Chapter 129
Both the representative who had just arrived bearing news of the ritual in the city of Thalyssra, Blessed by the Great Sanse, and the members of Team Xirkushkartum who were not under his command—who had arrived earlier with ten neatly rolled maps before them—were all to be escorted, ensured a proper place to recover their strength, and guarded so that nothing would disturb the rest they rightfully deserved after the long and dangerous journey they had just undertaken.
Zhulumat emphasized, though not in a harsh commanding tone, that they would all be summoned again, that he himself would assign tasks no less important in this mission, that the rest they were taking now was not the end of their role but merely a brief pause before the next phase began.
The appointed captains moved immediately, with efficient motions that wasted no time, fully aware that every second lost was a luxury they could not afford in such a critical situation.
They approached the envoys one by one, signaling with almost imperceptible nods, inviting them to rise from their seated positions that had likely left their backs aching and their legs numb.
The envoys followed without many questions, without needing further explanation, for they were all too exhausted to ask and too accustomed to protocol to require one.
They walked out of the stifling meeting room in a formation not entirely neat, yet still showing that despite their fatigue, exhaustion, and near collapse from depleted energy, they remained soldiers who would never lose their dignity as part of Team Xirkushkartum—whether under Zhulumat's command or not.
Their footsteps created faint rustling sounds against the dusty floor, sounds that gradually faded as they moved away from the center of the circle, sounds that were eventually swallowed completely by the silence that reclaimed the room once the door closed behind the last of them.
That silence did not last long, for it took little time before the captains who had escorted the envoys returned to the threshold of the room.
They came with quick steps, their breathing slightly heavier than usual from the haste, aware that Zhulumat and the high-ranking Satanists of the Zhulumat Banner were still waiting inside.
As they re-entered the meeting circle and resumed their positions among the other captains who had not been assigned to escort duty, the atmosphere in the room shifted once more into something ready to receive further instructions.
Their bodies, which had just been in motion, returned to stillness, to rigidity, to readiness in absorbing every word that would come from Zhulumat.
Their eyes, which had briefly relaxed due to the chance to move, sharpened once again, refocused, fully directed toward the single point at the center of the circle where their highest leader sat unmoving.
"Before we proceed further, I want to hear the assessments of my fellow high-ranking members. The ritual just mentioned—does any of you recognize its energy pattern? A seal, a mantra, or a forbidden liturgy that may have been recorded in our archives? Do not assume. Speak only what you truly know."
Hoooooh!
"We do not recognize it."
"The waves are unfamiliar. It resembles neither summoning, nor coronation, nor high-level sacrifice."
"If it is a ritual of the Heavens, then it is not one commonly used within their doctrine. And if it is something older… then it lies beyond our knowledge."
"To be frank, we do not understand what kind of ritual this is at all."
"If even you cannot identify it, then only two possibilities remain. It is either a new variant deliberately hidden from all records, or something never meant to be known."
Fiiiih!
"Captains of Team Xirkushkartum—I want your opinions now. You stand closer to the pulse of the field than we who dwell in archives and theory. In your view, is the ritual offensive, defensive… or perhaps transformative? Speak honestly. A misjudgment today will become tomorrow's catastrophe."
The atmosphere in the room thickened again, condensing like resin slowly poured into a narrow vessel, as Zhulumat shifted the center of attention from the inner circle of high-ranking members to the outer circle where the captains of Team Xirkushkartum stood with their backs straight despite their numbing legs.
He no longer posed questions that demanded immediate verbal answers, instead allowing his weary yet piercing gaze to travel across each face before him—measuring, observing, reading every crease of the brow and every blink that might conceal fragments of unspoken knowledge.
The high-ranking members who had spoken earlier fell silent, withdrawing into their own stillness, realizing that the stage had shifted, that their turn had passed, and that now it was time for those in the field—those who had smelled the soil of Thalyssra and felt firsthand the mysterious tremors shaking the city Blessed by the Great Sanse—to open their memories, tear through recollections, and separate mere assumptions from what could be called fact.
The captains exchanged brief glances, a silent dialogue lasting only seconds, before one figure stepped forward, shifting his weight with calm certainty, and began unraveling the threads of his observations one by one—his hoarse voice, worn by exhaustion yet clear like water flowing between stones, filling the room with a cold, measured analysis that left no space for baseless interpretation.
When the voice faded, when the final word lingered in the air like mist not yet carried away by the wind, Zhulumat merely nodded—a nod that neither confirmed nor denied, but simply signaled that he had heard, that he had absorbed, that he would carry those fragments into calculations that never relied on a single perspective alone.
And in a corner of the room far from the spotlight, among shadows cast by oil lamps dimming as their wicks had yet to be replaced, someone recorded everything into a memory that never betrayed—preserving every detail, every subtle head shake from a high-ranking member who concluded too quickly, every furrowed brow of a captain who hesitated too long—because he knew, just as Zhulumat knew, that in a mission not yet a full day underway, even the smallest error in reading the situation would be paid for at a price beyond negotiation.
"No one wishes to speak?"
Fuuuuh!
"In that case, we will not force empty speculation. We shift the discussion. In recent days, the movements of the accursed servants of the One have been observed to be unusual. Their transitions are quieter than usual, yet too structured to be called coincidence. I want—"
"I… forgive me for interrupting, Your Excellency Zhulumat. There is an opinion I must at least convey. Though I am not certain it will answer the question regarding the ritual, if I do not speak now, we may regret it."
The silence that followed Zhulumat's words grew heavier still, denser, like a wall of glass stretching between the supreme leader and everyone present in the meeting circle.
No one spoke, no one responded, no one reacted, as though each person in the room was locked in their own thoughts, processing the information they had just received, trying to find clarity within the growing chaos.
Zhulumat himself showed no disappointment, no anger, no impatience, for he had led for too long not to understand that sometimes silence was the most honest response from exhausted soldiers.
He drew a long breath—very long—his chest rising and falling slowly, a sign that he was preparing to change the topic, to attempt a different approach, to discuss something else that might break the deadlock.
But before he could finish, before the next words could leave his thin lips, a sudden movement drew everyone's attention.
Onigakure raised his hand—a simple motion, yet one that carried immense weight within such perfect silence.
All eyes turned at once, all heads followed in the same direction, all focus now centered on a single figure seated among the other captains of Team Xirkushkartum.
Onigakure's expression was clearly visible despite the dim lighting, made clear by the intensity of everyone's gaze upon him.
There was nervousness there—an unfamiliar nervousness for a captain who had endured too many battles to be easily shaken.
There was worry in his eyes, worry that slightly furrowed his brow, that made his lips tremble before finally parting to speak.
To be continued…