Chapter 119
Every breath they exhaled carried fragments of formulas drifting through the air, intertwining with the silence and forming layers of alternative realities visible only to the inner eye.
That silence, dense with mental activity, was finally shattered—not by a loud noise or a shout, but by the presence of a voice so authoritative that its mere vibration was enough to halt everything instantly.
Pens froze mid-stroke, fingers dancing in the air turned still, and closed eyes snapped open.
Zhulumat Katamtum had spoken, and his voice was not merely a string of words, but a declaration that shifted the orientation of the entire council.
He did not speak at length, nor did he deliver a fiery speech.
What left his lips was a simple assertion, yet one that resonated through every corner of awareness that heard it.
That if time truly favored them, if what he had observed earlier regarding the blind spots of the holy beings was indeed fact and not illusion, then there was no reason to restrain the advance of their forces.
The Anti-Tremor Line now standing guard around them, the Orbit Severance Line whose captains had just finished sketching their maps, even the Satanic Elites within the Banner of Zhulumat who were crafting probability incantations—all of them had to be ready to move forward at once.
Forward not in desperation, not in blind courage, but in the conviction that a gap had opened, and they must enter it before it was sealed once more by the power that had long oppressed them.
"Every individual, including you Satanic Elites, will move according to this arrangement. No one moves alone until all units are in position. And remember, all members of the three lines will be split and recombined at random."
Within the circle still heavy with the impact of his previous words, Zhulumat Katamtum drew something from within his thick robe.
A dark cloth scroll, worn by age, yet when unfurled upon the ground before them, it revealed not merely a map of the Thalyssra border, but a projection of their leader's deepest thoughts.
The lines etched upon that fabric were not just pathways or territorial boundaries, but streams of strategy that had long resided solely within Zhulumat's mind, now made visible for those whose eyes were trained enough to read the silent language behind every stroke.
Zhulumat's index finger began to move across the map, tracing points marked with peculiar symbols, explaining without many words that their movement this time could not resemble anything they had done before.
There could be no clamor, no conspicuous aura of darkness—only whispers of footsteps upon the ground, only restrained breaths, only the awareness that the enemy's light possessed eyes and ears that must be deceived with the most subtle of methods.
The captains of Team Xirkushkartum and the Satanic Elites leaned closer, their heads nearly touching as they absorbed every detail of the map laid before them.
Zhulumat continued, his voice growing lower, deeper, like the tremor of earth before a great quake.
That once this council ended and they returned to their respective ranks, there would be no more rigid formations that had once been their pride.
The Anti-Tremor Line, the Orbit Severance Line, and the Banner of Zhulumat would all be broken apart at random, interwoven so thoroughly that no recognizable unit identity remained.
What would exist instead were fifty-five members of the Anti-Tremor Line dispersed across the field, three to five members of the Orbit Severance Line slipping among them, and two members of the Banner of Zhulumat serving as the silent core of each small unit formed.
No one was to question why those numbers were chosen, nor protest the composition.
For within apparent chaos lay their unreadability to the enemy.
Within calculated randomness lay a strength they had never before wielded.
Zhulumat's finger stopped at a single point on the map—a place that seemed insignificant at first glance, yet upon closer observation lay precisely along one of the blind spots of the Holy Beings.
From that point, all movement would begin.
Not with a simultaneous assault, not with battle cries, but by creeping forward like shadows that never truly exist, like mist slipping through gaps without disturbing its own form.
The fifty-five shield bearers of the Anti-Tremor Line, who usually stood as the foremost defense, would now become infiltrators carrying protection for their small groups.
The three to five orbit-severing knights of the Orbit Severance Line, who once analyzed patterns from afar, would now serve as eyes and ears moving within the vortex rather than observing it.
And the two Satanic Elites of the Banner of Zhulumat in each group—they would be the heart that kept the rhythm of the ritual alive even under suffocating pressure.
When the explanation ended, when every individual within the circle understood their role without needing to ask, Zhulumat folded the map back with slow, careful movements, as though the aged cloth was the most precious object he had ever held.
His gaze shifted from one face to another, not seeking doubt, not seeking enthusiasm, only ensuring that the command had been fully received.
And when no one looked away, when every pair of eyes met his with unspoken readiness, Zhulumat gave a single nod—a small motion that signaled the end of the council and the beginning of a new phase.
"Do we, with this formation, now have a way to slip past the outermost border of the Sanctified City of Thalyssra?"
After the map was folded and returned beneath his robe, after each individual began to process their new roles within the orchestrated chaos, Zhulumat Katamtum did not immediately dismiss the council.
His sharp gaze shifted once more, no longer toward the map or the surrounding faces, but toward a small group who had long served as the minds behind his army's finest maneuvers.
They were the captains of the Orbit Severance Line, leaders whose subordinates now stood guard along the outer perimeter, commanders who had spent hours sketching possible infiltration routes, arrows marking potential breakthroughs, and dashed lines representing fragile hopes within the encroaching light.
Zhulumat looked at them one by one, not in haste, but with a patience that made the air itself feel heavier.
He was waiting, giving them space to present what they had been crafting in silence—whether those countless sketches had yielded an answer or amounted to nothing more than meaningless pages.
"We have conducted trials, my Lord Zhulumat. Various exorcism objects were thrown toward the border. The result was null."
"Even ordinary dust and pebbles were tested. The same outcome. The moment they approach a certain radius, they crumble into dust."
"It is not only the gaze of the Angels. The noble aura emanating from each Holy Being itself is what destroys them."
"Nothing passes through. Everything disintegrates before it can reach the outermost line."
To be continued…