Chapter 76
He let out another sigh, this time longer, as if he wanted to release all the remaining bitterness within—and from his lips escaped a faint exhale, a blend of exhaustion and regret that could no longer be undone.
His gaze drifted toward the road Miara had just taken.
There, only faint shadows remained, footprints fading into the dust, and the lingering scent of dried flowers from the princess's basket.
Shaqar stared blankly, his eyes not truly seeing anything except the reflection of himself rippling within the puddle near his feet.
He saw an old man—a man who had lost the courage to atone, the strength to stand before his own past.
In his mind, words echoed—the ones that should have been spoken, the apologies that should have been given directly, and the tears that should have fallen before Miara's eyes.
But all of that now was nothing more than "should have."
He realized, there was nothing sadder than knowing the right moment had passed while he was still hiding behind excuses.
Shaqar knew well that his courage was no longer what it once was.
He could challenge death itself, face the underlings of the Cursed One with an unflinching stare.
But before Miara, the daughter he himself had brought into this world, that resolve crumbled in an instant.
He was too afraid to hurt, too much of a coward to make things right.
A possibility crossed his mind—that perhaps, if he had stepped forward and met Miara's eyes directly, those words of apology could have become a bridge.
He believed that even if hatred still lingered, Miara would have known that behind all his foolish ideals of sacrifice and salvation, there still remained a small heart full of regret, a love left unspoken.
Yet that belief came too late, swallowed by the anxiety that had been nurtured for years.
He lifted his face toward the sky, then lowered it again, as though ashamed of himself.
No one needed to point fingers—Shaqar already knew he was a loser, a father who had failed to make peace with his own regrets.
And amid his now-steady breaths, only one line of thought spun in his mind—unspoken, yet resounding clearly within.
"That the courage to love means nothing without the courage to atone."
"Shaqar, come with me.Let's go to the tavern to eat. What you need is a full stomach, not a heart suffocated by regret."
"Emmmh—"
Whoooosh!
"Let that shadow go from your mind.You did see Miara. But that wasn't fate, nor was it born of some hidden intent.It was merely coincidence.A simple coincidence—but one that deeply wounded the heart, nothing more and nothing less."
The sky still shone its light when Apathy—who had been standing in silence all this time—finally exhaled and gently patted his captain's shoulder.
Shaqar did not turn.
Even now, his eyes were fixed on the place where Miara had been—as though that space still held her trace.
An odd silence hung between them, a pause that refused to be filled with words.
Apathy, with youthful instinct sharper than it appeared, made no effort to pry.
He knew the man before him wasn't merely weary from hunger, but trapped by something far deeper than guilt.
So he simply spoke softly, inviting Shaqar to step toward the small tavern by the roadside, where the line had now thinned—the very place that, minutes ago, had silently witnessed something that almost happened.
Their steps were heavy.
Not because of distance, but because of the emotions that still clung thick in the air.
Shaqar walked slowly, head lowered, as if every stone he stepped on carried a memory waiting to ensnare him again.
Meanwhile, Apathy's eyes quietly glanced at the same shop, though with a gaze entirely different—not because of the food there, but because he understood the coincidence that had just taken place.
He voiced his thoughts quietly, knowing with certainty that Shaqar had never planned to meet Miara today.
There was no hidden agenda, no lingering intention pressing from behind a veil.
It all just happened, like a small twist of fate that came only to test a courage that never had the chance to bloom.
And within that coincidence, Apathy saw something beyond words—how fragile a man once deemed strong could be, how easily old wounds could tear open the walls of a soul that outwardly seemed unshakable.
When at last they stood in line, on the same spot Miara and her neighbor had just stood upon, the world felt foreign to Shaqar.
The aroma of warm food wafting from the kitchen stirred no appetite in him.
He merely stared at the ground, trying to erase his daughter's footprints from memory—but every speck of dust clinging to his shoes felt like a remnant of her presence, unwilling to fade.
Apathy glanced his way, but spoke not a word.
There was a kind of silent reverence between them—that a freshly opened wound should not be spoken of, only acknowledged and left to fade slowly with time.
And in the slow-moving line, only Shaqar's deep breaths could be heard most clearly, filling the space between noise and silence with the unspoken rhythm of remorse.
Among the drifting steam that danced above their bowls, the sound of footsteps outside the tavern slowly vanished into the dust.
Sunlight crept through the latticed windows, brushing across the faces of two men whose gazes met in quiet understanding.
Beneath its glow, the contrast was stark—youthful fire against a weary soul, withered by regret.
Apathy, with gestures light yet vivid, filled the air with tales of ancient wars—of sacred beings who fell from the heavens and of battles between the mortal and the eternal.
He spoke of a terrifying encounter with the Holy Entity Safi'el, who nearly annihilated his entire team.
Then of a mysterious incident when an Angel, named Xajuriosta, wings broken and sorrowful, fell from the sky and crashed into the ground near the site of their exorcism mission.
He recalled too a sacred being in the form of a strange bracelet.
Its armor radiated reverence and gratitude, yet suddenly turned feral and anguished when the sacred verses of the Honored Sanse were recited.
The story spun around names once invoked in prayer and curse alike—tales that should have reignited the flame of warriors' spirits.
But before the old man, those stories were nothing but hollow echoes reverberating against the cracked walls of a broken heart.
Shaqar listened—or perhaps merely pretended to—while within him, something quietly melted away, like wax dissolving beneath dim light.
The warmth rising from his meal could not erase the scent of the past still lingering at the edge of memory.
Each time his spoon tapped the bowl, it was as though faint chimes from the past trembled with it.
Shaqar, without truly meeting his companion's eyes, realized that Apathy's retelling was not an attempt at comfort, but a young man's way to chase away a silence too heavy to bear alone.
There was something strange in the quiet between Apathy's sentences—a mute confession that both men understood each other's burdens but chose to pretend otherwise.
Behind every forced chuckle, Shaqar caught a glimpse of himself—a once-proud warrior now imprisoned by memories he could not erase.
He touched his spoon gently, yet the food remained untouched, much like his spirit—bereft of any taste for the world.
To be continued…