Chapter 72
Their world, he thought, was like an old body—aging slowly, refusing to be saved.
No prayer could restore a life that had already promised itself to ruin.
"An important mission awaits in three hours.
From the nineteen members, full attendance is expected.
No leave requests or excuses for minor illnesses will be accepted.
Only emergencies will be tolerated by the High Command.
I expect everyone to be on alert."
"Understood. My task is to make sure they all gather without delay."
As expected, but understandable. The order was sudden, and he had to inform the others immediately. It gives me confidence.
Grrrkkk!
"This stomach is already protesting. Impossible to devise a brilliant strategy when I'm starving."
Amid his steady footsteps, Shaqar activated his communication device, linking the faint signal emitted by the black crystal in his hand.
Apathy's voice came through from the other side—flat yet firm as always, carrying the kind of discipline that refused to sleep.
Without any small talk, Shaqar delivered the short message.
In three hours, they will move. No leave, no excuses, unless the body itself collapses.
He knew Apathy would understand without further explanation.
That firmness was not merely an order, but a silent promise shared between two who nodded in mutual understanding—aware of how fragile the line between duty and death could be.
When the connection cut off, the room sank once more into silence, filled only by the low hum of the communicator's machine.
Shaqar stared at it for a moment, as though gazing at the face of an old comrade who had borne too many burdens beside him.
He knew Apathy would not disappoint—never had.
That figure had always been his irreplaceable right hand, the bridge between will and execution, logic and fury.
Beyond distance and metal devices, there was trust—wordless, yet unbreakable.
With a deep breath, Shaqar straightened his back, feeling the mission's weight begin to pulse—alive, beating with every second that kept slipping away.
He stepped out from Xirkushkartum Headquarters, letting the cold air greet him with an embrace that was anything but kind.
The evening sun began to crawl down, hiding its face behind layers of reluctant gray clouds—and along the stone road, only the sound of his footsteps became rhythm.
With a stomach unfilled since noon, Shaqar quickened his pace through the dusty alleys, searching for something to eat.
He imagined the scent of food from a still-open tavern, the mere thought of it reminding him of hunger—something achingly human amidst the shadow of war.
Yet he hadn't found the source of that aroma, while his mind kept turning, tangled with thoughts of time running thin and Apathy's silent preparations.
Enough, why think about it again? My stomach speaks clearer than my mind ever could. I'm starving—achingly so. But the question is, what should I eat today?
Fancy food that tastes divine but empties the wallet? Simple food with large portions to fill the belly? Or cheap, ordinary food that's tasteless yet incredibly satisfying?
Ha—how ironic. A captain, yet unsure what to eat.
For the first time in what felt like ages—woven from guilt and the ghosts of the past—Shaqar's chest felt slightly lighter.
The somber night sky no longer mirrored sorrow in his eyes, and his steps carried a softer weight, like someone who had just laid his burden on the altar of fate.
He no longer regretted leaving home, family, and the memories that once made him a true satanist.
All of it now felt like faded portraits tucked in the corner of his mind—not thrown away, yet not to be touched again.
His departure to join the Xirkushkartum Team had become a chapter that could never be reversed.
A decision that brought him rank, honor, and a long spiritual exile.
And yet—strangely—it didn't feel so terrifying anymore.
Shaqar recalled Miara, his only daughter, the girl with soft eyes that once looked at him with love, then turned cold as time tore their bond apart.
He remembered how Miara didn't come to see him even eight days after the funeral, how messages sent through Absyumura were met only with silence, and how her laughter now lived only inside his head.
But the memories no longer shattered him as they once did.
Now, all that remained was a tame bitterness—still sharp, but bearable.
He knew it was far too late to make amends.
The world had forced him to choose.
To be a present father or a needed captain.
And he had decided—willing to pay the price in full.
*I'll go with a standard portion. Balanced, not too much, but enough to calm the rumbling in my gut.
But what menu should I pick?
Crispy maggots seasoned with strong spice, or slices of roach that refuse to die even as they swim in broth? Or perhaps slimy worms said to heal the joints?
Each dish—even the condiments—was prepared with precision.
Each had its own strange allure.
So greed must be set aside. I know my limits.
As one of His Exalted Descendants, I was taught to restrain gluttony, not devour everything to satisfy it.
I must choose—two dishes at most, no more.*
His stomach growled so loudly that Shaqar flinched, feeling as though the entire cobblestone street vibrated in laughter.
In the quiet calm of evening, that sound echoed like an orchestra of hunger—a performance blissfully ignorant of shame.
He exhaled deeply, realizing his body demanded its due after hours of mental turmoil and long meetings.
It didn't take long before his nose caught a sharp aroma from the east road—where a thick red lantern glowed low before an old building.
The tavern looked like a den of sin disguised as a kitchen—the stench of rot, burnt meat, and something sweet yet foul mingling in the humid air.
Shaqar slowed his pace, walking casually for about a hundred meters before reaching the tavern with its wide-open wooden door.
From outside, he could faintly see the dim interior filled with dark-clothed patrons.
Tables were arranged haphazardly, some still wet with unidentified fluids glimmering under the light.
On each table lay dishes both appetizing and horrifying: soup filled with fat worms writhing as they spat mucus, cockroach skewers glazed in black honey still alive, and a bowl of rice adorned with plump white maggots gleaming like rotten pearls.
To satanists, this was true delight—pleasure that stirred not only hunger but their very faith in darkness.
Shaqar looked upon the scene without fear, his lips curving into the faintest smile.
To him, all of this was far too familiar—not disgusting, not tempting—just alive.
Much like himself, long accustomed to the filth of the world, to blood, and to horrors that would haunt ordinary minds for days—and kill their appetite entirely.
"Im—impossible—"
Shaqar's gaze, which had been wandering among the bustling crowd—harsh laughter, clinking glasses, and the hiss of boiling soup that released its intoxicating stench—suddenly froze.
Through the moving crowd, his eyes locked, fixed upon a figure impossible to mistake.
His breath caught. His eyes widened.
And in that instant, every sound in the tavern faded, as though the world itself withdrew—leaving only that one face before him.
To be continued…