Chapter 58
Apathy's steps felt slow, yet his gaze could not, in the slightest, conceal the intricacies that weighed upon him.
Truthfully, he understood how reluctant—how unwilling—Shaqar was to touch upon that old wound, a scar long sealed behind the veil of a leader's discipline.
But the silence that stretched only dragged them both deeper, forcing them into the whirlpool of a topic neither wished to confront.
Guilt was clear upon Apathy, shining through his awkward movements, in the way he bowed his head, as though aware that this action had unveiled something that should have remained buried.
He knew, even if he had not meant to wound, that merely mentioning Shaqar's past meant drawing forth, spilling out the poison that had been endlessly buried.
It could only be contained.
After long contemplation, ending at last in a calmer stance, he finished changing clothes and then, signaling his intent, stepped forward.
He gently patted Shaqar's left shoulder, cautiously, as though each touch might add to the burden already too heavy to bear.
A sigh escaped Shaqar, brief yet heavy, and into that silence Apathy sought to pour a little courage.
He did not intend to offer excessive counsel, but only to voice a plea—that Shaqar not continue to sink, shackled in the darkness of a broken home, in grief that had long estranged him from his only child.
The words were born not of condescension, but of unspoken acknowledgment, affirming that Shaqar's wound was far too deep to be healed alone.
Behind his cold gaze, Apathy offered himself, willing to be the ear for every confession that had long been locked away.
He knew well that the weight of leadership had piled endlessly upon Shaqar's shoulders, leaving not a single space to mourn.
Thus he suggested, if Shaqar so willed, let him be the one to listen, even to offer counsel when asked—not merely as a subordinate, but as a fellow soul forged by the same wounds of a long journey.
For him, the willingness to listen might be the only way, the sole option to keep this leader standing tall—even though the ground beneath had long quaked, shattered by cracks that were not easily mended.
In the end, Apathy chose to withdraw, leaving behind a room still heavy with unspoken words.
His steps retreated quietly, without much sign, and Shaqar never truly knew whether it was out of reason he could understand or reluctance, that Apathy had no wish to disturb the current of reverie pulling him ever deeper.
Silence reclaimed dominion, leaving only a space echoing with memories, with the weight of a past that seemed never to recede.
Shaqar gave no sign of response.
He did not nod, nor did he shake his head.
He simply remained still, so long that his form seemed absorbed by the floor beneath his feet.
His gaze was hollow, piercing deep into a mental space crowded with shadows, where the faces of his wife and child overlapped with all the glories he had once achieved.
There lurked an irony, ever watching—that the higher he stood as a leader, the further he sank into an estrangement that could not be bargained away.
"Have I walked too far?
The staff, the team, every step I've taken has only led me away from my own bloodline?!
If I were to return, would my child still wish—still will—to look at me as a father? Or would it be the same, seeing me as nothing more than a man who nourished his pride …."
Fuuuuuuh!
"… Not his family?
With what reason could I defend myself, when even my presence was absent, void at his side when his mother closed her eyes—forever?
But if I choose to continue this duty, would it not weave only the same wounds again?
Would it not erode further, tearing down what fragile ties I might still reach?
Brothers, cousins—they mock, scorning a man drowned too deeply in the ranks of Xirkushkartum.
So am I truly nothing more than a soldier serving command, not a father?
Then what must I do? Should I return, knock upon the door, and listen to all the curses and hatred of my child with an open chest?
Or remain here, carrying titles, enduring pain, feigning strength, while my family grows ever more distant from my embrace?
Haaah … at least there is still my son-in-law.
Only he believes, understands that I never truly wished to abandon my family.
And he it is who nodded, who listened to every reason amid relentless pressure, striving to guide me—though all those reasons have long grown stale.
Were it not for him, perhaps it would have all shattered, leaving me with nothing, severed from the only knot still binding me to home.
No more, no less."
The dull ceiling stretched above, pressing upon Shaqar's gaze, making every crack and stain appear like the shadows of past mistakes.
Almost a mirror.
His body sank into the chair, but his mind leapt from memory to memory, weighing every choice ever made, every word ever spoken, as though to judge whether his life was woven of nothing but hollow sacrifices, never reaching redemption.
He felt the invisible pull, the strong magnet between the responsibility bound to his shoulders and the purest desire of his heart, something nearly buried for so long.
It was borne of necessity, to endure, to remain a figure of reckoning among those who called themselves Lords of Darkness.
Every breath escaping Shaqar's chest felt heavy, proof that his burden was not merely physical, but fragments of a soul never whole again.
In another corner of the room, Shaqar's shadow merged with the darkness, the gloom upon the wall creating the illusion of another figure, silently watching, probing into the deepest layers of solitude he tried to hide from the world outside.
No longer just a leader or a member of Xirkushkartum.
He was the reflection of an unhealed wound, the reminder that every shining triumph was bought with hidden pain.
The hand that once gripped the staff of leadership now slackened, signaling a weariness beyond words.
Meanwhile, his eyes stared blankly at a point, unable to choose, letting the tangled threads of memory pile up in his mind, forming a vortex that devoured every trace of comfort he might once have known.
Part of him longed, yearning to embrace what had been lost.
Yet part of him was ensnared, tormented by the truth that time and duty had cast him aside, openly setting him at a distance no longer crossable.
In a world shrouded by the contradiction between sacred and profane, the victories of the satanists did not automatically shine, nor bring them prosperity.
On the contrary, each triumph revealed, exposed the vulnerability too often forgotten.
It was dependence on blessed resources, now entirely cut off after the defeat of the Accursed One.
The satanists, whose forms were often seen as terrifying and vile, in truth faced a bitter reality—more fragile than what appeared to outside eyes.
Children born into satanist bloodlines were the first victims, suffering from malnutrition and hunger hidden behind the dread of their appearance.
Society before satanist rule had only summed them up, judging merely by appearance and reputation, not by the urgent needs that could not be ignored.
Every inch of land once guarded with loyalty was now fought over, endlessly bargained by greater powers.
Meanwhile, other satanists chose to retreat, struggling only to stay alive.
They bore the consequences, the karma of every battle that seemed politically or militarily advantageous, for each victory made it harder to obtain blessed sustenance.
Even if they had become a symbol of hope to some, the fall of the Accursed One became a paradox, spawning grave crises for those who now stood on the frontlines of life's most crucial struggle.
To be continued…