Chapter 59
The world knows no mercy for the weak.
Every wasted opportunity, every resource lost, hastens the threat of the Satanists' extinction, opening cracks for the minions of the Cursed One to return.
Not merely to reclaim, but to drive their claws once more into the lands that had once been taken from them.
Amid such harsh and hostile reality, the Satanists were forced to endure, to struggle to balance survival with adherence to the dark order they had long embraced.
They nodded, fully aware that every miscalculation, every negligence in safeguarding resources, could devour the most vulnerable generation.
Their very children.
The dread and terror visible on the surface were merely masks, false identities meant to conceal the internal fragility that could collapse the entire structure.
No matter how long it had stood.
Threats did not only come from the outside world but also from stark reality itself, affirming that hunger and malnutrition could drag them down, weakening their kind.
Making them exposed.
Exposed to manipulation, territorial disputes, and the influence of the Cursed One, who sought to restore his lost dominion.
The high elders of the Satanists labored endlessly, producing and stockpiling Shirkish tablets—triangular in shape, glowing red, carrying the fetid stench of preserved animal blood, untouched by maggots or crawling creatures.
Preserved for more than three thousand years.
The production was conducted with strict discipline, exploiting every available resource, measuring each drop of blood, every blend of herbs, to ensure the tablets delivered essential sustenance and upheld the strength of the Satanist generation against famine.
Distribution was systematic, spreading across all territories where Satanists dwelled, scattering hope in the form of a toxic yet vital solid.
But devotion in action never came without a price.
Each tablet was tied to demands of cost, aligned with the value of stock and labor spent, turning every transaction into a small war—a seed of confrontation between dire need and limited means.
Families like Shaqar's bore the heaviest burden.
With earnings barely enough to buy one to three tablets per week, consumption had to be rationed carefully, often allowing only one member to partake.
That number was far from the ideal recommendation—ten to twenty tablets per week—to prevent malnutrition, especially in children still in their growing years.
Every tablet received, no matter how valuable, could not cover the pressing biological needs, and thus the pain became real.
Every bite felt halved, every droplet of energy deceived the body's demand for more.
Within the silence of Shaqar's home, injustice could not be ignored, layering unseen suffering, invisible to those who judged only from the outward strength and fear the Satanists inspired.
Adding to this, the price of Shirkish tablets continued to climb.
Not merely from will, but from scarcity, the vigilance of the elders keeping the supply chain intact.
Each price increase struck like a fist, an unseen blow upon family welfare, pressing further the burden on Shaqar, who had to secure his household's survival.
He was forced to uphold his reputation and role in the harshest society of Satanists.
Thus, the decision to place Shaqar in Team Xirkushkartum was born of dire necessity, driven by immense expectations.
Families of middle and high noble bloodlines within Shaqar's lineage instinctively pinned their hopes on him—the sole member deemed capable of navigating the brutal Satanist world while ensuring their survival.
A burden clearly impossible to bear alone.
And as Shirkish tablet prices soared beyond reach, their prayers shifted toward Shaqar's entry into Team Xirkushkartum as the final option—the last path to stave off malnutrition and keep the next generation alive.
Every sacrifice, every prayer bound to Shaqar's success, carried a weight of tension and fear of starvation lurking in every corner of the household, a hope so heavy they nearly held their breath awaiting the outcome.
Believing salvation would rest solely in Shaqar's hands.
But when Shaqar truly ascended the steps of the world—beginning as a member, then rising to the captaincy of his own Xirkushkartum team—the reality he faced diverged far from the family's simple imagination.
Internal conflicts, struggles for power, and battles against exorcist organizations became his stage—where Shaqar fought not only for prestige or recognition but for survival itself, for the protection of his team, and for shielding his family from unseen threats.
Every decision made, every risk endured, was paid in immeasurable mental and physical strain.
To Shaqar, this struggle was not simply about victory, but about balance—thin and fragile—between strength and the survival of his family.
Meanwhile, the very family that placed such hope upon him seemed forgetful, blind to the weight of the path he endured.
His long sacrifices, difficult choices, and sleepless nights to uphold their welfare went unmarked, absent from memory.
They did not reject Shaqar, nor did they feel disappointed, yet their inability to value his hardship created an invisible rift—a tension felt only by him.
Frustration took root in his silence, when he gazed upon them, at faces that should have understood the pain he bore, yet remained oblivious to the meaning of his fight.
In the dim corridors, the mingling scent of metal and wood lingered, a quiet reminder of responsibilities that never lessened.
Every step Shaqar took felt heavy, not from physical burden alone, but from the looming needs of his family, who drew breath depending on him alone.
Tablets never enough, prices forever rising, stock nearly untouchable—all made the air around him feel suffocating, as though every wall whispered endless worries.
The world saw only the surface, the outward strength, but they could not know—could not comprehend—the delicate layers of suffering bound to Shaqar's body, how each decision, however small, shook the balance of his home and his team.
Amid echoes of footsteps and whispers of heart, tension lingered, signs of confrontation felt only by him, where each hope weighed like a burden—every prayer fused into the most fragile form of responsibility.
Beyond his home, the world marched on relentlessly, bringing internal conflicts and struggles for power unseen by his family or people.
Every exorcist organization, every servant of the Cursed One that arose, multiplied the trials Shaqar was forced to face.
He moved within uncertainty and peril, balancing risks that ceaselessly haunted his mind, enduring exhaustion—physical and mental—that none could fully grasp.
All of it was not for prestige, but to guard, to preserve the welfare of those who entrusted him, ensuring none would lose their path in the brutal world surrounding them.
The shadow of responsibility clung like mist, the chill of the air never lifting, turning every triumph into a moment laced with unease for what remained unresolved.
Shaqar stood amid the chaos of a world demanding more than one Satanist could bear, realizing that unseen sacrifices and unseen loyalties must still be preserved.
Sleepless nights, pressures heavy enough to shatter his soul, and frustration gathering in every corner of his heart—these were all parts of the journey.
Never easy to share.
To be continued…