Chapter 153
On the other side, Zhulumat did not look back again.
He gave no further tribute.
He did not slow his steps.
Because he knew—this was a farewell that did not require a response.
With one firm motion of his hand, he gave the signal to advance.
And in an instant, nearly three-quarters of the army moved.
The first step slammed against the marble floor.
The second came faster.
The third turned into a full sprint.
Shaqar and his unit stood at the very front.
Agatha was beside him, her expression focused once more even though blood still trickled faintly from her temple.
The formation surged forward like a wave forced to break through jagged rocks.
They no longer preserved silence.
They no longer restrained their energy.
Everything was directed toward a single objective—the gate leading to the second floor.
But the Holy Creatures and Angels did not remain still.
Their mouths opened once more, yet this time it was not sirens that emerged—but attacks.
Light condensed into sharp blasts, like invisible spears fired directly from their will.
Dozens, hundreds of them shot forward at once.
The air split apart.
The floor cracked in several places from the impact.
Some attacks struck the rear of the running forces, creating bursts of light colliding against the remnants of exorcism energy still lingering.
Cries rang out, but not enough to halt the advance.
Zhulumat remained at the forefront, his eyes locked on a single point in the distance—the gate.
There was no hesitation there.
No regret.
Only one thing remained.
Advance, before everything became too late.
And behind them… that song still echoed on.
The attack came like a rain of spears of light—merciless, relentless, leaving no room to breathe.
Zhulumat felt waves of heat sweep just above his head, splitting the air before exploding behind their ranks a second later.
The Angels were no longer merely standing still; their wings of light bloomed completely, every feather becoming the muzzle of a weapon firing streams of energy in a precise, mechanical, and deadly rhythm.
The larger Holy Creatures began to march forward, their rigid bodies trembling with liturgies that continued to echo, widening the wounds upon the attackers' bodies.
On the fractured floor, several members of the Orbit Breaker Line collapsed—not dead, but too injured to continue running.
"Move forward—don't stop!"
"O Protector above all protectors, protect their path…"
Yet no one stopped.
Zhulumat could hear the voices behind him, voices that continued to split through the pressure of the liturgy like an axe cutting through dry branches: praises to the Great Sanse, chanted by Shasira with a voice cracked yet never extinguished, layered beneath the heavy tones of Itarabathe that sounded both like a prayer and a curse, interrupted by the sharp resonance of Muntashifa's voice like a blade, all led by Hopsly who recited it with a rhythm that bound everything together into an invisible fortress.
The chant did not stop the attacks, but it created space—space where feet on the verge of collapse could find footing, space where pain became something bearable, space where thirty percent of those left behind chose to become a wall rather than victims.
And that wall stood firm.
Shasira was no longer kneeling.
She stood at the very rear line of the escort group, both palms spread wide even though both her arms had been slashed from wrist to elbow, blood soaking her fingers, yet not a single attack managed to pass through the zone where she stood.
Itarabathe merged with the remaining Anti-Rumble Line formation, his body becoming the axis of subtle movements that diverted bursts of light before they could reach the main force running toward the gate.
Muntashifa laughed amidst the liturgies attempting to silence her, her voice only growing louder, more defiant, as though she were conversing with death itself and mocking it for being too slow.
Hopsly neither spoke, laughed, nor moved much—he simply stood at the center of all that remained, eyes closed, lips continuously reciting praises that made the air around him feel heavier, denser, harder for the spears of light to pierce through.
Twenty-nine percent of the forces left behind—they had no names written in the strategy sheets, yet they still possessed lungs forcing air out in the form of praise, legs forcing themselves to stand even while their skin split open in countless places, and determination that had transformed into something more primitive than mere courage.
An unwillingness to die before the mission was complete.
"NOW!"
Zhulumat did not turn around.
He could not.
Not because he feared seeing what might have fallen behind him, but because every breath he took now had to be directed toward only one point ahead—the second-floor gate that was now drawing closer and closer.
Beside him, Shaqar ran with the same rhythm, his body already struck by at least three blasts of light, yet he continued moving as though nothing had changed.
Agatha, on the other side, had completely lost her headset, yet her eyes had become sharper than ever before, reading every movement of the Angels ahead and shouting brief warnings before each incoming wave of attacks struck.
Behind them, footsteps thundered chaotically yet continued moving forward.
Some staggered.
Some fell only to rise again.
Some crawled for several meters before finally standing once more because a hand from behind pulled them back up.
Zhulumat could feel the number of troops following him shrinking with every ten steps, yet he could also feel that with every loss, their speed increased instead—like an arrow shedding fragments of wood mid-flight yet becoming lighter, sharper, and harder to stop.
A burst of light struck directly before his feet, shattering marble and hurling sharp fragments in every direction.
Zhulumat did not slow down.
He broke through the cloud of dust with one sweep of his arm, clearing the debris from his path, and when he emerged from the white haze, the second-floor gate stood directly before him—open, dark, and waiting.
The gate to the second floor was not merely a connection between spaces, but a firm boundary separating one world from another.
The gate itself was already a declaration.
Two colossal pillars of black stone that appeared to burn from within like charcoal preserving ancient embers, while on the opposite side, the pillars were layered with transparent crystal radiating a chill that pierced into the bones.
At the threshold, the air split into two—one half sending waves of heat that dried the throat, the other piercing through the pores with a cold as sharp as blades.
"I can feel both sides," whispered one soldier at the rear line, his breath emerging in two forms.
Cold vapor escaped from his lips, yet sweat soaked his temples.
The satanists exchanged glances, because they knew that whatever awaited beyond this gate could not be understood through the logic of heaven and hell they had always known.
The gate towered ten meters high, and at its peak was engraved a name that could not be read, because its letters continuously shifted between forms too holy for mortal eyes to behold and forms too cursed to remember.
And when the first step touched the second floor, the entire castle seemed to draw a long breath together with them.
To be continued…