Chapter 107
The metallic stench of blood mixed with the piercing, fragrant perfumes of the prophets, scents once used in sermons and rituals of worship.
The air felt heavier, as if every breath they drew carried the Creator's decree, a burden of sanctity meant either to cleanse them or to burn them from within.
Then, in a formation already merged with the other team captains, Shaqar and the members of Team Xirkushkartum began to move forward.
Every step they took was a struggle against more than just the terrain.
The gusts of wind confronting them were not natural winds, but currents of air saturated with remnants of sacred will that actively rejected their presence.
The wind hissed, sometimes whispering in the language of prayers, trying to push them back.
Yet the ranks continued to advance, slowly but surely, pushing through the invisible waves of rejection.
The chaos created by the minions of the Accursed One around them reached a level that defied conventional logic of warfare.
They witnessed a mad cycle of destruction and creation.
Buildings belonging to the Satanist faithful, filthy and rotten, were torn down, adorned with religious grandeur and sanctity, cleansed until they gleamed.
Then, without any clear reason, those same buildings were burned to cinders.
From the ashes, structures even more beautiful and holy were erected, only to be burned again within moments.
The cycle repeated endlessly, an obsessive performance of power trapped in a ritual of perfection and purification devoid of meaning.
Angels and Holy Creatures moved around them with rigid, orderly motions, chanting monotonous praises to the Almighty.
Their movements resembled puppets controlled by the warped desires of an omnipotent child, beautiful and terrifying in their unnaturalness.
Some of them laughed without sound, their mouths moving in silent prayers that only deepened the sense of mystery and madness.
Others flew back and forth at dizzying speed, suddenly stopping to stare intently at a wall filled with religious motifs, then prostrating themselves in deep reverence before abruptly screaming and shooting back into the sky, cursing all who opposed them.
The city's soundscape itself was a form of sensory torture.
The constant pounding of metal echoed everywhere, yet in strange and unnatural patterns.
Two different kinds of metal—call them A and B—rang back and forth in response.
Strangely, at times metal A sounded as metal B should, and vice versa.
It was as if the fundamental laws of physics were being toyed with, creating a dissonance that disturbed the mind.
Then came a long howl, like a spiritual alarm, its frequency designed to shake the souls of the Satanist faithful down to their stomachs, triggering waves of deep nausea.
More horrifying still, the near-vomiting that seized the soldiers seemed to move in rhythm with the praises and howls of the holy minions, as if their own bodies were being forced to participate in this ritual of humiliation.
Added to this, the sound of friction—or more precisely, atomic collisions within the walls of the buildings—created echoes that were overwhelmingly grand and sacred.
Each scrape felt like the direct touch of God's hand, radiating vibrations laden with prayers, praises, and curses against anyone who dared offend the Almighty.
The sound was so exalted that it became painful to the ears of any unsanctified being, filling every space with a forced and oppressive divine presence.
"You all see it, don't you? This city is being forced to kneel by hypocritical sanctity."
"Do not stop moving. Do not be tempted by their songs, their lights, or the false scents they boast."
"We advance as one—no one ahead, no one left behind."
"Our steps must be uniform, our breaths in rhythm."
Huuuhh!
"Carry all exorcism tools. Leave nothing behind, discard nothing."
"Angels and Holy Creatures will show no mercy just because you feel tired."
Amid the panorama of grotesque sanctity, the presence of Zhulumat Katamtum and several other Satanist High Officials stood like granite pillars in the storm.
They watched every mad cycle of burning, every rigid movement of the angels, and every torturous distortion of sound, yet not a trace of fear or doubt appeared on their faces, faintly visible behind the darkness they carried.
Their gazes were cold, filled with frozen contempt for the entire display of sanctity striving to assert its dominance.
To them, it was all merely an anachronism, the leftover screams of a defeated god, now able only to parade its madness at the heart of a city that should have belonged to the Satanist faithful.
Zhulumat's refusal to let the city of Thalyssra, Blessed by the Great Sanse, fall back into the hands of the Accursed One's minions was not merely a matter of territory.
It was a question of essential survival for their entire civilization, built upon the ruins of the old world.
This city was the greatest economic pulse, the heart pumping trade, resources, and power to Satanist faithful across the world.
If this heart stopped or was reclaimed by the old powers, the entire economic flow of their history would be damaged—perhaps collapse—bringing back darkness and famine worse than before the revolution.
This consideration, greater than any life on the field, burned behind Zhulumat's unblinking eyes.
Thus, after a moment of silent observation of the absurdity before them, Zhulumat acted.
With a firm and authoritative motion, he turned.
His massive, power-laden body now faced the line of captains and members of Team Xirkushkartum who were enduring the sensory assault.
The movement itself was a statement, a severing from the spectacle ahead and a total focus on the mission.
When his voice rang out, it cut through the hissing wind, the alternating metal strikes, and the spiritual howls.
His instructions were clear, harsh, and indisputable.
In essence, they would continue forward.
There was no option to retreat or stop.
They would move as one indivisible team, a clenched fist driving straight into the heart of this chaos.
Every exorcism tool, every weapon designed specifically to repel and destroy Angels and Holy Creatures, had to remain carried and ready throughout the march.
"Close the ranks! Leave no gaps—one step, one breath!"
"Lift your heads! Do not bow to that false light!"
"Maintain shoulder distance! Listen to the rhythm of the steps—follow, but do not overtake!"
"Weapons ready, but feet moving! Discipline first, kill later!"
"If you hear the singing, ignore it! Focus on our voices!"
"One banner! One purpose! No name but the team!"
Even as the ground trembled with heavenly hymns, amid the mutually lethal scents of metal and incense, a tactical transformation unfolded with near-mystical precision.
Like scattered scrap iron suddenly drawn to an unseen colossal magnet, every soldier who had been dispersed around the wreckage of their vehicles began to move.
They flowed, not running, but gliding through the dense air toward a single focal point.
There, Shaqar stood like a silent watchtower, his gaze cutting through the nauseating fog of sanctity, becoming the first beacon guiding every step of his subordinates.
Onigakure, with cold authority, organized the right flank, his gestures brief and full of meaning, while Makakushi on the left moved like a weaver of shadows, ensuring not a single gap remained in their formation.
Within the span of a few short breaths, from chaos was born a perfect Satanist geometry, a dense formation pulsing with a single intent: to endure, and to break through.
To be continued…