Chapter 94
Zhulumat Katamtum, a figure whose form nearly merged with the shadows, spoke from the podium with a voice that was not merely heard, but resonated within the bones of every listener.
Each word that left his mouth was like a drop of dense ink falling into a shared pool of consciousness, coloring resolve and solidifying a fate that had already been inscribed.
He described their presence, from captains to the lowest soldiers, not as a mere call of duty, but as a ritual of transition between eras, a turning point in which darkness would prove itself not as destruction, but as rebirth.
The dim light of the spotlights swept across the crowd, catching glimmers in eyes filled with the fire of devotion as well as shadows of fear struggling to remain suppressed.
Zhulumat Katamtum cast his gaze, sharp as a dagger, across the assembly, as if touching each soul one by one, ensuring that the bond between command and execution was forged without flaw.
His declaration of blessings and gifts for future satanic generations was not empty praise, but a historical burden deliberately placed upon all their shoulders.
In the air that grew increasingly heavy, there was a vibration of a destiny greater than any single individual, an epic narrative in which they were forced to become either heroes or martyrs.
Every breath exhaled from the ranks of black uniforms billowed into the cold air, becoming a silent witness to vows unspoken yet binding stronger than any iron chain.
"The survival of our people no longer depends on prayer, but on the success of this mission.
Life and death are decided here, in the seconds that you will carve with your own hands."
Hiiiiih!
"The city of Thalyssra, blessed by the Great Sanse, is not merely a territory.
It is a nexus.
And that nexus is now being strangled by the cursed hands of the Angels and the Holy Beings."
Fhuuuuh!
"Your task is clear.
Total exorcism, without remnants, without hesitation.
Leave no room for mercy, for mercy is a breach.
If this mission fails, our people will perish as a footnote in history.
But if we succeed, the world will remember that here we once again refused to bow—and prevailed."
Zhulumat Katamtum stood like a living monument at the center of the field, his entire body wrapped in ritualistic exorcism attire.
A long robe of pitch-black fabric, adorned with silver-thread embroidery forming ancient sigils and concentric circles, draped fluidly over his upright form.
Every stitch and symbol upon the garment seemed to carry its own magical weight, emitting a low vibration that muted the wind and made the air around the podium feel dense and static.
The attire was not merely protection, but a declaration of war and an instrument sanctified to challenge the heavens.
With a voice deep and measured, seeping into the consciousness of every listener like thick fog creeping along the ground, Zhulumat continued his sermon.
His words cut directly into the most primal instinct of survival.
He affirmed a cruel and undeniable truth, that the final breath of their civilization, the buried hopes of generations of satanists before them, and the remaining flame of resistance now all depended on what each person standing on that field would do in the coming hours.
This mission was no longer about victory alone, but about the continuity of existence itself.
Failure was not an option, but a gateway to total annihilation that would extinguish darkness forever.
Zhulumat's gaze, gleaming sharply from beneath the veil or headpiece that accompanied his exorcism garb, swept across row after row of faces before him.
That stare seemed to weigh and carve an immeasurable burden of responsibility into the depths of every captain and every member.
He did not speak of glory or triumph, but emphasized the weight of inheritance they were required to bear.
Survival and death were no longer abstract concepts, but two ends of the same rope held firmly in their hands, where the struggle on the battlefield would determine which end would ultimately snap.
In the tense silence that followed his declaration, the hiss of breath and the pounding of hearts echoed like the rhythm of war drums before battle.
The call was a hammer nailing fate in place.
'Twenty-five full minutes of words circling in place, as if time itself could be subdued by a speech.'
Hoooooh!
'If the situation is truly this dire—the minions of the Accursed One advancing, two cities on the brink of falling into a single grasp, our people's economy hanging by a thread, and our weapons centers choking in despair—then what is the point of all this?
Why not act immediately?
Why keep talking, as if words could drive away Angels faster than blades?'
Whuuuhh!
'Honestly, if Zhulumat wants to ignite a fire, a single spark would suffice.
What he is doing now is only making my head boil.'
Amid the rigid ranks, one captain named Shaqar felt an unease that steadily gnawed at his patience.
Zhulumat Katamtum's speech had dragged on for over twenty-five minutes, a duration that, in a crisis like this, felt like an unforgivable waste of time.
Every second that passed on that cold field should have been allocated to final strategy preparations, last weapons checks, or simply giving his subordinates a quiet moment to gather their courage.
Instead, they were all fixed in place, listening to rhetoric that, though noble, was beginning to lose its sense of urgency in his ears.
The anxiety swelling in his chest transformed into a sharp dissonance, a piercing question of why their leader chose lengthy words when the threat was already encircling the gates.
His thoughts drifted to the worst-case scenario that had been outlined, namely the Accursed One's plan to seize two cities at once, a strategic blow that would cripple the heart of the satanic people's economy.
He imagined their vital weapons production centers, already at the brink of limitation, finally falling and severing the only supply line.
Without weapons, without funds, without strength, their resistance would be snuffed out like a candle in a storm.
Precisely because the situation was this dire, every breath before battle became exceedingly precious.
His irritation did not stem from disobedience, but from the instinct of a field soldier who understood that the battlefield would not grant extra time for long-winded speeches.
His restlessness was a reflection of the immense responsibility he bore for the nineteen lives under his command, and for the broader fate at stake.
His face remained locked in the neutral expression of a commander, a mask of discipline forged through years of service.
Yet behind that mask, his mind was busy recalculating every detail of the plan, ensuring that no gap went unnoticed.
Every additional minute spent listening to the sermon felt like a subtraction from their mental preparation time.
He briefly glanced toward his team members, trying to read their body language, wondering whether they shared the same anxiety or were truly absorbed by Zhulumat's words.
The tension in his shoulders, nearly imperceptible, was the only outward sign of the storm of impatience churning within him.
His clenched fist at his side tightened slowly, following the silent rhythm of his restrained impatience.
'This damned outfit feels like ill-fitting heavenly armor.
Rigid, hot, and clinging as if it intends to fuse with my skin.'
The searing heat did not come solely from the gloomy sky or the glaring lights, but also surged from within Shaqar himself, trapped beneath layer after layer of his unforgiving combat attire.
To be continued…