Chapter 55
Throughout the room, the sound of cloth brushing against skin, heavy breaths, and the faint clink of metal from belts or buckles marked the depth of their silence.
Every man there, whether team leader or soldier accustomed to bearing risk, radiated a tension so similar it was suffocating.
There were no cheers of triumph, nor loud complaints of failure.
Only glances that refused to meet, as though each feared their gaze would expose the fragility of faith still lingering.
Shaqar sat for a moment, staring at the cold floor, recalling the exact seconds when Nebetu'u once again slipped away, leaving them in a silence that pressed harder against their chests.
He knew that even though their bodies had returned to ordinary clothes, their souls remained wrapped, steeped in suffering that could not be washed away so easily.
Beyond the room's walls, the Xirkushkartum headquarters roared with ceaseless activity.
Couriers ran with messages, medics busied themselves with health reports, and the desks of every Xirkushkartum leader were buried beneath maps and strategy scrolls.
And amid that unbroken flow of busyness, everyone understood, quietly acknowledging that what they discussed was only the surface layer of wounds far deeper.
It was clear something weighed not only on the body, but also upon the spirit, as though Nebetu'u's presence did not merely threaten their missions, but wove cracks into their loyalty and their courage.
Shaqar, though only one among the gathered leaders, felt the heavy gazes of his peers.
They measured, they judged, they waited for a sign that might rekindle the flame of conviction.
But that flame—if it still existed—remained wrapped in fog, hidden beneath a weariness unwilling to fade.
After removing his long robe—its hem falling calmly without dragging against the floor—and unfastening the exorcism tools tucked into his trouser pockets, the room was briefly overtaken by silence.
Shaqar stood at the center of the chamber.
His body was coated in sweat and dust, while the air, thick with the scent of iron and incense, seemed to smother every word.
Most of his team members had already left, choosing to breathe the broader air of the headquarters, and other Xirkushkartum members from different teams departed as well, leaving the chamber empty, save for the faint chime of carefully placed equipment.
When that silence reached its sharpest point, Shaqar no longer restrained himself—his lips moved, muttering bitter words, directed only at one subordinate who still remained.
His tone was not merely tiredness, but the eruption of anger he had suppressed countless times.
The harsh words burst forth, echoing several times against the cold walls, exposing fractures he rarely showed before his men.
Shaqar felt himself a failure, unable to ignite once more the fire that should have been preserved, and in his muttered tension he seemed to accuse, indicting both himself and the one who stood before him.
There was no resistance, no rebuttal.
Only an empty stare, waiting quietly for the storm of anger to subside.
The men's locker room, usually a simple stopover, had become a stage of suffering, where failure was no longer just a note in his memo, but a living presence that weighed on every word and pressed upon each breath.
Shaqar realized that though he hurled sharp words at his subordinate, in truth he was scolding his own reflection—his own shadow still shackled to the moment when Nebetu'u vanished from their grasp.
The silence that returned after his words dissipated only deepened the wound, like a blade carving further because it was drawn too slowly.
That name surfaced faintly in memory—Apathy Shelton, an exorcist who had carved scars and victories along his own path before joining Shaqar's unit.
Two years earlier, he had chosen to surrender his sword, his blood, and his oath, joining the Xirkushkartum team led directly by Shaqar, as if he had found a place for both his vengeance and his devotion.
Apathy was no stranger to the battlefield, for he had once spilled his strength against countless servants of the Accursed One, tirelessly confronting holy beings and angels he believed desecrated the world's balance.
His record was undeniable, and it was the long fatigue of those battles that led him to Shaqar's side, a commander more familiar with bearing wounds than celebrating victories.
Born of demonkind, Apathy Shelton carried bloodlines layered with scars and steadfastness.
His mother—a descendant of devils who had chosen a modest marriage with a low-to-middle-ranking demon—had given him counsel, teaching him the meaning of survival within the cruelest hierarchy of the dark world.
From that union of humble blood was born not luxury, but a child—an individual who was not merely an heir to darkness, but an inheritor of resolve forged from youth.
Apathy grew with a hard face, piercing eyes, and a will nearly unshakable by persuasion or threat, as though his young soul was cloaked in embers that refused to die.
His childhood was filled with scornful gazes from those of higher rank, as if he had no right to tread the same ground as they.
Yet from those insults Apathy discovered his dignity.
Patiently he learned, holding his anger without letting it run wild, turning every sneer into another reason to stride further.
His firmness was not born from tender guidance, but from harsh shaping—for his mother never offered long embraces, only rigid lessons on how to endure without being destroyed by the system.
From his father, he inherited a body of strength, though without noble name—a legacy enough to lay the foundation of his steps.
And now, Apathy Shelton stood rigid, spine straight, like a shadow that refused to falter.
At his head, a sharp triangular form had grown, an anomaly that seemed drawn from realms beyond reason, with each of its points lined with jagged edges sharper than blades honed for a billion years.
This shape was not merely physical, but symbolic—a scarred emblem, marking a life carved from pain and defiance.
His stern face, sharp gaze, and body born of a rough lineage were but the visible tip of an iceberg hiding far greater depths.
There was something within Apathy's being—beyond the strangeness of form—that unsettled Shaqar's awareness, pulling him deeper than battlefield scars ever could.
The silence between them roared louder than the commotion outside, as though the narrow room held within it something more terrifying than the thunder of war.
Apathy Shelton was not merely the result of dark bloodlines interwoven.
When his battle garments were shed, the rarest truth was revealed.
His stomach seemed an endless, filthy vessel, full of congealed pus that split and festered, covered in wet black scabs.
At times, pale ichor seeped forth, gleaming faintly beneath dim light.
From it emanated a chill so merciless it crept, freezing to the marrow of any who brushed against it.
It was not merely a deformity, but a mark of curse etched eternal, as if his body itself was a mirror of suffering inherited since birth.
Shaqar, in silence, knew that beneath Apathy's strength and relentless resolve lay a body hardened to bear the world's shame, though he had never asked for it.
And as for Apathy, there was nothing else remarkable—his arms and legs resembled those of any ordinary man.
He stood intact, normal in form, in striking contrast.
The strangeness in his head, the horror in his abdomen—these alone bore witness.
To be continued…