained unrepaired.
That gaze swept through the chamber, bringing forth an atmosphere like that of a trial—one that needed no judge but the Elder's cold stare.
Shaqar, sitting in the shadowed corner, felt those words seep into the deepest parts of himself.
He knew those calculations went far beyond statistics—beyond reports of numbers or enemy positions.
Within each emphasized syllable, Shaqar heard echoes of his past, the splintered scars that dragged him back toward ancient wounds.
Defeat, he realized, was not merely a matter of strategy—it was a mirror, reflecting his failures as a father, as a husband, and as a man who had lived too long in the shadows.
Miara, who should have been a legacy of love, had become a symbol of rejection, and in that moment, she too seemed to sit within the room, staring at him with eyes full of hatred.
As time's pulse slowed, that pain merged with the room's atmosphere, forming a prison of the mind from which escape was impossible.
Before Zhulumat Katamtum, any form of achievement lost its worth.
Even the exorcism of Ophistu, once deemed miraculous, dimmed and drowned beneath the standard set too high to ever reach.
For the other captains, the Elder's words were a whip; but for Shaqar, that whip became a blade—cutting without sound.
The great hall seemed to shrink.
Its walls closed in, and the chair Shaqar sat upon transformed into an isolation cell of silence.
His body remained upright, though his spirit fractured wider with every breath.
He knew that silence could be taken as weakness, yet resistance would only drag him deeper into ruin.
So once again, he bowed his head, letting the gaze flow over him—allowing the words to pierce through him again and again.
Behind his near-motionless face, his body trembled, choked by the realization that in the eyes of the room's ruler, he was nothing more than a fragment—something easily erased from the chronicles of history.
"Honorable One, allow me to ask a question."
"Proceed."
"Thank you."
Wuffffh!
"From this document, I have read that the spread of the Cursed One's emissaries has become so vast, they consume dozens of points in a single breath.Yet what I wish to know is—how deep does their claim truly run?Is it mere occupation, or have they already established markers of dominion, binding those regions—at least in part—under the Cursed One's rule?"
The document in Zhulumat Katamtum's right hand, which moments before seemed nothing but a cold sheet of paper, was suddenly folded in half—as though that simple motion carried a weight far greater than it appeared.
A small gesture followed by a pinch to his temple, his eyes closing briefly, creating ripples in the still air of the room.
No words escaped his lips, yet the atmosphere shifted, as if something within him had found dissatisfaction in what he had just read.
His assistant, trained to act without hesitation, immediately seized the documents nearby, distributing them one by one to all team captains without a single spoken instruction.
Silence enveloped each step, leaving only the faint whisper of paper against hands as the sole sound echoing through the chamber.
Shaqar received the sheet with trembling hands, and as his eyes scanned line after line, his heart felt once again trapped within the deepest trench of his past.
Makakushi, at his side, read with careful caution—as though each letter carried venom ready to spread at any moment.
The other captains buried themselves in the lines, suffocating under the weight of the meticulously detailed report.
Each page felt like a witness, a silent observer unveiling hidden failures, slicing through the euphoria of victory until nothing remained.
All heads bowed in silence, but beneath that surface, ripples of unease spread—subtle, yet unmistakable—in the flicker of their eyes.
Onigakure, unlike the others, merely skimmed the text, as if able to grasp the essence without wading through the details that ensnared the rest.
His hand rose into the air—a decisive motion that shattered the silence, demanding space for his voice amidst Zhulumat Katamtum's dominance.
There was a tremor of caution in his request for permission, yet also a rare boldness seldom found in a room filled with the Elder's piercing gazes.
At times his eyes shifted between the page in his hand and Zhulumat's figure upon the seat of honor, weighing the delicate balance between critique and consequence.
The atmosphere shifted again, as though a thin thread had stretched taut between them—ready to snap should either side pull too hard.
To be continued…