Chapter 71
The One-Legged Demon stood without a sound, its movements stiff yet filled with intent—like a puppet controlled by an unseen will.
Its shadow stretched long across the floor, swallowing what little dim light the lantern above the table dared to offer.
In silence, it distributed a pile of documents—worn sheets carrying the scent of damp ink and ancient secrets—to each captain seated in the rows before it.
Shaqar received his portion with trembling hands, his eyes scanning the incomprehensible letters that seemed to dance across the paper's surface.
He dared not stare at the creature too long, for there was something disturbingly wrong with the shape of its head.
"Its curve resembled that of a severed human leg, stirring a sickly nausea deep within anyone foolish enough to look for too long."
The ceiling quivered faintly, or perhaps it was only Shaqar's imagination.
When the medium-sized blackboard was lifted, a faint screech echoed through the air—like glass dragged by the edge of metal.
All heads turned toward it, and moments later, the room was filled with the sound of chalk scratching slowly.
Line by line appeared, merging with symbols beyond comprehension, as though the Demon was writing in a language readable only by the darkness itself.
Every movement was too precise, too calm for a creature of flesh; as if something far greater was working through its hands.
Shaqar felt that each written letter was more than mere explanation—it was sorcery, binding space and time to bow before a single truth, one no longer pure but twisted from what was once sacred.
"The first step—mapping our positions.
I will use red to mark every captain present.
Red signifies areas of operation and claimed ground—or at least those believed to be safe.
And this color, black, is for the Angels and the Holy Beings.
Black marks every position they occupy.
And look—there are more of them than us, denser, scattered, suffocating."
Before the blackboard that had now become a secret field, the One-Legged Demon moved once more.
From its pale, yellowish, mucus-slick hand, a piece of red chalk was raised—dancing briefly above the surface with the precision of an executioner choosing his victim's neck.
Red dots began to appear one by one, each representing a team captain who could only watch in silence.
Shaqar noticed how each mark carved something more than a location.
There was a hidden meaning there—a warning that their positions had been read, exposed before unseen eyes.
Makakushi and Onigakure stiffened, while Zhulumat Katamtum remained silent in his chair, as though awaiting an answer from a riddle solvable only through suffering.
When the final red mark was placed, the room seemed to run out of air.
Then, without pause, the Demon picked up a black piece of chalk.
The harsh friction filled the chamber, echoing in the ears like whispers from a dark hole.
Black dots formed around the red lines, packed so tightly that the pattern resembled a vast web spanning the battlefield.
The longer it drew, the clearer the imbalance became.
The number of black far outnumbered the red.
"Observe carefully!
Each red and black point is bound.
All are pulled, forced to submit to a single axis.
Have you finally realized?
We—the red and the black alike—are nothing but the outer ring, mere foam drifting on the surface.
At the very center lies something older, darker; the reason the Cursed One sent his holy army far from Balolorona.
This is not a map, but a diagram of offering.
Each territory held, each captain stationed, is but a fragment of one great circle—designed to focus all power upon a single point of singularity.
And this is the truth they have conjured.
What appears as dots and lines before our eyes is, in truth, an altar.
And that altar does not reside in Balolorona—it dwells within the singularity itself."
The chalk in the hand of the One-Legged Demon moved again.
This time it did not mark, but connected.
Each drawn line split the air with an uncanny silence, forming veins crawling across the board's surface.
From his seat, Shaqar saw how those lines intertwined, linking red and black dots into one intricate weave—so dense it resembled a dying map of life itself.
For a moment, he imagined foam upon a black sea—countless, chaotic, yet all obeying one vast current leading toward a single vortex.
Each stroke of the Demon's hand deepened the strange pulse within the captains' chests; as though something beyond them was slowly taking shape—something more than mere imagery or symbols of war.
Then, at an inexplicable moment, the lines began to converge toward a single point.
The red and black chalks switched hands, merging in a motion almost ritualistic.
The One-Legged Demon carved calmly, and each drawn line whispered faintly—like the hiss of a dying breath.
When the final line was complete, the blackboard no longer resembled a map, but a massive circle with a dark center—an eye that stared back at anyone who dared gaze too long.
Shaqar stood transfixed, as if witnessing the cosmos being forcefully unveiled before him.
There was no coincidence here.
Every position, every distance, every color had aligned, forming a pattern too perfect to be the product of war.
Shaqar's gaze fell upon the center of the circle.
There everything converged—a singular point, black and dense, devouring the light around it.
He felt his heartbeat fall out of sync with time, as though each second was being drawn into the void.
Slowly, his consciousness merged with a dreadful realization: what they faced was no military strategy, but a vast will acting as spiritual gravity.
The center was not a location.
It was a singularity—a source of pull that bent reality itself.
From that point, everything in their world began to fold inward—the fall of Balolorona, the rise of the angels, the strengthening of the Cursed One's followers.
None of it was coincidence; all were the orbit of a destruction calling their names one by one.
"Thalyssra, the City Blessed by the Great Sanse.
It is the heart—the pulse that pumps life through the people, the place where all power and wealth converge and spread.
Since we seized this world from the Cursed One, Thalyssra has never ceased to beat.
And if this revelation is true, and the enemy has built their altar there, then they have desecrated the core of civilization.
The fall of Yatamsha is not merely the loss of a city.
It is the total collapse of the economic system.
All that we built with blood and sweat will perish.
The wheel that feeds families, soldiers, even captains like me—will stop forever.
Miara, Absyumura, my dearest grandchild..."
Hufffffh!
"... They will all be dragged, caught within a vortex of ruin far greater than war itself.
There is no longer room for error, nor time for doubt.
If the singularity of Thalyssra is their target, then the Cursed One intends to sever the world's lifeblood with cruelty.
And when that time comes, I cannot guarantee the safety of anyone—not even myself."
That name slipped out like an unbidden chant between breaths, thickening the air in the chamber.
To be continued…