Chapter 99
He was weary, yet his mind would never stop spinning, mapping threats, and his mouth would never refuse to utter those practical protective mantras once more, a thousand times more, if that was what it took.
On the other side, the nineteen pairs of listening ears—eighteen in the stifling cabin and one behind the wheel—no longer processed their commander's words as mere instructions.
To them, Shaqar's low, flat voice had shifted into a different frequency.
They had long passed the phase of doubting his authority or dismissing it as bluff.
After years together, through forgotten skirmishes and critical moments that forged bonds in fire, they understood the language beneath his words.
Every reminder to stay alert, every request to report premonitions, every establishment of safety protocols was a direct translation of a simple yet devastating fact.
Shaqar carried their lives on his shoulders, and that burden was the only one he never wished to set down carelessly.
His responsibility as a leader was not about glorious victories or praise from High Officials like Zhulumat.
Victories could be abstract, praise could be hollow.
What was concrete, alive, and bleeding were the nineteen soldiers breathing around him.
Their deaths, especially meaningless deaths beneath the blades or purifying light of Angels and Holy Beings, would not be mere tactical losses in a report.
They would be the most tormenting personal failure, a stain that would never be erased from his own soul.
He had seen too many comrades from other units perish due to panic or lack of coordination, their bodies illuminated until nothing remained but ash and grief.
That vision, more than any enemy threat, drove every piece of advice he gave, every watchful glance, every tactical decision he made.
He did not lead to bring them glory, but to bring home their bodies intact, or at the very least, their souls not utterly shattered.
Thus, amid the rumble of vehicles racing toward the abyss of death, a silent understanding formed the foundation of the team.
Shaqar's boredom was swallowed by an awareness of a greater purpose.
His subordinates' obedience was born not from fear of punishment, but from recognition of a stubborn, uncompromising dedication to their survival.
"If I win this round of suit, I take half your energy ration, deal?"
"Don't dream. All you've been throwing is paper and scissors."
"Quiet. My black pawn is about to take a rook. Don't mess with my strategy."
"Seriously, who even thought of bringing a chessboard on an exorcism mission?"
"This is better than sitting around zoning out and thinking about weird stuff."
"As long as we can still laugh, it means our heads haven't cracked yet."
"Continue the suit game. After losing three times, just admit it and switch to chess.
Don't get cheeky."
"If I really wanted to be cheeky, I could've won already."
*'At least the tension is starting to ease.
They can still joke, still bet on trivial things, which means their minds haven't been completely seized by fear.'*
Fhhhhhh!
*'I don't need to sit among them to make sure everything runs smoothly.
From here is enough—behind Apathy, in this quiet corner.
As long as the engine is stable, their voices are lively, and the formation stays tight, that is enough.'*
The roaring journey through the darkness beyond the city began to generate its own atmosphere, a slow yet tangible psychological metamorphosis.
Gradually, the frozen grip of fear inside the cabin began to melt, replaced by a fragile but growing trust.
The dim glow of emergency lights illuminated faces that were slowly relaxing, the furrows on foreheads easing just a little.
In one corner, the soft sound of shuffling cards could be heard.
Some team members, driven by a practical survival instinct, had pulled a worn deck of cards from the inner pockets of their combat jackets.
They began playing a simple game of suit, fingers that usually gripped weapons now deftly dealing and tossing cards, creating a small, unfamiliar rhythm amid the engine's hum.
The stakes were not money, but normalcy, a deliberate reminder that they were still satanists capable of trivial acts.
In another corner, atop a flat equipment crate, a portable chessboard had been set up.
The black-and-white squares, with pieces that might have been made from scrap iron, became another battlefield—far more controlled.
Two soldiers sat facing each other, eyes locked on this miniature strategy, every pawn or knight moved with careful consideration.
The game was a deliberate escape, a way to divert their thoughts from images of fire-winged Angels and the blood-soaked battlefield awaiting them.
Each time a player whispered "check," a small flicker of victory flashed in their eyes, a fleeting sense of control over fate, however illusory.
These small activities, somehow smuggled into the heavily armed giant pickup, became vital psychological anchors, preventing their minds from being swept into the vortex of anxiety.
While his subordinates sought comfort in games, Shaqar chose to withdraw.
He did not join the card game or watch the chess match.
Instead, he chose to retreat physically, separating himself to keep his perspective clear.
His tired body shifted on the hard seat, moving away from the small crowd in the center of the cabin and seeking a relatively quiet corner.
The position he chose was full of meaning.
He sat directly behind the driver's seat, where the solid back of Apathy's chair became the sole support for his heavy head and thoughts.
With his head resting just behind Apathy's seat, he could feel the engine's vibrations traveling through the seat frame, could hear every controlled breath and small movement of the driver.
"I know you deliberately moved away once things calmed down a bit.
After calming all of us earlier, are you feeling tired or worn out?"
Hoooooh!!
"If so, there's nothing wrong with resting for a moment. Close your eyes, take a breath—let me focus on the road.
This journey is still long, and I'm sure what comes later will be far more draining, both physically and mentally.
It would be better if you conserved your strength from now on."
From behind the wheel, without turning around, Apathy's voice flowed out, flat yet carrying a concern understood only by those who had long shared the same battlefields.
The question was simple, asking about fatigue, offering a door to rest briefly while fleeing toward chaos.
*'If this is called fatigue, then it does not come from this journey.
It comes from memories that are still alive, running in a place I no longer wish to chase.'*
Behind closed eyelids, beyond the constant hum of the engine and the low conversations from the card game, the world outside the steel cabin vanished.
The space that truly opened was not the dark highway toward Thalyssra, but a backyard bathed in late-afternoon sunlight, warm and scented with damp earth and jasmine blossoms.
A memory, long buried beneath layers of orders, tactics, and blood, surfaced with painful clarity.
Miara.
Her name alone was a forgotten melody, sounding like the rustle of leaves in his ears.
He saw her clearly.
The five-year-old girl, with messy curly hair and eyes gleaming like two clever candlenuts.
To be continued…