Chapter 116
Its low, deep hum shifted into a high-frequency shriek that shattered concentration, forcing every soldier of Zhulumat—without exception, from those with cracked bones to those whose minds were still shrouded in fog—to reflexively clamp both gauntleted hands over their ears.
That defensive reaction instantly disrupted their formation, leaving them vulnerable.
In that very moment, the sky, which had briefly dimmed, began a new ritual.
Above them, thousands of Sacred Beings still standing in perfect square formations, like a living painting upon the canvas of the night sky, opened their mouths in unison.
From those cavities radiating pure golden light emerged not weapons or beams of radiance, but a choral force far more structured and far more piercing than before.
Their voices were no longer a mere song of judgment, but a litany of praise composed with mathematical precision, a symphony of gratitude offered to the One Accursed.
Every note, every word, every pause was tightly interwoven, creating waves of sound that not only deafened the ears, but pressed down upon the soul itself.
The praise came in layers, recounting the omnipotence, omnibenevolence, and omniscience of the One Accursed.
It depicted the universe as His gift, order as His will, and every heartbeat as His permission.
Those sound waves carried a dense theological charge, a narrative intent on forcing itself inward and cleansing the minds of all who heard it.
The air visibly trembled, distorted by the amassed vocal power, and the acoustic pressure compelled the soldiers of Zhulumat to hunch slightly, as though the sheer weight of the words bore down upon their shoulders.
Then, precisely at the apex of the litany, the tone shifted.
That grand expression of gratitude flowed seamlessly, without pause, into a curse.
The voices of thousands merged into a single mass condemnation, cold and absolute.
They cursed arrogance, cursed rebellion, cursed every lip that dared to deny, and every heart that refused to submit.
The curse was spoken not with rage, but with a lacerating compassion, as though lamenting the inevitable fate that would befall those who defied them.
"Ever-increasing light."
Thus, the next stage of judgment began.
In the distance, at points of light brighter than stars and sharper than needles, the Angels who had launched the first assault now assumed the same posture.
Hands that had been folded behind their backs once more grasped the hilts of their heavenly swords, blades of pure and immaculate light.
The swords were raised and set vertically behind each of their backs, their infinite tips pointing straight toward the highest heavens, as though serving as conduits for a greater will.
For several seconds—four heartbeats that felt like four ages—the world seemed to hold its breath.
There was no movement, only accumulation.
The light from their bodies dimmed briefly, drawing inward, like stars collapsing into themselves before becoming supernovae.
Then, in the higher sky above the sea of praying Sacred Beings, new lights appeared.
One, then five, then dozens, until they numbered in the tens.
They were other Angels, arriving without sound and without formation.
Their positions were random, scattered like newly born constellations, yet each presence was an unmistakable declaration.
Their light was not golden, but a blinding, painful white, a sanctity older, deeper, and more indisputable than that emitted by the thousands of Sacred Beings below.
They were the core of divine perfection, and now all of them had arrived.
Without warning, without any sense of effort, the attack was unleashed.
From those dozens of luminous figures, from swords that remained statically embedded behind their backs, a rain of slashes erupted.
Not one, but dozens, perhaps hundreds of differently hued lines of light, each carrying a more concentrated and personal payload of destruction than the previous mass assault.
These slashes did not fly as a single wave, but descended like a storm of intelligent needles of light, each seeking its own target with terrifying precision.
Some curved sharply, some shot straight, some spiraled, all plunging downward with a single purpose.
To divide, tear apart, and pulverize all three layers of Zhulumat's defenses simultaneously.
"Listen without ears, tremble without touch."
The voice was indeed muffled by gauntleted palms, yet its vibrations traveled through bone.
It was no longer merely sound attacking the eardrums, but had transmuted into a metaphysical declaration that spoke directly to the core of consciousness.
The prayers chanted by thousands of Sacred Beings melted into pure existential pressure, a claim upon reality that sought to strike and reshape everything it touched.
As the siren and the chanting echoed together, the soul of every Zhulumat soldier felt the first jolt.
A compulsion to acknowledge, to submit, to affirm the divine narrative that they were errors to be corrected, stains to be erased.
The world around them changed in quality.
The air, which had merely vibrated before, now thickened like heavy, transparent honey.
Each breath felt like drawing in liquid, filling the lungs with a substance no longer pure oxygen, but a medium saturated with an alien will.
The light from the sky, pierced by the rain of angelic slashes, appeared to bend and ripple as it passed through air compressed by sacred song.
The battlefield itself seemed to acquire a new gravity, one that pulled not bodies, but resolve, toward a center of absolute submission in the heavens.
"Only a little more until the time of ending."
The condensed wave of sanctity crashed into the Anti-Thunder Line like an unseen flood.
The Resonant Litany-Negating Shields, which had previously hummed with stability, now vibrated wildly and uncontrollably, emitting shrill sounds not born of metal, but of friction between two opposing laws of nature.
Fine cracks that had once resembled mere fingerprints on ice now spread at an alarming speed, branching into patterns like nerve fibers undergoing constant electric shock.
Each crack emitted a dim golden glow, a sign that divine energy had infiltrated the very structure of the shields.
The soldiers behind them choked, every breath feeling like inhaling fine, scorching sand, as though the unceasing echoes of prayer had crystallized and filled the air entering their lungs, strangling them from within.
Behind that staggering line, the Orbit Severance Line suffered a subtler but equally dangerous disorientation.
The telepathic network that formed the backbone of their coordination was now flooded with alien resonance that scrambled perception.
A command to "advance three steps" could suddenly feel like an instruction to "retreat" or even "remain still," creating instant confusion among subordinates.
The captains' vision began to deceive them, the distance between themselves and the front line suddenly seeming to expand or contract, while cardinal directions spun without pattern.
They tried to maintain rhythm by forcing command pulses through their bracelets, yet each pulse felt heavy and sluggish, like swimming through heated molasses, losing the sharpness and speed that were the lifeblood of their tactics.
Meanwhile, at the center of the storm, the Banner of Zhulumat became the target of the most systematic erosion.
The Liturgical Pressure Reversal devices in the ears of the Satanist High Ones now vibrated violently, radiating heat that was nearly unbearable.
The black crystals within them boiled, releasing thin gray smoke that smelled of burning incense and heated iron.
To be continued…