Chapter 165
"Do not run," the woman's head whispered in a voice that sounded like someone comforting a frightened child, yet there was no comfort within it.
There was only certainty—the certainty that running would change nothing, that feet moving swiftly would arrive at the same destination as feet frozen in place.
And before anyone could question what those words meant, Nebetu'u cast the copies of the pendulum not with a swing of his arm, but with a breath, like someone blowing on dandelion fluff and allowing the wind to decide where each seed would drift.
The copies shot in every direction at a speed that made no sense for objects that possessed neither wings, nor engines, nor prayers pushing them from behind.
They moved simply because they had been blown.
Because they had been exhaled.
Because someone with unquestionable authority had decided they must reach their destinations before the next heartbeat could finish beating.
And each copy had a different target.
Thirteen streaked toward Maharaja Krata behind his throne of unextinguished light.
Twenty-four pierced through the ranks of Angels who still stood half-frozen with scriptures in their hands.
And fifty—because no one was counting precisely amid a chaos that had already reached the point where numbers lost their meaning—scattered throughout every corner of the chamber, one for each Holy Creature still standing with their scythes pointed toward the ground.
Those scythes now trembled, not from doubt, but from acknowledgment that something older than themselves was moving, and they had no choice but to accept it.
Amid the clouds of smoke that were beginning to consume the Angels' perfect forms, amid the copies of the pendulum still embedded in the chests of the Holy Creatures like thorns no one dared remove for fear that what remained inside would be more dangerous than what could be seen outside, Agatha felt something she had never experienced throughout her entire career as a satanist soldier who had witnessed far too many deaths to still believe in luck.
She felt her heart stir with a primitive urge.
An urge to raise her weapon.
To scream.
To order the eighty-seven fallen soldiers to direct every remaining exorcism tool toward Nebetu'u, who still floated there with an absurd serenity.
Because wasn't that what they always did?
Wasn't the answer always the same whenever they encountered a creature their sacred texts could not explain?
Whenever they faced an entity whose power exceeded anything they had ever trained to confront?
Attack.
Attack.
Attack until there was nothing left to attack.
But then her memory leapt back to that morning, to the moment Zhulumat stood before them with a rolled map of the castle in his hand.
To the moment their commander declared, in a voice that left no room for negotiation, that the future of satanist humanity depended upon this mission.
That Team Xirkushkartum—the team now led directly by Zhulumat himself—was the only hope remaining after twenty-three other teams had perished in silence without ever sending a single report about what had killed them.
"We... we can't stay here," Agatha whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.
Beside her, Apathy—still trying to remember whether he truly had a name, or whether that name was merely a story he had repeated so many times that he eventually believed it—turned toward her with empty eyes but ears that still functioned.
"What did you say?" Apathy asked.
His voice emerged like shards of glass scraping against one another.
And Agatha realized she had no more time left for doubt.
She drew a breath that felt like inhaling water after nearly drowning.
Then she shouted with a voice she never imagined still remained inside her throat, hoarse from blood and vomit.
"ZHULUMAT—WE HAVE TO GO TO THE THIRD FLOOR!"
For a moment, Zhulumat did not respond.
His eyes remained fixed upon Nebetu'u, who had begun swinging the original pendulum in his hand with broader, slower motions, like someone measuring the distance between life and death and discovering that the distance was no wider than a split strand of hair.
"Listen to me—TEAM XIRKUSHKARTUM CANNOT BE DESTROYED HERE, NOT BY HIS HANDS!" Agatha continued, her voice breaking more and more at its edges.
This time, Zhulumat turned toward her.
His bloodshot eyes caught something he had never seen on Agatha's face before.
Not fear.
Not panic.
But clarity.
A clarity born from the realization that sometimes the bravest action is not to attack, but to run.
That sometimes leaving the battlefield does not mean defeat.
It means choosing to live long enough to fight another day in a place not occupied by creatures capable of making people forget that knees are supposed to support the body's own weight.
Behind them, Onigakure, still kneeling upon knees he no longer recognized as his own, heard Agatha's words and felt his chest tighten with something he could not name.
Not relief.
Not fear.
But acknowledgment.
Acknowledgment that Agatha was right.
That they were not fighting an ordinary battle.
That they were standing in the midst of a conflict between two powers equally indifferent to whether eighty-seven satanists were swept away or not.
And that the only way not to become a casualty was to avoid standing where casualties were being created.
"She... she's right, Zhulumat," Onigakure said.
His voice still trembled at the edges like a cello string plucked too harshly.
"We can't defeat him—not here, not with the tools we have left, not with bodies in this condition."
In the distance, Nebetu'u's female head smiled.
Its smile shifted into a meaning that could not be interpreted as either agreement or mockery.
It was merely observation.
An observation that said she heard every word they spoke and chose not to respond because no response was necessary for something that had already been decided from the very beginning.
Zhulumat stood motionless for what felt like a century but was perhaps only three seconds.
His gaze moved from Agatha, to Onigakure, to Shaqar, who still gripped an exorcism tool that had already become useless.
To Apathy, who was still trying to remember whether he had ever possessed a sibling.
To Makakushi, trembling with blue lips.
And finally to the other eighty-three soldiers sprawled across the cracked marble floor.
And during those three seconds, he calculated.
Not with numbers.
But with burdens.
The burden of every life entrusted to him since he first accepted command of this team.
The burden of every decision that had led his subordinates into places they had never asked to visit.
And the burden of the one decision he now had to make.
Remain here and die as heroes whom no one would ever remember.
Or ascend to the third floor and live as cowards who at least still possessed bodies capable of telling this story to future generations of satanists.
"We... will not attack Nebetu'u," Zhulumat finally said.
His voice emerged not as loudly as his previous shouts, but heavier.
Deeper.
Like something that had finally decided there was no point in shouting because shouting would change nothing.
"We're going to the third floor."
To Be Continued...