Chapter 54
Shaqar wrote the chronicle with the discipline of a witness, recording commands, suffering, and the small miracles that saved them, without turning any of it into false legend.
Behind his dedication lay a bitter awareness, understanding that the record might never reach the eyes worthy of reading it.
A world ruled by Ishikarakarta could swallow everything whole, devouring even a palm-sized memo that seemed trivial.
It was precisely that which pushed him to write harder, as if every word inscribed was a weapon, sharper than any spear.
He wanted to leave a mark.
Thin though it may be, perhaps unreadable, but still there.
Shaqar bent deeper over the small memo, letting the page become a witness to his inner turmoil.
Every sentence recorded did not come from calm, but from the whirlpool of rage held back with all his strength.
He wrote of the journey, of the orders given, of the suffering he had witnessed—yet between the carved records, always slipped a name that made his pulse race faster.
Nebetu'u.
How often that figure, who claimed to be the balance of the universe, suddenly appeared, revealing himself amid the exorcisms, only to flee before law could reach him.
Each encounter carved a new wound upon his spirit, up until this very moment.
And because of that, the pen in his hand almost broke from the strength of his grip.
He knew that hatred was not part of the burden he was meant to carry, but even among the Satanists—even a witness who strove for neutrality—could not separate himself from the feelings that grew again and again.
Nebetu'u seemed to transform, turning every exorcism carried out by the Xirkushkartum Teams into his private stage, where he entered and exited at will without regard for the real suffering.
For Shaqar, that was not just an insult, but a desecration of their efforts, of the actions paid dearly in blood and tears.
Helplessness clung to his chest, for every time the net was cast, unseen hands would tear it, letting the so-called balance slip away.
His fury built higher, carving bitter knowledge that the law of this cosmos was far too loose to bind a being like Nebetu'u.
The small memo became filled with layered notes, stacked between fact and bursts of emotion.
Shaqar made no effort to hide what he felt.
He believed that if one day the record was read by future generations, they must know, must understand that this struggle was not only about strategy or dogma, but also about the fierce battle within against despair.
He detailed every moment of how Nebetu'u escaped, how golden opportunities to capture him crumbled under factors beyond control.
The words thickened, the strokes harsher, nearly tearing the paper, as if the anger pressing his heart sought release through ink and blood already shed.
Shaqar finally paused from writing, drawing a deep breath, closing his eyes, then gazing again at the writing tool nearly broken in his grip.
Amid the storm, he knew the struggle was still long, and though Nebetu'u slipped free again and again, this record would continue, preserving the truth of how he defiled their efforts.
The small memo, for Shaqar, was not only an archive, but a shackle, a chain to hold his rage from bursting uncontrollably.
Shaqar shifted, his eyes fixed for a moment on the rough map spread upon the cracked wooden table in the corner of the room.
His eyes traced the lines, markers that mapped the journey and positions of his Xirkushkartum team.
Every dot on the map was not just a location, but a record of suffering, blood trails that could never be erased, never forgotten.
He knew that Nebetu'u was not merely a creature disrupting their exorcisms, but a symbol, the personification of chaos always seeping through the cracks of law and power.
His desire to deliver the so-called balance to the Honored Sanse was not just about reward or prize, but about restoring the order disrupted by one who should have remained beyond the reach of normal Satanists.
In his eyes, every strategic step was not only a command, but the carving of destiny and suppressed fury, a dangerous game demanding sharper skill than mere physical prowess.
The Satanist Elders began moving their pieces, giving approval that made every Xirkushkartum Team—including Shaqar's—act in unison.
Nebetu'u's head was set as the hunt's prize, and the reward was not only vast riches, but a fragment of attribute, the vital essence that allowed adaptation to continue amidst the madness of Ishikarakarta.
Shaqar watched his troops prepare their gear, adjust their weapons, and ready the scouting nets.
Every movement of the Xirkushkartum Teams was arranged with breath-stopping precision, for the chance to capture Nebetu'u always revealed, leaving only a narrow margin between success and utter failure.
Suffering was etched upon their expressions, on shoulders carrying moral weight, and in trembling hands clutching weapons, knowing that failure meant losing the last chance to bring justice and secure their own survival.
And failure, once again, unfolded.
Shaqar recorded the events in his small memo, mixing ink with his blood, meant to give life to a record that would be inherited by future generations.
