Chapter 82
"And you know, Shaqar?
I think there is one thing that makes perfect sense about the decision of Zhulumat Katamtum and the Satanic Elders—the prohibition against you returning home when your wife died.
Because they knew, you were not even worthy of standing there.
Not worthy of mourning a body you could no longer embrace. And more than that, they knew you would not withstand Miara's gaze, a gaze that no longer recognized you as her father."
Apathy exhaled slowly, his eyes fixed on Shaqar's face, now hardening like stone dragged by time.
In the depths of his mind, he knew exactly what was coming.
He could feel the pulse of anger vibrating in the air, like the heat from embers on the verge of exploding.
He was aware that soon that hand—the hand that once lifted a sword against sacred beings—might fly toward his face or his stomach.
But Apathy did not retreat.
He did not lower his gaze, nor did he soften his words.
A cruel principle had grown within him.
That truth, however painful, must always be spoken—even if it meant becoming the target of wrath from the person he most respected.
He spoke again.
His voice was firmer this time, piercing, like a cold blade swung without hesitation.
His words emerged from the darkest place, where honesty and hatred often blended without limit.
He mocked, criticized, and attacked ruthlessly, exposing Shaqar's deepest layers without mercy.
In every syllable spoken, Apathy emphasized that there is no honor in cowardice, and no forgiveness for those who only regret without action.
He even dared to add something more piercing, a truth that struck Shaqar's heart with no room for excuses.
'Perhaps—just perhaps—the Satanic Elders were right to forbid him from returning home.
Because men like Shaqar, they said, do not deserve to witness their wife's death.'
The words fell like a stone in a calm sea, sending waves crashing against Shaqar's chest.
In an instant, the air between them turned cold, dense, and heavy.
Shaqar's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed in silent tremor.
His jaw tightened, veins in his neck protruded, and in that moment, every pulse in his body became a drum of war.
He did not speak immediately, yet the tension in his shoulders, the restrained breath, and the clenched fists so tight that the joints made subtle sounds—all spoke louder than words ever could.
In his gaze, there was a mixture of shock, anger, and wounds so deep they almost resembled ruin.
Apathy remained standing, letting the lantern shadows dance across his calm face.
Before him, Shaqar seemed like a stone that had borne the waves for too long—solid on the outside but slowly cracking within.
Each breath of the old man rumbled softly, as though something inside was about to explode yet restrained by the remaining will.
In that space, no words were spoken, no sound except the pounding of blood beneath the skin.
The world around them seemed drained of color, leaving only gradients of gray and darkness, where guilt and truth collided in a silence almost sacred.
Apathy knew the suffering he witnessed did not belong to a soldier, but to a Satanist who had pretended to be strong before wounds that never healed.
Shaqar stared at the cold ground, as if all he wished to forget were stored there.
The hand that once gripped a sacred talisman now trembled.
Not from age, but from memories refusing to leave.
Every vein in his neck tensed, restraining an unseen force—a fear that had long prevented him from simply saying sorry.
He was a man who had conquered thousands on the battlefield, yet failed to conquer himself.
Unspoken sins had grown into thorns that pierced his heart each night.
And now, before Apathy, those thorns began to emerge from within, demanding acknowledgment.
Like embers left too long, the regret burned without flame, slowly consuming from within until only ashes clung to each breath.
The sky above seemed empty, mourning the two souls trapped in an invisible war.
In the suffocating silence, Apathy saw something deeper than anger.
He witnessed destruction.
'Love turned to stone in silence, duty shackled, devotion lost its compass.'
Shaqar was more than just a guilty Satanist.
He was a reflection of those who once believed that power could redeem the weakness of the heart.
But now, before the truth that stripped every layer of himself, all titles and accolades he had earned crumbled to dust.
He was only a father who had lost his daughter, a husband who never said goodbye, a Satanist caught between wanting to atone and fearing to begin.
Between them, time paused.
Lanterns flickered, the air froze, and the world awaited something that never came.
Buuuuk—buuuuk!
"Shaqar, has it never crossed your mind to at least try to mend your relationship with your family?
Especially with Miara—your daughter, left with wounds of hatred toward her father?"
The fire within Shaqar erupted instantly, shattering the remnants of control he had still grasped tightly.
The subtle tremor in his body turned into a wild roar, as if his own blood refused to remain still.
Something broke inside him.
Not only patience, but layer upon layer of wounds buried beneath a mask of calm.
Each exhale sounded like the roar of a storm ready to strike anyone daring to touch the most fragile part.
And as Apathy continued to stare unflinchingly, Shaqar's anger found its form.
Not in words, but in movements that shook the air between them.
His steps stomped the floor.
Hard, echoing, erasing the distance once maintained by respect.
His heavy, battle-worn hands now shot forward twice, like twin explosions seeking to drown the world in the sound of unspoken regret.
Yet Apathy—with an almost inhuman calm—blocked both.
The collision of arm and fist sparked small flashes.
Not of fire, but from the meeting of anger and understanding.
Behind every attack from Shaqar, Apathy saw not hatred, but desperation disguised as false courage.
Shaqar's body trembled, not to destroy, but from exhaustion at holding on.
In the tense silence, Apathy smiled.
Not a smile of victory, but of someone who understood that behind the violence lay love gone astray.
His gaze pierced the wall of Shaqar's anger, through layers of silence hardened between father and child.
He did not touch on sin, nor speak of honor, but something far simpler—something that struck Shaqar instantly.
He spoke of family.
He mentioned Miara.
And there, behind the two failed blows that never touched Apathy's skin, Shaqar's heart was struck hardest.
Every word from his opponent's lips was no longer mockery, but a whip aimed at the empty void inside himself.
"A-Apathy, I—I—"
Fuuuuh!
"I truly don't know what to do—"
Tsuuuuf!
"And I'm not sure which step to take."
The air around Shaqar felt heavy, pressing like the weight of the past suddenly falling upon his shoulders.
To be continued…