Chapter 56
It was precisely at this point that Apathy's presence revealed irony, for the lower body, which appeared normal, seemed disjointed, so contradictory to the suffering etched across the rest of his body.
That simple wholeness seemed only to heighten the strangeness, for amid pus and a freezing chill, there still remained a part that refused deformity, unwilling to be consumed by the curse that wrapped around the remnants of his body.
Shaqar stood not far from him, his body still damp with sweat that clung to the skin, leaving faint shadows upon the dusty floor.
Just as the clinging clothes were removed, his body revealed an even more unnerving sight.
The two legs never fully moved in harmony.
The right leg stood straight as ordained by nature, bearing the body with a normal line that channeled weight.
Yet the left leg was twisted backward, forming a shape impossible without pain, but for Shaqar such a state was ingrained as natural.
That strange posture emphasized how his very body was a landscape of abnormality, a uniqueness that refused to submit to the rules of order, choosing instead to stand as a marker that he was different.
Even in the most basic matter, the way of standing upon the earth.
The sweat dampening his face was slowly wiped away, leaving dull streaks on skin hardened by long journeys.
Apathy, born of a marriage between a demon and a mid-tier devil, crystallized by blood destined from the start to wrestle with suffering.
He stood firm in the suddenly cold changing room, his head—deviant from human form—still reflecting dim light, while his wounded abdomen seemed to hum with foreign air.
Yet behind the terrifying figure, there lay the most unusual calmness, the resolve of a warrior who had learned to see wounds not as reasons to surrender, but as reasons to endure.
Shaqar, an old man of about sixty, remained frozen nearby.
His body was continually supported by uneven legs, leaving his right leg facing forward while his left leg turned backward.
Simply creating an image that could never be hidden.
He was not merely the leader of Team Xirkushkartum, but a man who had borne deformity his entire life.
Both in body and in soul.
The success of Nebetu'u in escaping their ambush earlier was not merely a failure in the record of war, but a direct blow to the spirit.
For Shaqar, that name was the most cutting wound, a hatred that gnawed even as his body grew old.
The changing room, with its scent of iron and medicines, now became a courtroom of the soul, a place where he felt condemned without mercy.
Apathy, in silence, understood the burden.
He was not a subordinate who merely stood without feeling.
There was something in him that connected, bound solely to the suffering of the elder before him.
Though Shaqar's body eternally carried deformity and curse, he saw instead, he could clearly interpret that what happened was not a burden of one alone.
He knew, he understood that the failure to capture Nebetu'u was a battle that drained them all, a collective failure not meant to be carried alone.
Thus the silence offered was not mere emptiness, but a subtle reminder that wounds need not be borne in solitude, though Shaqar was too stubborn to admit it.
Indeed, Shaqar nodded, able to read the intent behind Apathy's words, the fifty-year-old man standing before him.
There was no tone of condescension, nor was there any hidden mockery behind the words.
On the contrary, there was a hint of respect, faint and nearly imperceptible, yet clear to him as the team's leader.
Apathy spoke with his head held high, conveying the stance of a soldier who weighed failure as a shared burden.
Though appreciated, Shaqar did not yield so easily.
The shadow of Nebetu'u was so thick in his mind, appearing too often in the most hated form.
From the other Xirkushkartum team leaders, he had heard, had gathered testimony after testimony of how vast and chaotic that being's interference was in the continuity of exorcism, an involvement far beyond tolerance.
After donning his clothes, Shaqar stood with steady breath, eyes sharp as blades, and a face betraying no turmoil.
Yet it was precisely that flat expression that revealed the disappointment most difficult to tame.
The sixty-year-old body still held strength, and in an instant his right hand clenched with all the power his muscles could summon.
Bones protruded, joints strained, while blood rushed faster toward the fist, as though it were about to strike the air.
He then raised the fist before his chest, only about five centimeters from his body, a symbolic gesture that was not explosive, but laden with meaning.
It was not rage that wanted to howl, but frustration caged within the vessel of discipline.
No shout, no flushed face, only a silent gesture, signaling that the weight of emotion was being vented toward the figure before him.
For Shaqar, every encounter with Nebetu'u was a recurring nightmare, a meeting that always came uninvited.
Again and again, and never welcome.
Apathy might try to console, but the clenched fist once more became the answer, the truest response of a leader who had too often been forced to face the most hated shadow.
He knew, the failure to capture Nebetu'u was not a wound that hurt Shaqar alone, but the entire team.
And the tension before the old man always multiplied the guilt.
No outburst, no expression of wrath.
Only the flat gaze that made everything feel heavier.
Each assault upon that accursed name was a nightmare that returned, and Apathy knew he was not the only one burdened with guilt.
But Shaqar never nodded, never truly permitted others to share the weight.
The clenched fist was the sign, an unspoken confession, that his anger had been suppressed too long, too often forced down so it would not erupt and ruin everything.
The walls of the changing room seemed to close in, the air grew denser as Apathy struggled to form his next words.
He wished to deflect the veiled accusation, to assert that the leader had misread his intent.
Just before the sentence could fully find its end, Shaqar's voice slashed the air, sharp and leaving no room.
The old man's words fell without pause, as though leaping ahead of another's thoughts, rushing to the forefront of a conversation left unfinished.
Strangely, Apathy did not feel offended by the interruption.
On the contrary, he found it natural, very understandable that Shaqar's tongue chose the shortest path, racing down the fastest track to unearth doubt, to question the meaning of words still hanging between them.
Shaqar's gaze no longer merely weighed, but pierced inward.
The question posed was not in the form of a scream, but a pressure that weighed upon the heart of anyone who heard.
He wanted to know, to ensure, whether in Apathy's words there lay a hidden accusation, as though all the failure in capturing Nebetu'u was but a shame placed upon himself alone.
The thought of that accursed being was enough to kindle hatred, yet more than that, Shaqar did not wish to be abandoned at the crossroads of guilt alone.
He had carried the burden too long, too accustomed to storing every failure within his weary chest.
Thus when Apathy's words had emerged like faint shadows, he immediately struck at them, criticizing them as proof that the wound was truly considered personal.
Not collective.
Apathy, in his silence, could only hold his breath.
He realized Shaqar was testing more than a simple statement.
This was not merely about right or wrong, but about the dignity of a leader who had for years stood with uneven legs, still bearing honor though his body was torn by weakness.
The interruption, though rough, became a window, an opening into the restless soul long kept shut.
Each word from Shaqar carried tremors difficult to erase, guiding Apathy to the understanding that behind the hardness of manner, there was the desire to be acknowledged, to be seen as not fighting alone.
Thus Apathy sought to mend, striving to patch the widening cracks, though his way resembled more the attempt to seal a gaping wound with a single thin thread.
His head brimmed with unease, his chest pressed down, heavy under the weight of failure not yet digested, while Shaqar's gaze struck on without sound.
In that stiffness, at last, he shifted course, deliberately turning the subject toward successes in duty, aiming to divert attention from the still-bleeding wound.
To be continued…