Chapter 74
Shaqar flinched slightly, his consciousness thrown back from the whirlpool of daydreams that nearly swallowed him whole.
When he turned around, what he saw was the face of Apathy, the subordinate he had trusted more than anyone else in Team Xirkushkartum.
Fifty years of life hadn't dulled the youthful spirit that radiated from his expression—perhaps even surpassing that of men twenty years his junior.
Apathy's gaze—sharp yet relaxed, like someone used to facing danger while still being able to joke about it—pulled Shaqar back into a more tangible moment, noisy and painfully human.
In his subordinate's eyes, there was no prejudice, no trace of past wounds.
Only the kind of warm coincidence that happens when two comrades unexpectedly meet amid the chaos of a harsh world.
Shaqar swallowed hard.
Half out of surprise, half out of fear.
On one hand, Apathy's presence gave him a reason—a convenient excuse—to turn his gaze away from Miara, who stood a few steps across from him.
On the other, that same presence only tightened the snare around him, trapping him in an even crueler dilemma.
Apathy pointed toward the long line in front of the food stall with a light tone, urging Shaqar to queue before the meals ran out.
But right there, at the end of his view filled with unfamiliar bodies and the dim yellow of dying lamps, was Miara's silhouette—the back he could still recognize even through the thickest fog.
Shaqar's heartbeat surged again, pounding against his chest as if demanding a decision he still lacked the courage to make.
Apathy smiled casually, unaware of the storm raging in his captain's heart.
He saw only a weary man—perhaps hungry, perhaps simply in need of rest after a long meeting.
So, without realizing anything, Apathy patted Shaqar's shoulder again and stepped forward, shortening the distance between them—closer to Miara, who was still chatting cheerfully with her companion.
And in that moment, the entire world seemed to hold its breath—between two steps and two souls once bound by blood, now separated by something unseen, sharper than a blade, colder than time that had passed without forgiveness.
"Captain, how long have you been lost in your thoughts?This isn't the time to daydream.Come on, find a spot in line before someone else takes our breakfast."
'Why is he looking at me with such confusion?Does my exhaustion show that clearly, as if I've just crossed a thousand worlds in a blink?'
"Let's move, Captain.The slower we are, the hungrier we'll both be."
'Should I continue… or stay right here?This Apathy is too naïve—he thinks my problem is just hunger.But no, I have to stop this now!'
Tssrakk!!
"Captain? What's wrong? Is something bothering you, that you refuse to move?"
"...."
For a moment, time slowed, halting everything between the uneven rhythm of their breaths.
Shaqar, his eyes still dimmed by the shadow of memory, felt Apathy's hand gripping his arm—warm, young, and full of conviction he once had himself, before loss and duty turned him into what he was now.
When Apathy tried to pull him forward, Shaqar's steps were stopped by something invisible, like fine threads wrapping around his legs, instinctively holding him back from disrupting the fragile balance before him.
He could feel his blood pulsing fast, yet too afraid to move further.
There, just a few steps away, stood the figure who once called him "Father" with love—now the living symbol of everything he had sacrificed for a vow he no longer fully believed in.
Apathy looked at him, his brows slightly furrowed in sincere confusion.
He didn't understand what was happening inside his captain's chest, unaware that those three steps between them felt, to Shaqar, like crossing an ocean filled with regret, love, and ruin that refused to die.
In Apathy's eyes, it was just an ordinary queue at a modest eatery—a place where two comrades could share a meal and complain about heavy duties—but to Shaqar, it was a battlefield without bullets or blood, where every choice could kill the last fragile piece of hope left in him.
'The hope to be redeemed.'
Shaqar gripped Apathy's arm in return—gentle, yet firm enough to speak without words that this step could not continue.
That hold was enough to stop his subordinate's motion, but not enough to explain why.
Apathy stared at him.
He waited, uneasy, yet still full of respect for his captain.
In those young eyes, Shaqar saw a reflection of his former self—filled with energy, with trust, untouched by the bitterness of loss.
He wanted to speak, to offer a logical excuse or even a small laugh to cover the unease.
But the words froze in his throat, trapped by Miara's shadow standing ahead—glancing right and left—perhaps sensing the lingering gaze that clung too long from behind.
"...."
"Ah… Captain. I'm sorry. I pushed too hard earlier.I didn't realize the situation was… this complicated."
"...."
"Mm—forget it, then."
Wussssh!
"Haaaaah…"
"Captain, are you still haunted by your past?Still shackled by the wounds that could never be avoided?By the memories of all those moments you missed with your family?By the wife who passed while you arrived eight days too late?And Miara—your daughter—whose eyes now see you as a father lost in his own pride?Do those ghosts still follow you?"
Shaqar lowered his head deeper, as if the earth beneath could swallow the bitterness swelling inside his chest.
His shoulders slumped, his breathing grew heavy, and from afar, the flickering oil lamp in the tavern cast shadows that made his face appear far older than his years.
Amid the noise of laughter and the stench of raw fish that filled the air, Shaqar was trapped—imprisoned within a silence only those who've regretted too long could know.
Apathy opened his mouth to speak, but Shaqar's eyes, refusing to meet anyone's, were already an answer in themselves.
'There are old wounds that never heal, and memories that refuse to fade.'
And when Apathy turned his head, his gaze accidentally caught sight of the figure standing mid-line—Miara, the only daughter of the old man now bowing his head.
Realization struck him, and he nodded slowly, understanding why Shaqar had suddenly stopped.
There was something far more complex than simple hunger.
'A meeting that should've been beautiful, but instead became a test of the soul.'
With a small cough barely audible over the crowd, Apathy apologized.
His voice was soft, almost tender, yet strong enough to pierce the air between them.
He felt guilty—ashamed of his thoughtless behavior, for dragging his captain into a situation sharper than any blade.
In his young eyes, he no longer saw Shaqar as an unshakable leader, but as a man burdened with a past too heavy to drop.
And carefully, Apathy spoke again, asking the question that perhaps no one had ever dared to ask aloud.
'Is Shaqar still tormented by his past—by sins that even time itself refuses to erase?'
To be continued…