Chapter 98
Total commitment to exorcism, driving the Angels and Holy Beings from the heart of their own world.
Those words were no longer mere orders, but a cosmic burden now pressing down on each pair of shoulders.
The presence of Zhulumat and the High Officials, hovering like wrathful gods of war, only reinforced how critical and sacred this mission was, adding yet another layer to the dread that had already settled since the speech on the field began.
Some of them, behind steel masks and helmets, closed their eyes for a brief moment, trying to swallow the bitter taste of fear, imagining the radiant entities they would have to face and banish.
They were chosen soldiers, trained and forged through countless covert operations, yet facing thousands of holy entities was not merely a physical battle.
It was an ontological struggle, a direct confrontation with principles fundamentally opposed to their existence as satanists.
The fear creeping through them was not cowardice, but an instinctive acknowledgment of the abyss they would have to cross.
Within that noisy silence, the only force capable of muffling the storm of anxiety was the presence of their commander.
Shaqar, with calm yet unquestionable authority, became the point of fixation for eighteen restless souls.
Without resorting to empty words of encouragement, he acted.
A brief but steady gaze, a light yet firm pat on the shoulder of a comrade whose body had begun to tremble, or simply his upright and unshaken posture amid the vehicle's jolts—all of it spoke louder than any speech.
He was the guardian of their sanity, a reef in the middle of a sea of doubt that had begun to crash in.
Shaqar understood well the knot of emotions coiling in his subordinates' hearts.
He himself felt the same vibration behind his ribs, a primal stillness warning of unseen danger.
Yet he also knew the battlefield they were about to enter, both geographically and psychologically.
He knew fear could become a tool if managed, but a catastrophe if allowed to run rampant.
Thus, through his demeanor alone, he delivered a single, unmistakable message.
As long as they moved as one body, one perfectly coordinated soul, obeying every instruction with iron discipline and guarding one another's backs, there existed a path—however narrow and perilous—that would lead them home.
This trust was not spoken with cheer, but manifested in every controlled breath he took, every ritualistically calm analysis of maps on his tablet, and every sweep of his sharp eyes across his subordinates' faces, ensuring no one drowned alone.
"For some reason, my chest has felt uneasy for a while now.
We're not even halfway there, but it feels like something is waiting for us."
"Me too.
With the city that densely packed with Angels and Holy Beings, what if we fall apart the moment we arrive?"
"Yeah, what if the formation breaks before we can even establish the first exorcism?"
"Calm down. Don't let your thoughts run faster than this vehicle.
Alertness is necessary, but panic will only make you deaf to what's around you."
Huuuuuh!
"When we arrive, pay attention to every change—sounds, vibrations, anything that feels off.
If you sense even the slightest hint of danger, report it immediately to me or to the nearest comrade.
We are not moving alone. As long as we keep warning each other and stay in one formation, there's no reason to fall into chaos."
Inside the cramped space filled with the smell of diesel, tension, and sweat, Shaqar could feel a subtle yet steady erosion taking place.
He was no psychic, but his sharply honed leadership instincts caught the waves of doubt beginning to seep into the souls of his nineteen subordinates.
The constant engine vibrations seemed to transmit their fear directly into his spine.
They had only covered a quarter of the journey, still far from the blood-soaked front line, yet the shadow of defeat had already begun to loom like black fog on their inner horizon.
Shaqar looked at each face illuminated by the dim emergency lights, seeing eyes starting to hollow, lips murmuring silent prayers, or hands repeatedly checking weapons with nervous motions.
Death on the battlefield after fighting to the last breath was one thing, but death from paralysis by fear—by helplessness that crushed the soul before the battle even began—was a final humiliation he would not allow.
His mind worked quickly, analyzing the situation like a tactician confronting an invisible threat.
He realized that generic motivational words were no longer sufficient.
The enemy they faced was not ordinary infantry, but entities that struck directly at the most basic foundations of belief and courage.
He needed to give them something more tangible, an active role in safeguarding themselves amid that sense of powerlessness.
Calmly, he left his seat and moved toward the rear of the cabin, where most of his team was packed together.
His movement drew all attention, breaking the cycle of anxiety spinning in their minds.
His gaze, sharp and warning-filled, swept the space, ensuring eye contact with every person, even piercing through the partition glass separating them from Apathy, who was fully focused at the wheel.
Shaqar did not repeat lectures about bravery or sacrifice.
Instead, he instilled a practical protocol of mental resilience.
In a low voice that carried clearly above the engine's roar, he reminded them to keep their senses sharpened, to maintain razor-edged vigilance from the moment their wheels touched the soil of Thalyssra.
That vigilance was not only against enemy attacks, but also against premonitions, instinctive whispers, or strange vibrations in the air they might feel.
He granted them legitimacy to trust their own instincts, the authority to report any sign of danger—no matter how small or illogical—directly to him or to the nearest comrade.
This instruction transformed them from mere recipients of orders into living sensors, integral parts of the team's early warning system.
In this way, fear was redirected from a paralyzing burden into a tool to be managed and reported.
"If I had my way, I'd rather stay silent and let this engine do the talking.
But as long as your lives are my responsibility, I won't stop reminding you—even if I sound nagging."
"There's nothing wrong with that, Captain. If it's for all of us, hearing it doesn't feel excessive."
"We understand. That's not showing off—that's how a leader makes sure his subordinates come home alive."
"Better to be reminded a thousand times on the road than once too late on the exorcism field."
"If it weren't like this, we'd be suspicious instead. Besides, we'd rather have hot ears now than cold bodies later."
"Idiots."
That weariness was not bland boredom, but a dull, familiar metallic weight in Shaqar's chest.
He had spoken variations of the same warnings across a hundred different training grounds, in twenty real operations, each leaving scars and ghostly memories in his eyes.
Every repetition of words about vigilance, cooperation, and reporting felt like carving the same message into the same stone, only to find it eroded again by the ever-new dew of fear.
Yet he knew a deeper truth.
In their world, filled with deadly encirclements of holy light and soul-shattering angelic whispers, repetition was neither luxury nor emptiness.
It was a ritual of survival.
To be continued…