Chapter 152
"—Gh…!"
Zhulumat stopped.
His sentence was cut off.
The hand he had just raised trembled slightly.
Not because of fear.
But because a pressure had suddenly slammed into his consciousness like a giant hammer.
Makakushi immediately grabbed his head.
"WHAT—IS—THIS?!"
Onigakure staggered back a step.
"This isn't… a voice—!"
Zhereth clenched his teeth so hard that a faint cracking sound could be heard.
"This… goes straight to the brain…!"
Hopsly lowered his head, both hands pressing against his temples.
"Damn it… this is different from before—"
Itarabathe dropped to one knee.
Shasira gasped, her breathing uneven.
Muntashifa forced himself to remain standing, though his vision had already begun to blur.
And it was not only them—every soldier felt it.
That liturgy was not merely a sound.
It was pressure.
It was a burden.
It was… a command attempting to crush their consciousness.
The exorcism headsets that had worked so effectively earlier—were no longer working.
Or more precisely—they were not enough.
Several devices began producing harsh static noises.
Crrt—!!
Crrt—!!
Agatha touched the headset on her ear.
"What—?"
Her voice was cut off.
The device trembled.
Then—it died.
Instantly.
One by one.
Those black headsets began losing their functions.
Some shut down completely.
Others produced only static buzzing that worsened the pressure inside their users' heads.
"The devices—!"
One of the members shouted.
"They're not responding!"
Makakushi cursed under his breath.
"Broken?! Right now?!"
Zhereth forced himself to stay standing, though one hand was now clutching his head.
"This isn't damage…"
His eyes narrowed.
"This… is being forcibly shut down."
And as if that was not enough—the liturgy changed.
Its tone lowered.
Then rose again.
Trembling.
And in a single moment—it "touched" something deeper than mere consciousness.
Their bodies.
Their flesh.
Their physical existence.
And then—it began tearing them apart.
Not directly.
Not with blades.
Not with weapons.
But in a far more horrifying way.
Several soldiers' skin suddenly split open in thin lines.
As though something were pulling it apart from within.
Blood did not gush out immediately.
But lines of wounds began to appear.
Thin.
Long.
And multiplying.
"A—AAAGH—!"
One of the members collapsed.
His arm split open from an invisible slash.
Another clutched his chest.
His skin tore apart like paper sliced by something nonexistent.
Agatha stepped back halfway.
Her eyes widened.
"This… is attacking the body…?!"
Makakushi let out a short laugh—though it sounded forced.
"HAHA… now this is getting interesting…"
But even he could not hide the fact that his arm was now opening with thin cuts appearing one after another.
Onigakure grinned, though blood had already begun dripping from his shoulder.
"Invisible… but real…"
Zhereth narrowed his eyes.
He forced his logic to continue functioning amidst the pressure.
"This liturgy…"
He drew in a sharp breath.
"…is not an ordinary attack."
Hopsly slowly raised his head.
His face was pale.
Yet his eyes remained sharp.
"This… is the floor's defense system."
Itarabathe gritted his teeth.
"Not them…"
Shasira added with difficulty.
"…the castle itself."
Muntashifa laughed softly, even as blood began flowing from the side of his neck.
"So… even the building itself is fighting…"
Meanwhile—Zhulumat still stood.
His body had not been spared either.
Several thin lines had appeared on his arm.
One on his cheek.
Another on his neck.
Yet his expression—did not change.
His eyes remained open.
Sharp.
Focused.
He ignored the pain.
Ignored the pressure.
Ignored the liturgy trying to tear him apart from within.
Because his mind was focused on only one thing—time.
This liturgy was not meant to kill them quickly.
It was meant to slow them down.
To weaken them.
To… ensure they could not move according to plan.
And that meant—the enemy knew.
That they were going to move.
The pain did not lessen—it merely changed form.
The lines of wounds that had once been thin now began widening, some of them cutting through layers of skin and revealing the warm red flesh beneath.
