Chapter 65
Though his face appeared cold and filled with concentration, it could not conceal the depth of feelings that could never be carved.
Especially toward his fellow warriors.
There was a taste of bitterness and regret, mixed with duty—moments that weighed heavily on Shaqar's soul, yet shaped him into something stronger, turning every second of silence into a true test of inner strength.
Every movement Shaqar made in that room carried meaning, like a silent dance—between preparing his tools and keeping his mind steady.
The shadows of the past clung to him, and the scent of the changing room—metal and wax—seemed to whisper memories that pressed upon him gently.
He knew that his presence here was not merely about physical ability, but about enduring, restraining himself from emotions too human for the world of Xirkushkartum.
Thoughts of Miara, his only daughter who often rejected his presence, emerged between his moments of focus, stirring a longing too difficult to express.
Shaqar held his breath, calming himself against the waves of emotion crashing within, realizing that in this world, sacrifice always came with an unseen—yet inevitable—price.
"Should I really reach out, decide to act, even knowing these fingers might be pushed away?
There's a desire to give Miara something—a bouquet, a note, or perhaps a stolen artifact from Xirkushkartum that she might see as a symbol of all futility.
But would such a gift hold meaning? Or would it merely transform into another blade I thrust into my own wound?
Without a sincere apology, any gift is nothing but a lie.
A lie is like poison.
If it taints her, it will become a stain of shame—a mirror reflecting, with painful clarity, how deeply I have fallen, strayed from the righteous path of a father.
I don't want her to see me as one who patches his sins with lifeless things, as if love could be bought with wilted flowers or ink upon paper.
Dear Miara, would you forgive me if this father spoke the truth, if I appeared before you with all my weakness? Or would you drift even farther away, hating me more, because this confession only confirms how often I was absent?
I do not know what is right or wrong, but one thing is certain.
The chasm between us cannot be bridged by gifts, but by the courage to tear down my own pride.
Haaah—if I take a wrong step again, I might remain forever as nothing but a shadow in your life.
But if this father stays silent, wouldn't that mean I've surrendered to fate?
I must choose. And I know—this choice is no longer about gifts or words, but about whether I am still worthy of being called your father."
The fog of sorrow thickened within Shaqar's heart, wrapping every whisper of thought that tried to guide him toward a decision.
He was trapped in a labyrinth of doubt, wondering if even the smallest gesture—sending a Xirkushkartum trinket, a bouquet, or a letter to Miara—could ever break down the wall that had long stood between them.
Yet the longer he pondered, the clearer it became that mere objects or hollow words would never be enough—never sufficient to redeem the lost warmth and time that should have been shared when Miara's mother was still alive.
A burning guilt made every option seem blurry and suffocating, as if every possible step would ignite new wounds—deeper ones—and his daughter's wistful gaze often haunted him from behind the fragile veil of memory.
Shaqar's mind drifted to his final moments at home, memories before leaving for the Xirkushkartum exorcism mission—when the warmth of his wife's embrace was the only anchor in a fragile, uncertain world.
He felt that every second spent on the mission field now became a chain, binding him.
It wasn't just lost time—it was a chasm, gaping wide between himself and Miara.
The fear of rejection, of misunderstanding, of unbearable hurt made him hesitate to draw near—as though every good intention could so easily be mistaken for insult or mockery.
In the heavy silence, only the echo of regret remained, reminding him that action without sincerity was nothing but a darker shadow of sin.
Shaqar felt the weight inside him grow heavier each time he imagined that gaze—a mixture of disbelief and pain that could never be voiced.
He realized that an apology was not mere words, but a confession of the fragile heart, and a genuine act that proved its truth.
Every possibility in his mind became a maze without an exit, where the desire to mend and the fear of worsening things blended into one.
His guilt chained him tighter than iron, leaving trembling steps heavy with sorrow, while the world around him kept moving without pause.
'Once again, I do not know what to do.If only I could….'
Ngiiing - ngiiing - ngiiing!!
'A meeting signal. If that's true, then Zhulumat Katamtum will be present. That vile creature who once robbed me—even of the right to hold her hand in her final resting place.
A thorn still lodged in my heart to this day.DAMN HIM!!'
Krrrrkkk!!
'Aarrgh—how impossible it is not to hate.But what else can be done? Especially when the High One has closed every path.Though rage burns in my chest, awareness can only shake its head—unable to do anything but yield, stay silent, and obey.'
Then, the siren echoed.
Soft, yet piercing through the silent chamber of Shaqar's thoughts, it cleaved the dark clouds veiling his heart, forcing his consciousness back into reality.
The sound wasn't startling, but it carried a sense of urgency that could not be ignored.
Moments later, an announcement followed.
Formal, yet burdened with the weight of duty, declaring that all heads of the Xirkushkartum Teams must immediately assemble at the sacred headquarters.
That place was not an ordinary office—it was where every captain presented themselves, their presence sealed for matters so grave that every decision and step could alter the very fate of satanic kind—at least under the supervision of beings far older and stronger than ordinary satanists.
In Shaqar's mind, each word of the announcement painted shadows of suffocating tension.
He, an old man past his sixth decade, felt an irresistible pull, unable to delay the fulfillment of his duty.
There was no room for personal hesitation, especially knowing that Zhulumat Katamtum, one of the most fearsome Satanic High Ones, would be present.
Indeed, that being was the obstacle—the wall standing between Shaqar's desire to withdraw from this world and his wish to bury his beloved wife, who had passed years ago.
Every second of his absence would leave a stain upon his record, for that being tolerated no defiance—not even from a head of the Xirkushkartum Teams.
Recalling it, Shaqar's mind became flooded with anguish, torn between towering grief and the weight of duty.
He remembered the recently finished exorcism mission, the wounds and loss still unhealed, and Miara's face—perhaps still holding the same sorrow.
But reality offered no time for long regret.
Every step toward the Xirkushkartum headquarters felt like walking a road of thorns, where guilt and fear mingled within a single vessel.
To be continued…