Chapter 128
Without needing to wait for instructions, without exchanging glances with Shaqar, without asking permission from anyone, Apathy moved.
His step backward was taken firmly, exactly two steps as measured within his mind, moving away from the representative, away from the center of attention, away from the watchful eyes that had been observing all along, returning to a position more fitting for a soldier whose primary duty was to report and not to become part of the conversation that was about to unfold.
Those two steps created a faint rustling sound against the ground, a sound quickly swallowed by the growing silence—thicker, heavier, increasingly like layers of lead being placed one by one upon the shoulders of everyone present.
And when Apathy finally stopped in his new position, when the distance between him and the representative had become sufficient to create a proper space for someone about to speak, the newly arrived representative did something simple, yet carried extraordinary weight.
He cleared his throat.
The sound was small, merely a slight vibration in the throat that produced something almost inaudible, yet within a room engulfed in perfect silence, even the smallest noise felt like an explosion.
Everyone in the room tensed further, everyone held their breath longer, everyone focused all their senses toward the single point where the representative stood.
The high-ranking Satanists of the Zhulumat Banner exchanged brief glances, looks filled with unanswerable questions, looks searching for certainty within uncertainty, looks that silently asked whether this was the moment to speak—or the moment to withdraw even deeper into silence.
The voice finally emerged, tearing through the silence that had wrapped the room like an overly thick burial shroud.
The representative spoke without haste, without raising his tone, yet with a conviction that made every word feel carved into stone—something that could not be refuted even if not necessarily true, something that felt like a truth forcibly embedded into the minds of those who heard it.
He conveyed that what had occurred in the city of Thalyssra, Blessed by the Great Sanse, what had been witnessed by members of Team Xirkushkartum not under Zhulumat's command, what had driven them to take such risks to deliver this message, was not coincidence, not a natural phenomenon, not something that could be dismissed as part of ordinary battle dynamics.
The lowest-ranking Angels and the thousands of Holy Beings continuously surrounding the castle, moving in patterns that never changed, making that structure the center of all their movements—none of it existed without reason, without purpose, without intent that perhaps lay beyond the limits of their understanding.
The air in the room felt thinner after those words were spoken, harder to breathe, heavier to hold within the lungs.
The high-ranking Satanists of the Zhulumat Banner exchanged glances once more, but this time the looks were different—not filled with questions seeking answers, but with the acknowledgment that they were facing something beyond their comprehension.
Some shifted slightly in their seats, creating faint rustling sounds quickly swallowed again by the thickening silence, while others remained frozen, not daring to make even the slightest movement that could be interpreted as weakness or inability to face the increasingly uncertain situation.
The fingers of some moved subtly upon their laps, an old habit they could not fully control, one that surfaced when tension had reached a point where the body itself refused to cooperate in maintaining calm.
The representative continued, and this time there was something different in his tone—something deeper, heavier, filled with awareness of his own limitations.
He admitted, openly and honestly, without hiding behind twisted words meant to sound more intelligent, that he did not understand what the Angels and thousands of Holy Beings were truly doing.
He did not understand the ritual they were carrying out, did not understand the symbols they were constructing through their precise formations, did not understand the ultimate purpose behind the ceaseless movements.
He was merely a messenger—eyes and ears sent to observe and listen, then convey what was seen and heard—not a strategist capable of deciphering the intent behind every enemy movement, not a high-ranking figure with access to ancient knowledge that might explain such phenomena.
That admission, rather than weakening his position, instead made his words feel more authentic, more trustworthy, freer from suspicion that he was attempting to manipulate them with fabricated theories.
Yet despite his lack of understanding, despite his inability to explain, despite having no answers for the questions that would inevitably arise, there was one thing he knew with certainty—one thing he believed with all his being—the very reason he had undertaken this dangerous journey to deliver this message.
Whatever ritual was being performed by the accursed servants of the One, whatever its form, purpose, or meaning behind the formations they endlessly constructed, it would not bring any good to the world of Satanists.
There was no possibility that this was something positive, no scenario in which the presence of Angels and thousands of Holy Beings in the heart of Thalyssra, Blessed by the Great Sanse, would bring blessings or advantage to them.
What existed was only threat, only danger, only destruction—perhaps being prepared with meticulous care, with precision, with a patience possessed only by beings untouched by time, such as those Angels and Holy Beings.
"You have delivered more than I expected in a single moment. This information is not light, and I have no intention of letting exhaustion dull our judgment. To the captains of Team Xirkushkartum present in this room—escort them to the inner resting quarters. Ensure security is tightened. No one is to disturb them, and no one leaves without my permission."
Zhulumat's voice finally emerged—not louder than a whisper, yet carrying a penetrating force that made everyone in the room feel as though the words were spoken right beside their ears, despite the distance separating them.
He spoke of rest, of time that could not be forced endlessly, of bodies that—even when trained to endure the most extreme conditions—still possessed limits that could not be ignored.
He ordered several captains of Team Xirkushkartum, who had been seated in the tight circle, their bodies nearly stiff from remaining in the same position for too long, to escort the messengers to rest.
To be continued…