Zhulumat stood amidst the pressure, his body covered in cuts at various points, yet remaining upright as though refusing to acknowledge that he was being wounded.
His breathing remained steady, even unnaturally steady for someone who had just been attacked by something that did not even possess a form.
He tilted his head slightly, glancing behind him to confirm one thing—his troops were still standing.
The Orbit Breaker Division, though some appeared staggering, still maintained formation.
The Anti-Rumble Division, despite the tension written across their faces, still gripped the half-dead devices in their hands.
The Satanist High Officials also remained standing, though it was clear that wounds were slowly consuming their bodies one by one.
Zhulumat exhaled briefly, almost like a forced sense of relief.
But that calm did not last long.
From various directions, voices began piercing through his consciousness once more—not the liturgy, but screams.
"Don't stand around here!"
"Captain, make a decision now!"
"We can't survive like this!"
Muntashifa, with blood flowing from his neck, remained standing while staring sharply at Zhulumat.
Itarabathe, half-kneeling, raised his head, his eyes carrying the same urgency.
Shasira gritted her teeth, her hands trembling as she endured the wounds continuously tearing through her arm.
Hopsly even stepped half a pace forward, his voice sounding the clearest among all of them—not as a request, but as pressure that could not be ignored.
They were not asking for a perfect solution.
They were merely demanding a decision.
Because everyone there understood one thing.
Remaining still meant dying slowly.
And that liturgy—that invisible bastard of a liturgy—would not give them a second chance.
Zhulumat looked to one side, then the other, as though gathering every shattered fragment of reality before him into a single complete picture.
His eyes narrowed, not because of pain, but because his focus had converged upon a single line of decision.
And without warning—he shouted.
His voice burst out from his chest, overpowering the echo of the liturgy still devouring the room.
"MUNTASHIFA! ITARABATHE! SHASIRA! HOPS—!"
He drew in a sharp breath despite the wounds slicing across his chest, then continued in a louder, more absolute tone.
"YOU STAY HERE!"
His voice echoed, crashing against the walls of the hall and forcing the entire army to hear it.
"THIRTY PERCENT—COORDINATE THE ANTI-RUMBLE AND ORBIT BREAKER DIVISIONS! HOLD THEM BACK! NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS—DO NOT LET THIS FORMATION COLLAPSE!"
His hand rose, pointing forward toward the path still blocked by the Holy Creatures and Angels.
"THE REST OF YOU—FOLLOW ME! WE'RE BREAKING THROUGH TO THE NEXT FLOOR!"
That decision had not even fully settled into everyone's minds when another change occurred—quieter, yet far deeper.
The Satanist High Officials who had been ordered to remain behind did not immediately attack.
Nor did they form a defensive formation as one might expect.
Instead… they stood taller.
Muntashifa slowly lifted his chin, no longer paying attention to the blood still dripping from his neck.
Itarabathe, who had been kneeling moments ago, now forced himself back up despite one hand still pressing against the wound on his side.
Shasira closed her eyes briefly, as though drawing something from a depth far older than the pain consuming her now.
Hopsly inhaled deeply—slowly, heavily—then exhaled with an unusual rhythm.
And then… that sound was born.
Not a scream.
Not a command.
But praise.
A low, deep, trembling tone.
They began reciting something directed neither toward the enemy nor toward their fellow soldiers—but toward a single entity far above all else within their faith.
That name was not spoken loudly, yet it could be felt within every syllable they uttered.
A tribute to the Honorable Great Sanse.
Their voices merged together, imperfect yet synchronized enough to create a strange resonance—dark, heavy, and opposing the holiness filling the hall.
Several soldiers who understood the meaning of that moment immediately joined in.
Their voices cracked, some filled with pain, yet still forced themselves into the same rhythm.
It was not merely a chant.
It was a declaration.
A declaration that they were not retreating as victims—but standing as guardians of the path for those who would continue onward.
To be continued…