Chapter 69
"Silent for so long, Zhulumat.
Doubt this report, or is there something else?
Whenever I recall Miara's hateful gaze, my blood boils.
I long to kill that bastard!
All those rules came from him; he is the one who tore me from my own child!
If only...."
Krrrrrk!!
"Yet in the end, all this wrath must submit to reality.
No matter how long, I have no power, no authority comparable to confront a High Satanic Official.
I can only endure, keep waiting and watching.
After all, in the end you will speak. And when you slip, I will learn—whether our struggle was a mere joke, or harbors a truth far more terrifying."
Shaqar kept his head bowed, studying sentence after sentence written in ink of darkness, each line a weight pressing on his chest.
He did not raise his head, nor dared glance toward Onigakure, which now awaited an answer.
For him it was more important to measure the correspondence between what was recorded in the report and what he had actually witnessed in the field.
Zhulumat Katamtum's words had pierced and this report was only a second dagger striking from another angle.
There was doubt, and an awareness that the damage caused by the Cursed One's minions might be broader than previously suspected.
So he chose to wait, restrain himself, as if his entire life depended on the reply that would soon come from the High Official's mouth.
Makakushi too was absorbed in a similar page, his eyes tracing rows of letters with a calm rhythm, though beneath it lay a tension he could not hide.
He did not lift his face, offered no comment.
He only let his small world remain locked within the paper.
For him, intervening in a conversation with no clear end would only invite a greater storm.
So he remained silent, exactly like a shadow clinging to the wall, watching without involvement.
In his mind he weighed whether this report was merely formal presentation, or a hidden indictment that would ensnare every captain with faults they had not yet realized.
The other team captains were in the same situation.
Page after page turned with a thin sound, the only noise besides the beating of each heart.
No one tried to chime in, nor did anyone wish to correct, for this room belonged entirely to Zhulumat Katamtum.
Onigakure's question hanging in the air was left unanswered by the peers, because they knew no criticism could stand upright without the High Official's permission.
Silence became a shield and also a noose, and all chose to hide behind those cold sheets of paper.
"Haahhhh—One village, Balolorona."
"M-may it please Your Excellency...."
"That place has been swallowed whole, completely absorbed by the Cursed One's envoys.
The Angels, and not least every Holy Creature, agreed to not merely pass through but to plant their mark.
Sahaja has taken it—fully.
There is no gap left.
From root to roof, from earth to sky has now been seized, truly acquired, and has become their permanent territory.
Nothing remains but the hollow emptiness of a village; nothing can escape the grip of the Cursed One's beasts."
The room seemed to freeze, trapped in an aura that thickened after two measured breaths were heard.
There was no tremor in Zhulumat Katamtum's body, no sign of hesitation.
Instead authority hardened, driving like an invisible blade into every satanist present.
For Shaqar the seconds stretched longer than they should, every movement of the High Official felt like a great hammer striking consciousness.
He restrained himself from looking away, reluctant to make a sound, for this kind of silence was more terrifying than a thousand insults.
Thus the quiet led by the High Official's breaths became a trial, where the captains were defendants awaiting verdict.
Makakushi, eyes bowed, kept his gaze fixed on the report—even as his ears clung to every breath's rhythm.
He knew that behind Zhulumat's simple motions there were deeper signals.
'Assessment, consideration, and likely a decision that will change their course.'
No other captain dared lift their head, as if afraid that meeting another's gaze would mercilessly expose their deepest secrets.
Consequently the atmosphere thickened, suffocating more with each passing moment, binding every tongue to silence.
Shaqar, in his corner chair, felt those two breaths press down more oppressively than any line of text.
Zhulumat's breath did not merely fill the space, it consumed air, draining the remaining courage from the old bodies there.
His heart beat wildly, trying to match the tempo forced upon them—the tempo set entirely by the High Official.
For him, that moment was a reminder, a warning that in this room there was no room to argue, no chance to show oneself.
There was only a sinking further emphasized by the prestige radiating from a single figure.
Zhulumat Katamtum's voice spread to every corner of the room, penetrating the smallest cracks in the walls of the Xirkushkartum main office.
The tone was calm, clear, yet it bore a weight no one could ignore, worthy of the title Most High Satanic Official.
Each vibration of his voice seemed to carry law, becoming decree without possibility of rebuttal.
Those who listened did not merely receive information, they were confronted with the reality that destiny itself bowed to the sentences spoken.
Silence transformed into a vast field where that voice was an unavoidable weapon, subduing even thoughts that tried to resist.
Balolorona was named, not as a threatened territory, but as a village that had fallen completely.
There was no gray area, no room for hope.
Everything was described in bold lines erasing any possibility of defense.
The enemy had annexed it, forcing every inch of land under their power, leaving no crack for even a breath.
Each team leader swallowed those words bitterly, tasting a bitterness deeper than the trembling report clutched in their hands.
Zhulumat had issued judgment, and that judgment was heavier, far more burdensome than all the figures and estimates they had previously imagined.
'Balolorona ... far more than a cluster of houses and fields.
It is a geometry of power, a perfect triangle etched upon the earth.
Its territory spans the width of dozens of villages, and there beats one of our military hearts, sustaining the entire struggle of the Satanic people in the world.
Its fall is not merely territorial defeat.
It is absolute catastrophe, meaning the very womb of our armaments has been ripped away by the enemy.
Every target of the Cursed One's minions always harbors a grand plan—a mad strategy capable of overturning the war and forcing everything to submit.
No, this must not happen.
Even if you hate every belief of mine, I will not allow that hatred to tear apart, openly burn your future—my beloved daughter.
Absyumura, who is my son-in-law, and my infant grandchild must be rescued, secured swiftly from the Cursed One's insane designs.
And to achieve that, I will not hesitate to sacrifice this soul.'
Deep within, Shaqar muttered softly, a voiceless echo resonating in an inner space no one could reach.
The Balolorona village that Zhulumat Katamtum had just named was not an ordinary point on a map.
Its borders stretched wide, forming a giant triangle with sides that cut the horizon, equivalent to thousands of villages combined.
To be continued…