Chapter 60
In silence, he felt the distance that had formed between himself and those who placed their hopes upon him, an unspoken comparison pressing heavily, signifying that though his merits were remembered, the suffering he endured remained a secret known only to Shaqar himself.
There was no hatred.
Only the awareness of their inability, the incapacity of those outside him to nod in understanding, to truly grasp the crushing weight he bore—and because of that, his resolve to keep walking only sharpened.
Within the silence blanketing the corridors, the burden upon Shaqar grew heavier.
Every Shirkish tablet he fought to obtain was never enough, insufficient to meet the greatest desires of each family member, let alone to patch, to cover the wounds of unseen sacrifices that ceaselessly burdened his soul.
He raised his head, beginning to question the identity that slowly fractured, torn between his duty as the family's backbone and the ego-driven desire to build an unshakable image among the Satanist society.
Was it truly for his wife and beloved daughter, or merely a tool, an object to satisfy his own ambition, a craving to be acknowledged as irreplaceable?
Still inside the hushed locker room, Shaqar stared upward, his empty gaze fixed upon the ceiling.
The new garments clung strangely to him, like a second skin that concealed old wounds refusing to heal.
In his solitude, the questions long buried seeped out, digging the deepest holes in his heart.
Was there a yearning to let all of this go, to return and embrace his only child, to beg forgiveness for the stolen moments, for all the priceless absences?
The image of his child's face invaded his mind, awakening the longing suppressed for so long beneath duty and responsibility.
Shaqar envisioned himself kneeling, confessing every fault, and perhaps, just perhaps, finding forgiveness within the small arms that once warmed him.
That hope felt so real, as though a nod and a pardon could erase, could bury all the agony he had endured.
Yet reality swiftly surged.
The ceiling could not answer him, offering only silence in witness of his inner conflict.
He knew the way home was never as simple as turning one's palm.
And the ruthless world outside the locker room still called, summoning his name with its dangers and promises—demands that must be fulfilled.
He exhaled slowly, neither too long nor too short.
Gradually, his gaze lowered from the ceiling, his head bowing down.
His eyes fixed upon his feet, which trembled with faint, subdued shivers he struggled to restrain.
The tiny tremors were undeniable, a bodily confession of a soul's exhaustion unspoken.
In silence, the quivering spoke louder than words.
Every tremor revealed the burdens he bore, the inner conflicts corroding him, the gnawing doubts that returned again and again.
Yet beneath the tremors he could scarcely contain, his resolve still burned.
Those feet, though wavering, remained planted as a symbol of defiance.
And then, at last, Shaqar's lips—sealed tightly until now—parted.
A murmur broke forth, fractured within the stillness, questioning his place as a father amid the storm of failing trust.
Even his own father, and nearly his entire family, had agreed, had consented to regard him no longer as protector, but as a weary old man, a grandfather obsessed with chasing praise and flattery from the Satanist Elders.
Every word they hurled struck like sharpened steel, cutting deep, leaving wounds within his already weary soul.
He muttered to himself, asking if all the sacrifices he had made were seen as nothing but ambition, as personal desire to be acknowledged within circles of shadowed power.
When in truth, every step, every risk taken, had been solely for ensuring their survival.
Yet what he received was the opposite—endless scorn, cruel accusations, and judgment declaring that Shaqar had forsaken his roots, his very family.
In his raspiest whisper lay bitterness and unspoken grief.
He began to doubt everything he had fought for, even questioning the meaning of his own identity.
Was he still worthy of being called a father, the pillar of a household, if all he had given his child were tablets upon tablets, while presence and affection drifted ever further away?
Even then, if Shaqar had been truly alone in that room, seated upon the bench that bore silent witness to his ruin, perhaps his tears would have spilled, flowing without restraint.
His sobs would have poured out, an eruption of grief over all his failures as a father.
And the most bitter failure of all was his absence, his inability to stand by his beloved wife—at her final farewell.
Her passing had not only left sorrow, but also became the seed, the origin of his child's hatred, once no bigger than a lime seed, now a massive snowball rolling out of control.
That snowball of hatred did not only crush the village path but also eradicated, obliterated every trace of bond and cherished memory that might have slowed its advance.
Each tear shed by Shaqar reopened old wounds, reminding him of all that was lost—not only a wife, but also the understanding and love of his only child.
The empty corridors seemed to devour him, closing off escape routes for a heart long torn apart.
It was in this moment that Shaqar chose to sit, to weigh every step he had taken with gnawing doubt.
His duty as a member of Team Xirkushkartum appeared noble to the outside eye, a path of service clothed in honor.
Yet beneath it, every step he took carved new scars, deepening wounds that had consumed him for years.
The silence of the locker room around him bore witness, a mute observer to the struggle, stripping bare the most fragile side of a man who strove to appear strong before the world.
Each time he tried to recall, to digest the reason why he had first accepted such a heavy role, the only thing that came was the image, the face of his family—growing ever distant, rejecting him, shrouded in endless hatred.
Time seemed to stretch, dragging Shaqar into a whirlpool of memories never truly buried.
The figure of his wife, whom he never reached in her final moments, haunted him still, bearing regrets that could never be redeemed.
Not with any deed, no matter how great.
The child who once was his guiding light had grown cold, no longer seeing him as a father, but as a weary man shackled, imprisoned by his own bleak ambition—to be acknowledged by the rulers of the shadowed world.
Every mission carried out with Xirkushkartum only widened the chasm of estrangement, as though his devotion to the many was paid with the hatred of his own blood.
In silence, Shaqar felt his body quiver faintly, a physical sign he could not hide even from himself.
The tremor surfaced, speaking more clearly than words, revealing the weary soul carried for so long.
Even so, the flame of resolve had not yet died.
Shaqar still stood at the same crossroads, staring down the thorn-filled path he could not abandon.
He knew surrender would mean indifference, betrayal of the responsibility etched upon his shoulders, treachery against the oath sworn with his comrades of Xirkushkartum.
Yet to endure meant only further exile, branded as the most failed of fathers, a man who chose service to many while forgetting his own home.
That was the weight crushing his chest, forcing him to accept that whichever path he chose, a soul would always be wounded.
The outer world demanded courage, but the world within begged ceaselessly, pleading for a chance to return, to be forgiven.
To be continued…