Chapter 80
Two hours and fifteen minutes felt long enough for anyone, but not for Shaqar.
For him, that time was too short to settle his heart, too quick to prepare for the possibility that this journey was not merely a mission, but a trial demanding more than mere courage.
He knew that Zhulumat Katamtum was not someone who wasted time; the three hours given were a pause between the old life and the life about to change.
Apathy glanced briefly, watching the small movement of his captain's hand as he closed the watch again.
No words were spoken, only the whisper of the wind and the sound of their footsteps merging into a heavy rhythm.
With just over two hours left toward their next fate, they walked without haste, as if understanding that rushing would only hasten an encounter with something they were not yet ready to face.
And in the silence thickening between them, time continued to move, yet in Shaqar's heart, the seconds felt frozen—as if the world were waiting for something from him that he could not yet provide.
"There's still plenty of time before Zhulumat Katamtum calls us, Apathy.
Just over two hours—enough to feel alive, before duty swallows us whole again."
Fuuuuh!
"We can use this remaining time to enjoy ourselves. You know? Maybe just walk to the lower market, smell the burnt rubber and hot metal, or buy something unnecessary but that makes us feel… Satanic again.
Or we could go to the park of the Satanists—a place where even exhaustion feels like worship.
Sit, stay silent, let our backs and heads rest against the cold stones that hold a history longer than our lives."
Shuuuufh!
"Whatever it is, there's no harm in refreshing ourselves for a while.
After this, we have to send off eighteen members. There will be no more time to just stare at the sky or talk about trivial things.
So, this time, let's use what's left—while the world is still willing to wait."
Shaqar finally broke the silence that had hung between them.
His voice was heavy, yet it did not lose the calm tone characteristic of a leader who had long made peace with time.
'We can use this remaining time to enjoy ourselves,' he said slowly, glancing at the cobblestone road reflecting the orange glow from the city lanterns.
'Just over two hours—enough to feel alive, before duty swallows us whole again.'
The words sounded light, yet there was something beneath them—a longing for days when life was not always about orders and missions.
The wind carried his words past Apathy, who stared straight ahead, as if weighing what 'enjoying ourselves' could even mean in a world long stripped of that word's meaning.
Apathy did not answer immediately.
He turned slightly, his eyes faintly reflecting the lantern light now dimming in the distance.
'A refresher, huh?' he muttered, half to himself.
'I said it on purpose, just so Apathy's attention wouldn't keep piercing my chest with moral advice.
I know his intentions are good—reminding me of the past, of sins I cannot prune from myself. But I am tired of hearing it.
Tired of looking at shadows that always point back.'
Amid the clamor of footsteps and the dim light washing over the city walls, Shaqar tried to conceal something far deeper than mere boredom.
He knew Apathy's conversation would return to the same point—family.
For Shaqar, it was not merely a painful topic, but a wound that continued to bleed every time touched.
So he chose to speak more than usual, as if by speaking he could drown the echoes of the past demanding accountability.
His face appeared calm, almost expressionless, yet behind the stillness of his eyes lay years of fatigue.
He was not a man afraid of war, but of memories—memories that could not be redeemed by strength or sacrifice.
Apathy, on the other hand, observed him with no less sharp a gaze.
He knew the direction of Shaqar's words, knew how every light remark about "refreshers" and "entertainment" was a fragile barrier to deny reality.
Beneath all of Shaqar's might as a leader of Xirkushkartum, Apathy recognized a father who had lost everything.
Not because he had been defeated, but because he had obeyed.
Obedient to orders, to oaths, to missions he once thought could redeem the world's wrongs.
He recalled an old rumor—that young Shaqar joined the exorcism team not for honor, but to erase the suffocating poverty of his family.
From there, the story of tragedy began.
A man who tried to save everyone, yet lost the people who truly mattered to him.
Now, decades later, the wound remained open.
Shaqar still carried the shadow of a wife he could not gaze upon in her final moments, and the cold stare of Miara, no longer recognizing him as a father.
The world had made him stronger, but also lonelier.
He paid for all sins with absolute dedication to Xirkushkartum—the organization that valued loyalty above compassion.
Even when his beloved wife died, Shaqar was threatened not to return home, for defiance would mean dishonoring the names of the Satanic Leaders.
Eight days later, when he finally returned, there was no embrace waiting, only the anger of his own child.
Miara looked at him with eyes once full of love, now sharpened into blades.
She saw her father as a coward hiding behind missions and honor, a father who exchanged affection for orders, and home for hell.
So when Shaqar looked into the distance, inviting Apathy to walk and talk about "plenty of time" and "refreshers before the mission," he was truly running.
Not from the battlefield, but from memories he could not face.
Every step was denial, every smile a mask for a soul constantly judged by the voice of the past.
He never stopped being a leader, but he had long stopped being a complete Satanist.
And Apathy, walking beside him, did not try to stop him—for now.
For he knew there was a type of suffering that could not be healed by advice, only accompanied in silence—until time itself erased it.
"We have just over two hours left.
I think that's enough to do things worth doing for two men in their forties.
I am tired of hearing young people talk about foolish things like tests of strength or who can break through the energy barrier fastest.
We are no longer young men chasing honor, Apathy.
We are just two old men needing reasons so time does not feel so slow."
Tsuuuuf!
"How about we go to the lower market, enjoy the smell of salted, fermented rats that always fill the air there?
Or if you want peace, there's a poor tea shop in the third district, where retired soldiers sit quietly watching the hourglass.
They say their tea is made from Ashryl leaves, capable of calming hearts that often race from war.
Alternatively, we could visit the garden I frequented thirty years ago, the garden with statues of sinners, where Satanist followers sat upright staring at the gray sky.
We could stay there until dusk, chatting about trivial things, like two men who forgot they were once captains and fighters.
Or perhaps, we could go to the recreation area in the fourth sector, where ordinary veterans usually gather—"
Buuuuk!
"..."
To be continued…