Chapter 133
"I accept your respect."
The air in the room shifted once again as Onigakure began to show signs of speaking.
His body, which had remained still until now, moved slightly forward, signaling that he was about to deny, to refute, to deliver a counterargument to Makakushi, who had just posed the most unsettling question of the entire discussion that night.
Everyone in the room felt the tension tightening once more, sensing that the debate was about to enter a new phase—one more intense, deeper, and more decisive in determining the direction of the decision to be made.
Yet before a single word could leave Onigakure's mouth, before his lips could even form a sound, a change occurred at the center of the circle.
Zhulumat Katamtum, who had been sitting motionless with half-closed eyes, who throughout the discussion had mostly remained silent and listened rather than intervened, now began to move.
Not a large movement, not one that altered his seated position, but something subtler, deeper, and more meaningful than a mere physical shift.
Zhulumat's face shifted direction, from previously alternating his gaze between Onigakure and Makakushi with equal intensity, now aligning straight ahead toward a single point at the threshold of the room—the very boundary that had long served as the final line no one outside the inner circle was allowed to cross.
And when that gaze finally settled, when his eyes found their target, everyone in the room caught a change that could not be ignored.
Zhulumat's eyes, which had appeared weary and half-closed before, now opened wide with a sharpness that made the hairs of anyone who saw them stand on end.
That sharpness was like the eyes of an eagle diving toward its prey, like the tip of a blade ready to pierce, like a sudden light igniting in the deepest darkness.
And behind that sharpness, there was something else—something subtler yet no less clear to those who knew their supreme leader well.
There was respect, acknowledgment, a sincere sense of honor toward someone who had just arrived.
Zhulumat's right hand slowly rose, placed upon his chest with an open palm facing inward toward his heart, in the exact same gesture of respect that had been exchanged repeatedly throughout the night in that room.
He returned the salute that had been given first, returning it with equal perfection, with sincerity that needed no doubt.
And when that gesture of respect ended, when his hand lowered again to rest upon his thigh, every eye in the room instinctively followed the direction of their supreme leader's gaze.
Every head turned to the same point, every focus now centered on a single figure standing at the threshold between light and darkness.
That figure was Apathy—without a doubt, Apathy, who once again appeared at the doorway of the meeting chamber, Apathy, who once again brought something that intensified the tension, Apathy, who once again signaled that bad news never comes only once.
Shaqar, seated not far from where Apathy now stood, sensed that something was different about his subordinate's arrival this time.
He had known Apathy for years, had gone through countless battles with him, had witnessed many expressions cross that soldier's face in various situations.
But the expression he saw now—the one clearly displayed on Apathy's face as he performed his salute to Zhulumat—was something he had never seen before.
There was seriousness there, a seriousness beyond normal bounds, one that made every muscle on Apathy's face tense, one that made his eyes seem as though they were restraining something that could not be expressed in words.
Shaqar narrowed his eyes, trying to read deeper, trying to grasp what might be hidden behind that intensely serious expression.
And the longer he observed, the more he felt that whatever Apathy was about to say, whatever news he carried from outside that room, would become the turning point of everything they had discussed.
"Speak now. Whatever has brought you back into this room, make sure it is worth the disruption you have caused."
Shaaah!
"If this is merely a minor clarification, you know the consequences. But if this is information that changes the course of the discussion, then you have arrived at the right time."
Shaqar drew a long breath—very long—a breath that made his chest rise and fall slowly, a breath that marked his decision to choose the wisest path amid the increasingly uncertain situation.
He chose to wait, chose not to move, chose not to speak, chose to let protocol proceed as it should, even as thousands of questions spun through his mind at an uncontrollable speed.
His sixty years as part of the satanist followers had taught him that in moments like this, when a subordinate arrives with such a serious expression, when the supreme leader returns a salute with unusual sharpness in his gaze, the most appropriate action is to remain silent and observe.
So he remained still, silent, holding back everything that wanted to escape his lips, while Apathy's salute remained directed toward Zhulumat Katamtum, still frozen in perfect form, still the center of attention for everyone in that suffocating room.
Ten seconds passed, though it felt like ten minutes or even ten hours to those waiting with held breath and erratic heartbeats.
Ten seconds in which no one moved, no one spoke, no one dared to shift their gaze away from the two figures at the center of all attention.
Ten seconds in which the silence grew thicker, heavier, as if layers of lead were being stacked one by one upon the shoulders of everyone present.
The Satanist Elites of the Banner of Zhulumat sat with increasingly tense bodies, unblinking eyes, hands unconsciously clenching in their laps.
The other captains of Team Xirkushkartum, including Onigakure and Makakushi—who moments ago had nearly entered a heated debate—now fell silent as well, frozen, directing all their attention to the single point where Apathy stood in an unending salute.
And when those ten seconds finally passed, when the time that felt like eternity reached its end, Zhulumat Katamtum moved his hand.
The movement was very small, almost imperceptible—just a slight motion from the hand that had been resting calmly on his thigh—but everyone in the room caught it, everyone understood it, everyone knew exactly what that small gesture meant.
Zhulumat permitted Apathy to lower his salute, to ease the tension in his body, to return to a normal stance as a soldier reporting to his supreme leader.
And as that salute was slowly lowered, as Apathy's right hand gradually moved away from his chest, as his head slowly lifted back to its upright position, everyone in the room felt that a new phase of that long night was finally about to begin.
To be continued…