Chapter 70
Even in the vast span of satanic history, adorned by mighty and magnificent cities, Balolorona could be said to surpass most of them, making it not merely a center of settlement but the very fortress that upheld the military life of the entire race.
Shaqar knew that what fell there was not just land—it was the backbone of a nation.
He was aware that within that village stood the main production center for military equipment, armories, and facilities that pulsed as the heart of warfare.
If the minions of the Accursed One had managed to seize it completely, it meant a madness was being prepared—something far beyond mere random attacks.
For a moment, Shaqar's mind drifted, slowly brushing against the darkest possibilities.
From weapon control, forbidden experiments, to strategies capable of crippling the satanic race from within, and other abominations alike.
Every scenario he imagined led only to destruction—to a chaos far worse than open warfare, the kind of creeping calamity that left behind a ruin too impossible to heal.
In the silence, Shaqar felt his body tremble.
Not from exhaustion, but from a fear that pierced deep.
He did not want to imagine Miara, his only daughter, being dragged into the ever-growing storm of war.
Nor Absyumura, his son-in-law—Miara's husband—who had given him a grandchild that should have been a new hope in life.
All of them—the small family that survived the endless annihilations wrought by Ishikarakarta—must never again be touched by a new darkness, a gloom reborn from the hands of the Accursed One's servants.
Shaqar clutched that feeling tightly, making it his only reason to endure the suffocating council.
"They've taken every inch.There's no gap, no ground left to reclaim.That much is clear.But what does it mean? Why are the angels, those foul agents of the Accursed One, standing guard outside Balolorona?
The distance is far beyond the borders.And there they perch, choosing to occupy regions that are not strategic, poor in logistics, and vulnerable to our counterattack at any moment.Is there an explanation for this?"
Huffffhh!
"If their goal is to hold the line, then they should've concentrated their forces in the center. Why scatter them?Wasting the Accursed One's soldiers in such fragile borderlands... It looks like a trap—or maybe they're just fools, offering us the perfect chance to strike.Fuuuuh…"
Yet in truth, what gave Zhulumat Katamtum the greatest headache was not the fact that Balolorona had fallen completely—that, to him, was merely the result of his team leaders' negligence.
What truly gnawed at his thoughts was an anomaly that could not be ignored.
'Why are so many of the Accursed One's minions deployed outside Balolorona?'
The places they conquered were not strategic areas, held no abundant resources, and were far too easy to reclaim should the satanic race move swiftly.
All of it made the enemy's movements seem odd—as if they were deliberately wasting strength on unprofitable ground.
Zhulumat Katamtum, breathing heavily with eyes sharp as though to pierce through veils of secrecy, realized he was speaking to his own shadow.
He let his thoughts spin, combing through every possibility, mapping each hidden thread within the siege.
'Are the enemies creating a diversion?Are they scattering threats outside Balolorona to divide the satanic race's focus, making reinforcement in the main stronghold impossible? Or could it be something far more insidious—a pattern not yet visible, but slowly forming into a snare closing from every direction?'
His head throbbed, as if every thread he pulled only gave birth to more knots, tighter and crueler.
He tried to weave the pieces together—the fall of Balolorona, the scattering of troops in fragile regions, the imbalance of their defense lines—but what emerged was only a blurry image, a distortion of a grand design not yet complete.
And at that point, Zhulumat Katamtum felt that he was not staring at an end, but merely peering through a door leading into a deeper, darker abyss.
"Honored Zhulumat Katamtum, allow me to speak."
"…"
"With all due respect—after reading the reports and hearing these briefings—I cannot dismiss one conclusion.Everything that has happened, from the occupation of Balolorona to the deployment of troops in fragile points, is bound by a single red thread.And that red thread cannot possibly be coincidence."
When Zhulumat Katamtum's hand rose to his lips, the room sank once again into mist, thick enough to choke anyone still daring to breathe.
The gesture seemed simple, yet behind it radiated a cutting question—a meditation so silent it could humble every mind in the room.
Dim light from the lanterns cast long, dancing shadows across the table laden with reports and maps, as if every streak of ink there represented blood and defeat.
In the silence, time grew heavy, dripping slowly like hot oil across cold steel.
Every gaze turned toward the figure seated upon the highest chair—the one whose silence alone could shatter courage.
All of them—Makakushi, Onigakure, and Shaqar—knew there was nothing more terrifying than when their High Leader thought in silence.
Among all those bowed heads, Shaqar held his breath the longest.
He did not know whether he was haunted by guilt, or by sheer dread of what Zhulumat Katamtum might be thinking.
Every exhale from the High Leader crawled across his skin, seeped into his bones, and planted a chill that could never be shaken off.
Shaqar thought—how fragile the line between victory and ruin was.
They could trade places in a heartbeat, in a single command spoken with clarity and authority.
The thought pressed heavily upon his chest.
Once again, he imagined Balolorona—the fallen village—now only a name in the dark archives of satanic history.
Meanwhile, the breathing of the captains in that chamber resounded like an echo, a symphony of hollow despair.
'Suffering that creeps without form, without direction, yet certain in its destruction.'
From Shaqar's point of view, everything unfolding in that chamber seemed like fragments—a piece of a puzzle darker than war itself.
He remembered his daughter's gentle face, Miara, his son-in-law Absyumura, and the grandchild who might now be crying somewhere unsafe.
All those memories surged in waves, tearing apart what little resolve he had left.
He was no longer a commander; he was just a father losing his grip on a collapsing world.
Yet before Zhulumat Katamtum, even grief itself felt unworthy.
There was an unspoken rule that personal sorrow must be buried, thrown far beneath the will of the High Leader.
So Shaqar stayed silent, eyes fixed on the table, while in his mind, thousands of questions swirled.
'Does all this suffering still hold meaning—or has it merely become part of a far older script, one they no longer have the right to understand?'
And amid the stiffness, someone raised a hand.
His name was unknown; his face forgotten by all.
He simply emerged like a shadow from the edge of the room, speaking only after being granted permission.
His voice was cold, heavy, yet within it lurked a bite—a small truth that drew blood from everyone's awareness.
"This is what I call a conjured truth."
After his final words dripped into the air, the silence transformed—no longer empty, but a thick curtain hanging between them all.
To be continued…