Chapter 95
He occasionally raised his arm, wiping the sweat that ran from his temple to his jaw with a quick and irritated motion.
Yet it was like scooping seawater with a dipper, futile and repetitive.
The urge to tear off and fling away every shackle of fabric and metal was so strong it nearly overpowered his military discipline.
He imagined the sensation of the night wind touching his skin directly.
Light fabric that absorbed sweat.
Freedom of movement without creaking or irritating friction.
This super-rigid outfit, designed to withstand sword thrusts and the impact of holy energy, became a torment of its own even before the battle began.
The oppressive heat was unstoppable.
It crept from his collarbones down to his spine, soaking every inch of his body with moisture that made the inner layers cling and chafe.
In his desperation against the heat that thickened in his throat and chest, his hand often reached for the canteen at his waist.
He gulped its contents without caring about taste or cleanliness.
The filthy drink, a mixture of homemade electrolyte fluid and perhaps remnants of unpleasant healing brews, was swallowed to dull the burning thirst and heat.
The liquid felt abrasive as it slid down his throat.
But at least it gave the illusion of brief coolness before the thirst returned, stronger than before.
Every gulp was a compromise.
An admission of physical weakness that had to be conquered in order to maintain an appearance of strength before his subordinates.
"Do not let the weight you wear today break your backs.
It is precisely through this pressure that courage is forged."
Fsssshh!
"Step forward with full conviction, for every step you take is a declaration that the satanic people have not, and will not, surrender."
'Of course we are all half-dead from the heat.
Before this long-winded sermon even began, the order was clear.
All of Team Xirkushkartum, without exception, must wear layered exorcism uniforms.
Thicker than usual. Harder than any steel or iron I have ever known.'
The air in the field of Xirkushkartum's headquarters grew heavier.
It was filled with the vibrations of Zhulumat Katamtum's voice, rolling endlessly like unbroken waves.
The lengthy speech, with all its rhetoric about sacrifice and the glory of defending the dark homeland, was in truth meant to cultivate courage and steel resolve before they stepped onto the field where fate would be decided.
Their target was Thalyssra, Blessed by the Great Sanse.
A city that was not merely the center of economic pulse, but the heart of the world, pumping life into the entire satanic people.
The city had been wrested from the grip of the Accursed One at great cost.
Now, the threat of losing it again hung like a blade above all their necks.
In the midst of the ranks, Shaqar stood upright, yet his heart muttered with restrained irritation.
Before this drawn-out sermon had even begun, an order had already descended that made him and everyone else feel an extraordinary physical burden.
All members of Team Xirkushkartum, including his own nineteen subordinates, were commanded to wear special layered iron-steel armor.
The exorcism uniform was not ordinary equipment.
It was thicker.
Stiffer.
Harder than the standard steel armor they were accustomed to.
Each layer seemed designed to withstand not only physical attacks, but also the highest purifying energies of their enemies.
However, that extreme protection came at a steep cost to comfort, even before the battle began.
An intense heat began to spread from within Shaqar's body.
It crawled like fire beneath the skin, trapped by an unforgiving metallic shell.
He could feel his own sweat turning into hot vapor between his skin and the inner layers of the armor.
The sensation was almost torturous.
From the corner of his eye, he saw several of his team members making the same small movements.
Slightly shifting their shoulders.
Drawing short, strained breaths.
They were all elite soldiers.
All besieged by the same discomfort.
Yet none dared to speak.
The complaints echoed only within their hearts.
Private whispers wrapped in iron discipline and greater duty.
'The enemy hasn't attacked yet, but this sermon has already crippled us first.'
Shaqar's gaze, which had been fixed forward, slowly drifted along the long ranks to his right and left.
A sea of identical black uniforms stretched before him.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Team Xirkushkartum members forming a perfect formation across the vast field.
At the far right stood the ranks of team captains.
They were like statues of command.
Yet behind their rigid posture, a keen eye could catch the same signs.
They were all occupied with their own quiet distractions.
Silent efforts to fend off time as it crawled unbearably slow amid the never-ending speech.
The boredom was evident, though veiled beneath formal discipline.
Some members in the middle ranks repeatedly adjusted the cuffs of their gloves.
Others checked the swords at their waists with unnecessary fixation.
Some stared blankly at the dark sky.
As if counting the shapes of every passing cloud.
Most striking were a few figures in the rear ranks struggling to fight off drowsiness.
Their eyes closed gently.
Their bodies swayed slightly.
Until a jolt of awareness, or perhaps a nudge from the person beside them, forced their eyes wide open.
They struggled to refocus on the podium.
Only moments later, their eyelids grew heavy again and fell shut.
A futile cycle of resistance between physical exhaustion and the demands of protocol.
'Everything has already been neatly distributed into each main vehicle.'
Shaqar's thoughts drifted far from the echoing voice of Zhulumat Katamtum.
They sank into a memory far more practical and orderly.
Before the bustle of assembling personnel.
Before these rigid formations were arranged.
Even before the sun began to climb.
There had been an activity carried out with meticulous quiet.
All vital necessities for the battle had been prepared and packed with perfect military precision.
Logistics in the form of dry rations and water.
Complex exorcism equipment specifically designed to counter the holy energy of Angels and Holy Beings.
Interference-resistant communication devices.
Supplies of dark crystal energy to recharge their weapons.
Everything had been double-checked and loaded.
The items were not simply dumped inside.
They were carefully placed into every vehicle that would carry them to the front lines.
Each vehicle was like a complete wheeled fortress.
Designed to support independent operations in encircled conditions.
The driver of each vehicle had been specifically selected.
Chosen from the trusted subordinates of each team captain.
Those deemed to possess extreme-terrain driving skills and high mental endurance.
Meanwhile, most of the troops, including the core combat soldiers, would occupy the rear sections of the vehicles.
They would sit among piles of equipment.
Ready to leap out and fight whenever the vehicle stopped or was attacked along the way.
'If we must crash through the world to reclaim the heart of our people, then this is how Team Xirkushkartum moves.'
The vehicles prepared to carry Team Xirkushkartum into battle were not ordinary means of transport.
At a glance, they resembled pickup trucks.
But every dimension and proportion had been widened, heightened, and reinforced beyond anyone's imagination of such vehicles.
Their height could rival a single-story house.
Their massive tires were deeply treaded.
Made of composite rubber resistant to punctures and extreme heat.
Their width dominated nearly the entire roadway.
A physical presence closer to a moving fortress than a mere transport.
To be continued…