Chapter 49
At first glance, it was nothing unusual, seemingly no different from the figure that appeared human from afar.
Yet, the closer one came, Shaqar's legs revealed something utterly horrifying.
The right leg faced straight forward as it should, holding the body firmly in balance, while the left leg was twisted entirely backward, positioned in a way that was unnatural and logically impossible for any normal human body.
The transformation was not merely a deformity but a part of Shaqar's very existence.
Thus, to turn the leg back would be no different than committing a vile mutilation, and Shaqar was fully aware of this limit with unshaken consciousness.
This contrasting position of his legs added, indeed burdened, the aura of menace radiating from his form, giving the impression that every movement he made did not only involve muscles and joints but also a willpower fiercely rejecting any outside intervention.
The abnormal leg added tension to his steps, causing the castle floor to tremble with a rhythm no ordinary creature could ever replicate.
The shadows reflected on the walls twisted with him, amplifying the sense of distortion and wrongness, so that anyone watching felt a deep unease, as though the very laws of physics had been disturbed.
The puzzle-like face and the swelling, contracting abdomen had already marked him as different, but this reversed leg confirmed that Shaqar was not merely hardened and unique—he was an entity that reshaped his very body to carve fear into the air around him.
Shaqar continued to stand, pressing his weight upon the castle that gradually lost its shape, becoming the center of the energy that smothered the air around them.
His aged eyes faintly caught the silhouettes of his congregation, the nineteen beings moving in dreadful synchronization, each radiating an aura, clearly emanating from an invisible dark ritual.
From afar, Shaqar could feel, could perceive the crushing pressure released by Nebetu'u—the nine-headed man, with each head representing three Demons, three Angels, and three Gods.
Even more stirring was the pure energy that radiated from the woman's head at his side.
Her presence in that place rivaled the nature of an archangel, even surpassing physical grandeur with an excessive aura—flowing from her long golden hair and entire form.
It utterly transcended normality.
All this pressure was not merely a physical threat but a current of energy that influenced consciousness, measuring every intent, compressing space until breathing became near impossible, forcing Shaqar to sharpen every sense in relentless observation.
Shaqar's abdomen still pulsed with its rhythm of expansion and contraction, a pattern that heightened the pressure and intensity of the aura radiating from him.
His face, forever etched as twisted puzzle fragments, bore the hardened story of a life's trials, the endurance forged through decades of suffering, and the sharpened spirit binding every member of Xirkushkartum into a single will.
The left leg twisted backward and the right leg facing straight forward emphasized the abnormality of his image, yet every step felt like a pull, a gravity center forcing all other beings to adjust themselves to his presence.
Shaqar was not merely a physical leader but the nexus of energy and rhythm, asserting authority without words, using body and symbol to shape the aura that arranged space and pressed upon all who stood before him.
"Stand still, you two, here.
Never move, let alone allow a thought of rebellion or betrayal in the midst of the cleansing.
By summoning the power of the Honored Sanse and His Retinue, this long-forged prayer seeks to cleanse, restrain, and align your energies.
With each breath, every fragment of soul still remaining will be arranged, rebuilt through the sacred and dark rhythm uniting heaven and earth.
This is not a request!!
Let the prayer flow, let these hands guide, while your body and soul receive the rhythm He has decreed.
Only through submission may your safety be preserved.
I, Shaqar, leader of Xirkushkartum, declare that this process shall end, shall only be complete if you surrender, yielding yourselves to the sacred and dark power I command.
Resistance is useless, you pitiful rabble!!"
Shaqar's staggering steps echoed in the dark chamber, swept by a chilling current, as though all that dwelled within were holding its breath, freezing as it bore witness to the struggle.
It was born of an ancient wound.
The staff in his grip trembled, not merely from fatigue of the body, but from the pulse, the steady rhythm of exorcism that began to root itself into every vein of the earth.
Before him stood the nine-headed man, Nebetu'u, in the perfection of form.
Truly transcending mortal boundaries.
From that robust body emanated, indeed surged, a divine-like aura.
A body that bore nine heads, each carving symbols unrestrainable by a single faith or single curse.
The demon heads writhed with a foul stench, the angel heads shone with blinding cold light, and the godly heads stared, watching in silence as though spitting upon all prayers of heaven.
Then Shaqar spoke, erupting into a torn cry, laden with the suffering he had long borne since the world first uttered the word "reject."
Every word he hurled, every signal he raised, was a lash, a scourge upon wounds that would never cease bleeding.
His frail body refused to yield to helplessness, for behind the puzzle fragments that made his face, smoldered a fire of vengeance, burning unquenched.
He channeled the fire into prayer, an incantation that was not merely an exorcism but a scream of the soul, not meant to beg but to challenge.
Angels were invoked to cast away false light that misled, holy beings were driven out of the body that was not theirs, and all that rooted in Nebetu'u's heads were broken, shattered again and again with words far beyond mere prayer.
Tragically, suffering became the very chain, not merely the tool of exorcism.
Every verse of prayer that echoed in the air intertwined with Shaqar's cries, as though he himself were cleaving his body to liberate another soul.
Sweat mixed with vile slime dripped from his forehead, yet Shaqar remained standing, ceaselessly pouring curse and devotion in one breath.
Nebetu'u, in grandeur resembling the elder gods, chose to remain still, not resisting, as though disregarding Shaqar's voice.
But for Shaqar, that silence was more painful, far more agonizing than clashing blows.
Its muteness was mockery, a reminder that even if he called upon both light and darkness, his suffering might be nothing more than bluster, a mere echo swallowed by the void.
Tssiiiiiing!!
"Bast*rd, damn you, wretch!!
Do you think you can run and hide from the glory decreed by the Honored Sanse?
By doing so, you defy all of Xirkushkartum, and I will never allow you, never grant you the slightest chance to escape!!
Do not think this old man so feeble, you cur!!"
Tssiiiiing!!
"...."
"I swear I will hunt you down, curse upon curse I will deliver, and upon you misfortune shall I bestow!!
Do not hope for these words to be withdrawn—not now, not ever!!"
Huffffh!!
Shaqar felt the earth quiver, rumbling as the circle of Xirkushkartum carved itself into being through chants piercing the air.
Voices rose in unison, forming invisible walls, enclosing Nebetu'u and Ophistu ever tighter.
Every utterance was a subtle stab, tearing through unseen layers, creating a narrow space where their existence could only thrash without direction.
Shaqar knew this effort was not merely ritual but a wager of souls, for should the prayer falter once, the space would shatter, and all would end in chaos.
Surely, more terrifying than death.
Yet as the exorcism neared its peak, a dim glow suddenly crept, veiling itself from behind Nebetu'u's body.
The light was not blinding, but somber, like the last flame of a torch about to die.
To be continued…