Chapter 53
Through his frail eyes, Shaqar nodded, perceiving the world as irony.
Those most powerful in confronting Ishikarakarta instead sank, plunging into the very same madness, constructing realms understandable only to their own kind.
No hierarchy of power could last before them, for each Nexhalogon individual created his own version of nature, solely meant to rival both foe and ally alike.
And though they distorted order, on the surface they still walked, casually moving alongside other beings.
Whether greeting, speaking, or exchanging gestures, they displayed faces not so different from ordinary life.
They were indeed the pulse, the beat of a different life.
Merely overcoming madness, transcending the arrogance and audacity of Ishikarakarta.
It was clearly something entirely new.
No longer following, they rivaled.
Thus no matter how fiercely the Platonic essence was torn, Poskurth's presence was merely residue, dregs of light without equivalent indication, with the chance to equalize into the identity of Nexhalogon.
And there unfolded the most beautiful dance, each Nexhalogon flaunting his greatness, reminding all that true might lay not in the power to annihilate, but in the grandeur of celebrating the uniqueness of every ray.
Simply allowing them to shine fully without needing to destroy.
And above all else, there existed beings unlike any other, impossible to grasp by ordinary reason.
The Angels, the Holy Ones, the Satanist Elders, and even the Accursed One called the Almighty.
Their presence towered so high it pierced through, negating the significance of the so-called great beings beneath them.
Whatever the Nexhalogon wove, no matter how far their adaptation, in the eyes of the Supreme Individuals it was ignored, deemed no more than a football, a hollow shadow that could never stain the absoluteness of their throne.
The Satanist Elders themselves, with prerogatives surpassing the logic of probability, held sway over every branch of reality.
From what would happen, to what was difficult to happen, to what could still be negotiated between possibility and impossibility, to what did not exist yet could be made to exist, and even to the utterly impossible—everything lay in their grasp, as if the Satanist cosmos were nothing but a board game they could reset at will.
Ironically, from such thrones they rarely lifted a finger, preferring to drown themselves in jest, empty conversations, and mockery cast at one another.
Then, at a level higher than the Satanist Elders—an assembly of rulers anchored in unmatched authority—there lay one essential element: Olyspharta, something never inherited by any but the Angels and Holy Ones.
The presence of Olyspharta was not mere symbol, but the pulse of sovereignty, distinguishing earnestness from play, like a cosmic ember that burned even when drenched by oceans.
Its power was so immense it could shatter Ishikarakarta, defeat its binder Ximanthur, and even the Nexhalogon at once.
And that meant all their frenzied developments and monopoly over the five possibilities were but childish games, trifling diversions breakable with a single snap.
Indeed they realized, perceiving the suffering of mortals only as faint tremors, distant echoes never touching the thrones towering above all.
And amid the chaos, within the faintest yet certain shadow, Nebetu'u existed only as a balancer, delighting to perch precisely at the center.
No more, no less.
Amid the silence of ruins, Shaqar stood tall, absorbed in the sight of his followers hastily lifting chests, cursed scrolls, and foul instruments already tainted by soot.
The nineteen Xirkushkartum Teams labored with trained discipline, their hands swift, eager to salvage whatever could still be of use, as if they knew every grain of ash could turn into the final weapon against the servants of the Accursed One.
Suffering was etched clearly on their faces, not only in open wounds, but in eyes bearing the burden of history, marking each step on blood-soaked ground as testimony to a thousand losses.
In his silence, Shaqar merely sharpened the keenness of his gaze.
There lay irony; he was forced to witness and affirm the world, mending his shattered self with fragments of a past long broken.
The air smelled of rusted walls, pressing lungs with invisible weight.
No birdsong, no whisper of wind to console.
Only the clanging of steel dragged, pulled, struck against the ground.
Simply ensuring nothing was left behind.
That suffocating stillness was not serenity, but an empty chamber inhabited by echoes of past screams, the cries of children and whispers of mothers who vanished with cities that would never rise again.
Shaqar resisted, refusing to let his heart drown in the nostalgia of despair, for he knew if he faltered even slightly, his team would lose direction.
Instead, within the silence, collective suffering birthed a new strength, as though grief under pressure had been forged, crystallizing into resilience not easily broken.
With every order he gave, Shaqar understood one thing: his followers were not merely machines for survival.
They were living witnesses, powerless observers of a world forever devouring its own children.
And now, under the pressure of the Accursed One's rule, they bore wounds that would never be erased.
Their suffering was carved not only into flesh, but into souls unyielding to submission.
Shaqar sat apart from the commotion, on a cracked black stone resembling the veins of the earth, reaching into the worn leather pouch he always carried.
Inside lay a tiny memo, no larger than a palm, his steadfast companion along the journey through ruins.
His fingers trembled lightly.
Not from fear, but from awareness, realizing each stroke of ink was a burden, a responsibility to be inherited.
Before writing, he pricked his palm with a small needle, letting a drop of blood fall upon the blank sheet.
It was no mere symbol, but a consecration, an oath that words born of suffering must be baptized in real pain.
The opening words slipped from his lips softly, almost swallowed by the silence, yet sharp enough to cut the air already heavy with the past.
In a humble tone, he offered praise to Sanse, hoping his record would not become a mute archive.
He wanted suffering remembered, not as lament alone, but as foundation, pillars for the next generation to know what had been borne.
As ink mingled with blood, the parchment seemed to breathe, etching lines that felt more alive than mere black letters on white.
To be continued…