Chapter 143
"Prepare yourselves. Synchronize your breathing. Stabilize your core. We depart shortly."
After the command to adhere to the resurrection theory and that wildly improbable conspiracy echoed through the room, Zhulumat did not give anyone enough time to fully process what he had just ordered.
He immediately moved to the next phase of the decision he had formulated within those ten seconds of silence, within the space of his mind where all whispers converged and all information was shaped into a single, complete picture.
He named formations that had only ever been known within classified documents, within structures never revealed to the public, within compositions known only to those in the innermost circle.
The Anti-Rumble Formation with its fifty-five formidable members.
The Orbit Severance Formation with its three to five chosen warriors.
The Banner of Zhulumat with two direct envoys from the supreme leader.
These were formations prepared for the worst-case scenarios, for situations where there was no longer any room for error, for nights like this—when the thunder had already roared and the number of Angels continued to surge beyond the trillions.
Everyone in that room understood what such a composition meant.
They knew that formations like these were never used for ordinary missions, never deployed for routine tasks, never even mentioned unless the situation surpassed what the word "emergency" could possibly describe.
The Anti-Rumble Formation, with its fifty-five members, was the force stationed at the border—the very ones who had just sent envoys to report the loosening defenses and the surge in Angel numbers.
The Orbit Severance Formation was an elite unit specifically formed to confront threats that could not be handled through conventional means, its very name enough to evoke both awe and dread.
And the Banner of Zhulumat—the two direct envoys of the supreme leader—would serve as Zhulumat's eyes and ears in the field, reporting everything they witnessed without passing through convoluted chains of command.
To combine these three elements into a single formation, in a single mission, on a single night, was something that had never occurred before in the history of their struggle.
Shaqar felt his heart begin to race once more as he heard that composition spoken aloud.
He knew that as the captain of Team Xirkushkartum, as the one who had just read the letter that had now become one of their primary references, as a leader responsible for his subordinates—including Apathy, who had just delivered the report—he would be directly involved in whatever came next.
He looked at the letter in his hand, its paper now slightly damp, its ink beginning to fade in places, and for the first time, he realized that this object might become one of the most important things he would carry into the unknown battlefield.
That the words he had doubted just hours ago, that he had read aloud with a commander's thunder despite his inner uncertainty, would now become something like a guidebook he must hold onto in the dark.
That Onigakure's theory about the ritual—with its twelve prohibitions and ten obligations, about the resurrection of something beyond Angels and Holy Beings, about the One Accursed's experiment upon himself—was no longer material for debate, but a foundation for stepping into the unknown darkness.
"Today we move not as shadows. We move toward the center of something that even the Angels have chosen to surround in numbers beyond reason. That means one thing—whatever lies there is worth more than our fear."
Fhooooh!
"If we fall here—if our blood touches the stones of Thalyssra, blessed by the Great Sanse—then your names will not vanish. Your deaths will be remembered. Not as victims, but as the generation that stood when both heaven and hell held their breath. So lift your heads. Step forward without hesitation. Because from this very second, history is watching us."
They arrived quickly, not within a span that allowed anyone to prepare beyond drawing a deep breath and adjusting equipment already checked.
The members of the Anti-Rumble Formation emerged from the same shadows where Apathy and the other envoys had disappeared moments before—but this time they came in full number, in orderly formation, in synchronized movement despite the absence of any audible command.
The fifty-five individuals approached Zhulumat's position and the respective positions of each team captain with firm steps, sharp gazes, and expressions that reflected readiness for whatever would come next.
They were the very same individuals who had been at the border earlier, who had witnessed firsthand how the defenses began to loosen and how the number of Angels surged beyond the trillions—and now they were here, in the same room, ready to step into the eye of the storm alongside their leaders.
Amid the growing crowd filling the room, several members of the Anti-Rumble Formation moved with tasks distinct from the others.
They carried stacks of neatly folded leaflets—leaflets containing maps never seen by anyone outside the innermost circle.
These maps were hidden routes, secret paths prepared for emergency situations, for scenarios where they had to move unseen, for nights like this—when Thalyssra, blessed by the Great Sanse, suddenly became unfamiliar terrain.
The distributors moved swiftly but without haste, ensuring that every member of Team Xirkushkartum not directly under Zhulumat's command received their map before the teams began moving in different directions.
They were soldiers who had previously been told to rest, who had not participated in the long, debate-filled meeting, who had simply waited in hiding without knowing what had transpired within this room.
Now they received the maps with serious expressions, with the understanding that after this, there would be no more time to ask, no more chances to confirm, no more space for doubt.
Zhulumat stood for the first time since the thunder had roared.
He rose with a movement that was slow yet certain, with a posture that suddenly filled the entire room even though physically he was no larger than anyone else present.
When he began to speak, his voice did not need to be raised, for the silence he created was stronger than any shout.
His speech was not long, not elaborate, not adorned with rhetoric typically used by leaders to ignite the spirit of their forces.
He said only one thing—yet it made the chest of everyone who heard it feel both tight and thunderous.
That their deaths here, in Thalyssra, in the heart of the capital blessed by the Great Sanse, on a night when Angels and Holy Beings gathered in numbers never before imagined, would be remembered by all generations of the satanic people to come.
That if they were to fall tonight, if they were to leave this world before dawn arrived, if they were to become part of the darkness creeping in from all directions, then their deaths would not be in vain.
That their names would be spoken in prayers, written in sacred texts, and become legends passed down for as long as the satanic people continued to exist upon this earth.
To be continued…