Chapter 109
With hand signals that were almost imperceptible and whispered commands audible only to their intended recipients, they adjusted their positions, hardened their resolve, and closed every gap.
They were the conductors of an orchestra standing in the heart of a storm, ensuring that not a single note rang false, that not a single dancer stumbled.
The readiness of one member was the responsibility of every layer, and they made certain that the chain would not break.
Meanwhile, from the deepest core of the formation, a murmur arose that did not belong to this world.
Zhulumat Katamtum and the Satanic High Elders chanted inverted prayers, rhythmic ritualistic curses.
Every syllable that left their mouths was not praise, but deconstruction—a malediction aimed directly at the essence of the Angels and the roaming Holy Beings.
Those prayers hissed like serpents mingled with the rumble of earthquakes, filled with denials of sacred names, blasphemies against the heavenly hierarchy, and declarations of wickedness as a legitimate force.
"Keep the rhythm. Do not rush, do not hesitate. Together, like the beat of a single heart."
With a halting stomp that sent tremors up their shins, the Anti-Rumble Formation took its first step.
It was not a thunderous forward charge, but a deliberate shift of the earth—slow, calculated, and terrifying in its unity.
Hundreds of heavy boots slammed into the ground in the same instant, sending out a rumbling vibration born not from the sky, but from their own intent.
Behind the wall of three shields that they had begun to push forward, their faces tightened, bearing a double burden.
The pressure of sanctity from without, and the weight of responsibility to become the first wall to shatter.
Those bone-metal shields slid slowly several inches forward from the axis of their bodies, extended like the horns of some ancient beast poised to gore the reality blocking its path.
This position made them more vulnerable, yet also more offensive.
Every inch of forward shield movement was a new territorial claim upon ground saturated with divine music.
"Keep shouting! Let your voices drown out their hymns!"
Thump—thump!
"Advance! Don't wait for a repeated order!
Anyone who slows down, drag them into the same rhythm!"
Fuuuuhhh!
"This is not a run, this is a push—keep pushing!"
The second line then moved, but not with the same measured, synchronized steps as the shield layer before them.
The movements of the Xirkushkartum Team captains were more like a focused, surging current of water, swiftly seeping into every gap that appeared within that massive formation.
Shaqar, Onigakure, Makakushi, and the other leaders were no longer mere coordinators in the rear; they became living driving forces, directly touching the pulse of battle.
Their bodies moved nimbly among the slow-advancing Anti-Rumble ranks, like solid ghosts amid a fog of pressure.
Shaqar felt the push as a vibration in the air, an urgent need stronger than any spoken command.
He slipped to the left flank of the front line, his eyes catching the glint of panic behind the visor of a young soldier whose shield was beginning to waver under the relentless assault of heavenly song.
Before that instability could become a breach, Shaqar was already at his side.
His large hand, wrapped in black leather, did not pat but pressed firmly against the soldier's shoulder—a touch carrying discipline and resolve, transmitted instantly.
Without a single word, he locked eyes with the soldier, and within that cold gaze burned a clear message.
You are not alone.
Stand firm.
At the same moment, his ears caught the echo of Onigakure's shout from the right, his voice like struck iron, ordering a formation adjustment to anticipate a new wave of attacks from the direction of the shimmering tower.
Those shouts continued to reverberate—not once, but again and again, more than ten times—cutting through every form of supernatural noise.
Each shout was a direct injection of adrenaline into the collective system.
"Advance!"
"Stay sharp!"
"Hold the line!"
The captains' voices became a new rhythm that crashed against the rhythm of praise from the heavens, a counter-narrative forcibly etched into reality itself.
Makakushi looked like a shadow war-dancer, his body barely touching the ground as he glided between the ranks, his hoarse yet commanding whispers reaching the ears of every soldier on the brink of losing focus, reminding them of their oaths, of the rot they upheld, of the city that had to be reclaimed.
"Blessed are You, the Most Graced Great Sanse—the most accursed among the accursed, and therefore the most exalted.
You who taught us that destruction is the truest form of love,that faith need not be pure to be true."
Amid the vortex of shouted commands, heavy bootfalls, and strained metal, the core layer remained an island of active silence.
Within the innermost circle of the formation, the Banner of Zhulumat stood like living statues.
The Satanic High Elders, with Zhulumat Katamtum at their center, were not disturbed in the slightest by the tactical chaos surrounding them.
Their faces were veiled by shrouds of darkness or formless ceremonial masks, yet from behind them radiated a suffocating concentration.
Their lips continued to move, no longer whispering curses of defiance, but intoning an entirely different litany.
Now, what flowed from their mouths were deep prayers of praise and gratitude.
This praise, however, was not directed at light or sanctity, but at the Most Graced Great Sanse, the recipient of the worst of the worst blessings.
In the inverted and paradox-laden spiritual lexicon of Satanist worshippers, the title "the worst of the worst" was not an insult, but the pinnacle of reverence.
It was the highest acknowledgment of depth of wickedness, courage in filth, and perfection in deviation possessed by an individual.
Every syllable of their praise was a reaffirmation of their dark hierarchy, a reminder of the true source of their power.
"As long as this rhythm lives, we cannot be breached.
And remember, we are not walking toward the enemy.
We are forcing the world to match its steps to ours."
And so they advanced.
A colossal bipedal machine woven from flesh, will, and cursed metal.
Step by step, with a rhythm engraved through discipline and absolute necessity, the formation moved forward, encroaching upon the hostile heart of sanctity.
Within the Anti-Rumble Formation, which served as the body and shield of this machine, every subordinate of the Xirkushkartum Team moved like a part of the same organism.
The three medium-sized shields remained extended before them, no longer merely carried, but transformed into extensions of their own arms—a collective carapace deflecting the unceasing metaphysical assaults that fell like a rain of arrows from the sky.
Their slightly forward-leaning position formed a slanted wall, channeling repulsive energy sideways and upward, protecting not only themselves but also the space behind them, which had become the captains' domain.
In that space, among armored bodies and measured steps, the Orbit-Breaker Line performed its vital function.
Shaqar, Onigakure, Makakushi, and all the other captains had become conductors, breath-keepers, and choreographers of an immensely complex dance of battle.
They did not march stiffly.
They drifted between the ranks, their eyes like eagles scanning for every irregularity, every overly long pause for breath signaling extreme fatigue, every subtle tremor in a shield hinting at a dangerous pressure point.
With sharp hand signals, abrupt nods, or even just the intensity of a stare, they sent corrective commands.
To be continued…