Chapter 516
"Enough," said the youngest, and his voice emerged not as a shout but as a whisper that seeped into their bones, into their marrow, into the most primitive part of every god's mind present in the hall.
"You have forgotten where you stand. You have forgotten to whom you are speaking. And you have forgotten that I do not need heroes who wish to die foolishly at the eastern or western gate. I need executioners who carry out my orders without bickering like children fighting over candy."
He slowly lowered his finger, and with the same deliberate motion, he straightened his back upon the throne. His snow-white hair flowed behind him like a waterfall that had suddenly remembered it was meant to fall.
"Listen carefully. The First Army, those of you who are the least useless among the useful, will intercept the four factions advancing randomly from the western side. Kill them, capture them, or let them wander endlessly through corridors with no end. I do not care. What matters is that they do not reach this hall before the Inverted Crucifixion ritual is complete.
"The Second Army, those of you who are the bravest among the cowards, will confront the fourteen Disturbers approaching from the west. The report says they are moving toward the eastern side and will most likely encounter that young man... the hole. Let them meet. Or stop them. That is up to you. But remember this: if you die, die in a way that does not force me to send a messenger to report your deaths to families who would not even mourn you."
He paused for a moment, his gaze shifting toward the center of the hall, where the upside-down pillars of atonement already stood in perfect formation, where Erietta Bathee, the girl who did not even know that her name had been spoken a thousand times in this hall within a single morning, would soon be laid down as the final offering.
"And the Third Army," the youngest continued, and for the first time, the softness in his voice disappeared, becoming something deeper, heavier, something more like the growl rising from the deepest depths of the earth.
"You who are the most loyal among those with the fewest choices will remain here, guarding this throne, the place where Erietta Bathee will be crucified upside down before all of us. Not one of you is to leave this hall, no matter what happens outside. Let the eastern gate collapse. Let the western gate burn. Let the young hole meet the fourteen Disturbers and slaughter one another. You will remain here.
"Because your duty is not to win on the battlefield. Your duty is to ensure that when that girl screams within a silence incapable of carrying her voice, I will hear it clearly. Is that understood?"
"Understood, Your Majesty!" the gods from both the left and right ranks answered in unison. Their voices echoed through the hall, no longer as a terrifying chorus, but as measured resignation, resignation born from the realization that although they disagreed with the division of forces that seemed to allow the greatest threat to roam freely, they had no choice except to bow their heads and obey.
The god in the dark purple robe immediately turned around, his robe billowing far too quickly behind him, followed by a dozen other gods whom the youngest had designated with a single glance as the First Army.
Meanwhile, the moss-haired Goddess bit her lower lip, nearly drawing blood, before finally nodding and signaling the members of the Second Army, most of whom were still exchanging uneasy glances that could not conceal their doubts.
They knew that facing fourteen Disturbers accompanied by five walking corpses was not a battle that could be won through ordinary strength.
It required something they themselves did not possess.
The same madness that their enemies possessed.
Yet amid the fluttering robes and the growing footsteps moving toward the hall's exit, the youngest's left hand, a man with neatly tied black hair and narrow eyes that never blinked more than necessary, suddenly halted in the middle of his stride.
He slowly turned around.
The youngest's right hand, shorter in stature, whose fingers were always clenched tightly as though gripping something he would never let go of, did the same.
Then came the youngest's personal assistant, who had stood motionless within the shadow of a marble pillar from the very beginning, his expression forever unreadable.
The three of them exchanged glances.
Only for a fraction of a second.
Just long enough to confirm that they had heard correctly.
Just long enough to realize that within the newly announced deployment of forces, not a single word had been spoken about where the youngest himself would stand.
"Your Majesty," the left hand spoke in an exceptionally quiet voice, so quiet that it resembled someone stepping upon already cracked glass while praying it would not shatter beneath their feet.
"Forgive my boldness for asking, but... within the formation that Your Majesty has established, where will Your Majesty's own position be?"
The right hand remained silent.
Yet the eyes that were usually as tightly shut as a clenched fist now widened completely.
Not because he was shocked, but because he was trying to comprehend something that made no sense.
He knew his master had never, never once, left himself without a position on any chessboard.
The youngest's personal assistant, who had not moved from the shadows until now, stepped forward.
Only a single step.
Yet that single step was enough to make the remaining gods in the hall hold their breath once again.
The assistant never stepped forward unless something was either terribly wrong or astonishingly right.
And none of them knew which possibility was more terrifying.
Amid the silence, filled with three pairs of eyes fixed upon him with questions too dangerous to ask aloud, the youngest remained seated upon his throne, his left leg crossed over his right, his snow-white hair flowing down his back, the faint smile upon his face no longer faint but stretching wider until it revealed teeth far too white to be naturally white.
He chuckled.
Not loudly.
Not with a laugh that shook the walls.
But with a quiet, deep chuckle that emerged from his chest like a vibration traveling across the marble floor and rising into the knees of the gods still standing, making those closest to the throne feel something strange within their very bones.
"Good," the youngest whispered between his chuckles.
His eyes, which had been half-closed, now opened completely, revealing irises that were neither black, nor brown, nor blue, but gray like the sky before the oldest of storms.
"Very good. The three of you, my left hand, my right hand, and my assistant... you were paying attention. You are perceptive. You realized that within the plan I have just spoken, there is no place for me to stand."
The youngest drew in a slow breath.
Far too slow.
Eight seconds that felt like eight centuries to the gods who remained standing with wildly beating hearts.
Eight seconds during which the air within the hall entered no one's lungs except his own.
Eight seconds during which he filled the emptiness in his chest with something that was not oxygen, but desire.
A desire he had buried ever since his sixth birthday, when he had blown out the candles alone while no one offered a single prayer for him.
When he finally exhaled, slowly, far too slowly, like someone releasing a bird from a rusted cage, his voice emerged differently.
Lighter.
Younger.
More like the voice of the six-year-old boy inside him who had never truly grown up.
To be continued…