Chapter 48
There was a deliberate impression in the filth clinging to the fabric's fibers, as if each stain were a fragment, a sliver of a secret language understood only by them—the congregation of individuals who had sworn themselves to the Honored Sanse.
Beneath the garments, their movements were not the crude gestures of men, but the orderliness of discipline, a rhythm woven to usher in the presence of death without uttering a single word.
Amid their steps, they carried implements of worship—not merely symbols of dark devotion, but weapons meant to banish all forms of interference.
Be it from the Cursed One's armies, or from underlings who dared to defy Sanse.
A pungent fragrance of rotten herbs mingled with dried blood drifted, carried from the leather pouches hanging at their waists, creating currents of stench that pierced deep into the lungs of all who dwelled in the chamber.
Especially those bold enough to remain in this present place.
The patterns of the floor, once built to hold the footsteps of prayer, now bore the pounding tread that carried death.
It was as though every step became a hammer's blow, nailing Sanse's will into the mortal world, constricting the movements of any who stood before them.
In the farthest corners, remnants of light struggled to resist, yet flickered and broke before the will, an intent older than light itself.
The religious aura that once held firm now scattered, swept away in an instant by an unseen current that perched before.
And with each advance, the castle walls responded, reflecting back multiplied shadows, making the chamber feel heavier, as though each figure had two or three twins watching from another dimension.
The pressure mounted, making air hard to draw, instilling the sensation that every breath was but a debt, an actual loan to be repaid at once.
Beyond the notice of many, the floor began to throb faintly, following the rhythm of the devotees' steps, resembling the heartbeat of an ancient being that should have remained buried.
No words were spoken, yet untraceable voices echoed within minds, suppressing logic, seeding the illusion that this presence could not be banished by any force.
The steps of the twenty pressed the air further, and now another likeness became clear, shaping an impression both dreadful and awe-inspiring.
Upon their foreheads stretched a living sigil that never ceased to change.
Its form resembled a vast tree, complete with drooping roots, yet the tree grew inverted, as though sprouting from the sky and embedding itself into the earth.
The skin around the sigil pulsed faintly, as though marking that the tree was no mere emblem, but a living part of them—an entity breathing in unison with the body.
At times, the sigil shifted, tilting left, then slowly returning right, only to drift again as if following some unheard rhythm.
The transitions unfolded without end, like a slow, certain dance of ancient roots searching for prey.
Unseen movements carried a chill, crawling from nape to spine of every witness daring to look.
Strange illusions arose—ambiguous hallucinations that if one stared too long, the sigil's rhythm would sync with the heartbeat, weighing down the body and binding the mind to an alien will.
The swaying roots at times seemed to touch the air around them, stirring subtle ripples, like water disturbed by a touch both delicate and fatal.
The inverted tree's shadow reflected faintly within the eyes, confirming that all twenty figures were not mere followers, but fragments of a network grown beyond human comprehension.
No one could say with certainty whether the tree was a curse, a blessing, or a warning.
Yet its presence made each step heavier, as though the etched roots dragged the entire castle toward a nameless abyss.
Even the religious aura that once stood as a final bastion unraveled before the sigil, dispersing like incense snuffed too swiftly.
Every gaze fixed upon the mark led only to one conclusion.
Something greater than destruction was inscribing itself here, and those who beheld it would never see the world the same way again.
Amid the rhythmic march, Shaqar emerged as a figure apart, standing out from the shadows of the twenty beings.
Without intent to draw attention at once, Shaqar, an old man of around sixty, stood more composed than the rest.
His long robe fell past his ankles, covering most of his legs yet never dragging the floor, a balance between dignity and the strength stored within his body.
What remained of the castle's light fell upon him, casting cruel beams across his face, revealing a visage as though made of puzzle fragments—but no ordinary fragments.
Each curve, each seam was twisted, the manifestation of a hidden thirst within a cruel drama, a theater where the players themselves were bait—powerless victims ensnared without escape.
There was no tenderness along his lines, nor any mark of affection ever etched, as though every memory nearing love or warmth had been buried, erased, and trampled under the hardness of life.
His sharp, unearthly eyes defied space and time, declaring that bitter experience and suffering had forged him harder than ancient stones, foundations standing since the world's first dawn.
His robe began to stir, moving in slow accord with his body, while the aura emanating from his face pressed heavier than anything else within the room.
The puzzle fragments of Shaqar's visage seemed alive, shifting with unseen rhythm, as though each piece bore consciousness, interacting to preserve the iron will forged across decades.
No one could fully interpret the meaning of such a face—only the sense that behind its stiffness lay unmatched experience, bitter and cold, wrapping psychological pressure upon any who dared stare too long.
It was not merely physical form, but a reflection of life's journey.
Hard, merciless, a testament to endurance—shaped to resist pressures and powers pressing from beyond.
Shaqar stood in a form outwardly human, save for one part—ever drawing attention, evoking fear and awe alike from his onlookers.
Oftentimes, his stomach swelled, expanding rapidly as if filled by something unseen, then contracted just as swiftly, granting his aged body its own rhythm.
The pattern of swelling and shrinking repeated endlessly, like an invisible breath that bent the space around him, intensifying the already oppressive aura.
The unnatural movements of his stomach animated the puzzle face, each piece seeming to adjust itself to the pulses of his own body.
His presence as one among the satanist congregation grew ever clearer.
Not a mere participant of rituals or bearer of symbols, but a being whose energy and form pressed upon the very room, declaring authority in silence.
The rhythm of expansion and contraction endured, a manifestation of inner force, amplifying the psychological burden upon any who gazed too long.
Even the inverted tree sigils dancing on the others' brows seemed to falter near Shaqar, subdued by the strange yet steady pattern of his body, his presence absorbing a portion of the weight, reshaping the energy of the chamber.
To be continued…