Chapter 106
"It's no use anymore. The left wheel is destroyed—we've lost traction."
"My engine's dead—completely. All units, dismount. Now."
Time lurched forward, carrying them from a silent, dark highway to the edge of an entirely different reality.
The convoy of massive steel pickup trucks, which had been roaring like the breath of a colossal machine, finally came to a halt at the outermost boundary of the city of Thalyssra, Blessed by the Great Sanse.
The city, which from afar appeared only as a vague cluster of dim lights and towering silhouettes, was the center of economic pulse, the heart of the world—a foundation of hope and, at the same time, an existential battlefield for the Satanist faithful.
Yet its entrance was guarded not merely by walls or troops, but by something far older and far more pervasive.
The lethal remnants of faith.
The vehicles were forced to stop, unable to proceed into what might have been a prepared parking zone, because an invisible resistance had already risen to meet them.
As they approached the unseen boundary line, a spiritual attack was unleashed.
Not bullets or spells, but prayers filled with praise to the Accursed One radiated outward like a soundless shockwave, utterly real in its effects.
Sacred words, chanted with burning piety, struck again and again, crashing into the metal ranks of the intruders.
The effect was immediate and devastating.
Dozens of pickup trucks, including several in the middle and rear columns, suffered severe damage.
Engines sputtered and died, tires burst simultaneously, reinforced glass fractured into spiderweb patterns, and lights went out one by one.
The shriek of grinding metal and warning alarms filled the air, marking the end of the phase of their journey that depended on technology.
Although the forces of Zhulumat Katamtum managed to cross the danger zone with their lives intact, their vehicles had been reduced to useless heaps of metal.
An unspoken order spread swiftly through the ranks.
Every team captain, including Onigakure and Makakushi who stepped down from their cabins with hardened expressions, understood the situation without the need for explanation.
All of them, captains and subordinates alike, had to abandon their steel shells.
The journey ahead would be taken in the most ancient and most vulnerable way.
On foot.
The atmosphere shifted drastically.
The constant hum of engines was replaced by the rustle of gear, the crunch of boots on the ground, and heavy breaths adjusting to the new pace.
The trucks, once moving fortresses, now stood as dead monuments along the roadside, reminders of how fragile material power was before the lingering strength of faith hiding within the heart of a city they had already seized.
The soldiers dismounted and formed new formations, their eyes alert as they stared toward the glowing mass of the city, which now felt farther away and far more threatening.
"Everyone out now—don't wait for a second command. From this point on, we proceed on foot.
Consider the vehicles dead, just like the prayers they just hurled at us."
Thud!
"Take only what's essential. Exorcism weapons, ritual equipment, and core supplies—there's no room for useless weight."
The scene inside Shaqar's pickup, shared by him and his nineteen subordinates, was one of near-catastrophic chaos.
The invisible prayer assault struck without warning, sending the massive vehicle swerving and flung about like a toy.
Apathy, whose hands were locked tightly around the steering wheel, reacted on honed instinct.
Five times he wrenched the wheel sharply and precisely, left and right, his body coiling like a spring as he fought to keep the metal giant from overturning.
The vehicle bucked violently, nearly thrown aside, before finally being forced into a rough, dusty stop right at the edge of the border road.
Apathy's heavy breathing and the fading groan of metal marked the end of the first phase of their journey—ended in a heart-pounding manner.
The moment the last wheel stopped spinning, Shaqar was already in motion.
He threw open the cabin door and stepped down onto the cold ground, his solid frame moving with decisive speed.
His face, which moments earlier had still been shadowed by personal emotional turmoil, had now transformed into a cold, focused mask of command.
With a loud, authoritative voice, he ordered his nineteen subordinates—including Apathy, who had also left the driver's seat—to abandon the vehicle immediately.
The command was clear and absolute.
From this point on, they would continue the journey on foot.
His voice cut through the air, still trembling with hostile residual spiritual energy, snapping every soldier back into discipline and purpose.
There was no time for panic or lamentation over the damage.
There was only time to act.
Shaqar did not stop there.
He immediately issued further instructions, ensuring their logistical readiness amid uncertainty.
He ordered that all critical items be carried and that they transport, as much as possible, only the most necessary supplies.
The reason was simple yet vital.
Conditions inside the city they had yet to enter could shift rapidly and without warning.
Thus, in addition to specialized exorcism equipment meant to confront the minions of the Accursed One—such as Angels and Holy Creatures—the soldiers swiftly unloaded their cargo.
They gathered all available food supplies, both raw packaged provisions and field rations mixed with unfamiliar substances known only among the Satanist faithful—materials that would have been revolting by the standards of the old world, yet served as sources of strength in their new one.
"Utter chaos."
As they advanced, leaving the wreckage of their vehicles behind, the atmosphere around the border immediately seized them with almost physical force.
Every building they passed, though silent and ruined in appearance, emitted a sensation that unsettled every member of Team Xirkushkartum.
It was not ordinary fear, but a recurring, oppressive dread, like waves of cold that pierced straight into the bones.
The sensation emanated from the very structures themselves, which had been bathed in sanctity by the power of the Accursed One's minions—whether by the hands of Holy Creatures or the prayers of Angels.
That sanctity stood in absolute opposition to the stench and filth clinging to the Satanist faithful, creating a natural repulsive reaction that made their skin crawl and their predatory instincts scream.
The chaos they witnessed was not mere physical destruction.
The buildings had not simply collapsed; to their eyes, they looked "diseased."
That disease was sanctity, seeping into every brick and beam of iron, transforming them into something alien and hostile.
In the world of the Satanist faithful, filth, decay, and chaos are natural elements.
Sanctity is a virus that renders everything rigid, bright, and aseptic to the point of revulsion.
The city's structures themselves had undergone a strange distortion, reshaped by the orbit of the Accursed One's power.
Roads curved in unnatural ways, corners of buildings appeared unnervingly perfect, all adjusted to reflect the image of grandeur, faith, and majesty of the Almighty God—a deity they cursed with a hatred that had burned for centuries.
Every line and shape felt like a silent yet thunderous sermon.
The sky above them was a canvas of madness.
The air along the border was unstable, roiling with conflicting energies.
Small eruptions appeared suddenly without visible cause, spewing bursts of golden or white light that blinded for an instant.
At times, echoes of hymns and praises to the Accursed One thundered from the sky itself, the sound of a heavenly choir reverberating harshly and noisily, deafening and disorienting.
Each act of praise struck directly at their opposing souls, reminding them how alien they were in a place that should have been the heart of their own world.
Meanwhile, the stench filling the air was yet another sensory assault.
To be continued…