Every stroke marked strategy, every line held anger, and every word carved the helplessness he felt whenever Nebetu'u once more slipped their prepared trap.
The memo became a witness, a silent observer of suffering and persistence, of repeated failure and unbroken resolve, of fury suppressed but impossible to bury.
In silence, Shaqar nodded, understanding that this battle was not only of flesh, but of spirit—where patience, wisdom, and anger met to weigh the outcome of each step.
Shaqar stepped forward, his movements careful, standing before the Xirkushkartum formation.
His eyes fixed, measuring every member standing in line, nineteen bodies holding their breath beneath equal tension.
At the end of the straight line, a faded blue square box formed from thin air, its surface glowing faintly, defying logic and senses.
Without hesitation, every member of the Xirkushkartum Team entered the box, their bodies bound, pulled by an unseen magnet.
Their steps were precise and in unison, while Shaqar observed, ensuring no lingering energy remained in the ruins where Ophistu had slaughtered Ush's entire family.
He examined every corner, gauging fluctuations that might linger, searching for fragments of purity left in a place once sacred but now trembling with past violence.
Sacred Desecration.
In an instant, the blue box swallowed the entire formation without sound, leaving only echoes of footsteps and breaths in the heavy air.
Shaqar sensed an odd pulse around them, marking the box as not merely a space, but an entity adapting itself to those who entered.
Again he checked every gap, ensuring the ruined sanctuary remained unchanged, still holding traces that might hinder their task.
Their presence within the box was not mere physical relocation, but an affirmation of intent, declaring that the hunt for Nebetu'u was not only about reward or power, but about restoring balance against long-lasting injustice.
The ruins left behind by Ophistu became a bitter mirror of chaos, and Shaqar would not let himself drown, carried away by nostalgia of sorrow clinging to every stone and timber.
He lowered his gaze, once more scanning carefully every point where energy might linger, every fissure where Nebetu'u might slip through.
In that silence, Shaqar felt the crushing weight of responsibility.
Not only as a commander, but as a witness, the mute observer of suffering rooted in every corner of a village that should have been preserved.
He was the last to step, entering the faded blue box, allowing himself to be swallowed by the same field as his troops, uniting resolve and vigilance that would decide their mission's success.
As Shaqar set foot upon the box's pale-blue surface, an unusual gust of wind blew through the ruins of the sanctuary, stirring the dust and ash long trapped in its corners.
The wind was not mere air, but a living pulse, breathing out the history of suffering still embedded in stone and wood.
Unnoticed by Shaqar, his departure opened a new chapter, for shadows began to form, shaped deliberately between the ruins and the box.
Slowly they stretched, revealing a figure unseen by any before.
Her hair fell down to her waist, moving gently as if dancing with the deafening flow of air, and where pure white wings should have been, flames clung to eight wings.
The fire did not burn, but shimmered, sparking red-orange light that quivered, moving with every breath.
The left wing rose from her back, stretching downward near the ground, while the right wing mirrored it in symmetry, affirming the strangest harmony between real suffering and impossible existence.
Light from the flames struck the box's faded surface, casting shadows across the ruin's walls, proclaiming a presence greater than any within.
Thud!!
"One heavy day, returned. And of course, another failure."
"It is not wise to blame yourself too much, Shaqar.
After all, you tried, you did your best to prevent His departure from the place."
"Did it work?"
"W—well, if you put it that way .…"
"… The same from year to year, is that what you mean?"
"W-whatever it is, at least we captured the disgraced Ophistu.
Take some rest, clear your head with your family for a while."
'What Apathy said was not wrong. It is this awareness that thinks too much.'
"Tell me if you need help. It is only right for a comrade to lighten burdensome thoughts, isn't it?
See you."
Upon arriving at the Xirkushkartum headquarters, a space filled with the echo of footsteps and the stench of rusted metal, Shaqar and the other team leaders once again returned, carrying home a burden never truly shed.
The men's locker room became a passage, a boundary where the ritual of suffering ended and the body's routines began.
Shaqar removed his exorcist garb, still damp with sweat and dust from the ruins, and put on plain clothing, hastily dressing as if to seize back his right as an ordinary Satanist.
But beneath those simple motions lay the creeping fatigue, seeping through his stiffest muscles, whispering that the failure was not just an incident, but a chain of wounds spinning endlessly.
To be continued…