Chapter 87
He had long become a shadow of himself, someone who lived not because he still had a reason to continue, but because guilt had not finished demanding its due.
In his eyes, every form of life around him was merely a reflection of the ruin he had carved with his own hands—a portrait that even time itself refused to fade.
Meanwhile, the steps that once faltered had now become the mark of a decision that had just solidified within his heart.
There was something stirring inside him, something that had long slept beneath layers of fear and rigidity.
Courage that refused to die.
He looked toward the increasingly crowded street, yet his eyes saw only one direction—the direction of redemption.
Amid everything that felt fleeting, Shaqar realized that the world never provided an ideal moment for those who kept delaying.
He had delayed long enough, and now, amid the pulse of a life that had grown foreign, he knew that the only thing worthy of being done was to walk forward, even if such a step might end in wounds.
The silence that wrapped him was no longer protection, but a cage that imprisoned the meaning of life from within.
And there, between quiet and reluctance, rose a sincere resolve to move forward, even if that step had to pass through the filthiest and most repulsive roads in the world.
The market they chose was not a place for eyes hungry for beauty.
What greeted them was a muddy, slippery floor, foul scents mixing with rotting fruit, and a chaos-filled crowd of vendors.
Yet for Shaqar and Apathy, this was the most sacred place.
Among piles of moldy apples and nearly liquefied bananas, they found what others would call filth, but which to them was purity in its most honest form.
They knew that in a world that rejected their existence, everything considered disgusting was the true emblem of sanctity.
Thus, their hands examined each fruit with strange caution, as though choosing an offering rather than mere food.
Every stain, every maggot hiding beneath the rotten skins marked a truth of life in its most unfiltered shape.
Truth that did not deceive.
When their plastic bags were finally full, they left the market with lighter steps, as though the foul odor had soothed something hollow inside them for far too long.
After placing everything in the trunk, Shaqar's vehicle rolled forward slowly, carrying them away from the city's frantic noise.
The engine hummed softly, like a prayer uttered without sound.
Then at the end of the road, they stopped.
Before them stood a modest yet memory-laden house—the place where all these burdens began, the place where the past waited to be judged by present courage.
They did not speak a single word, only exchanged glances in an echoing silence, before their eyes shifted toward the front door standing not far away.
Dozens of meters felt like a chasm between life and death, but today, Shaqar knew he had arrived where he needed to be.
'This is the place, the house that has now become Miara and Absyumura's palace.For some reason, even from here I can feel the same cursed air as before—cold, damp, but full of memories that refuse to die.Its blue color is still the same, pale like my daughter's face when she last looked at me.'
Tuuuuuuhh!
'That red moss—I remember Absyumura's words well—its seeping liquid between the stones proves that this house breathes.But now, what I see is merely a palace inhaling and exhaling in solitude.Its pillars cracked, yet still standing.Just like Miara—scarred everywhere, but never truly collapsing.Perhaps that is why I'm afraid to step closer, because amidst all the repulsiveness, this house still feels grand—too dignified for a sinner like me.'
Huuuuh–hiiiih!
'Absyumura once said he expanded the interior three months ago.Look at it now—even from here I can guess which pillars he added.He kept his promise, expanding the house for love and family—not ambition.Meanwhile me? This realization only widens the distance between myself and those I care about.'
From afar, the house stood like an ancient wound refusing to heal, staring blankly at them with a stone face stripped of spirit.
Its color was pale blue—not a calming kind, but one born of cold and suffering, a hue that once lived but now clung to the skin of death.
Its walls were coated with wet, dark-red moss, resembling veins that wriggled faintly whenever the wind passed.
Slime dripping from cracked bricks released soft hissing sounds, as though whispering around the structure, making it appear like a living creature breathing through decay.
No birds dared to fly above it, and even light seemed unwilling to reflect off its clouded windows.
Nothing in this house wished to appear beautiful—it chose to be the opposite of life.
Massive pillars rose from the ground, standing several meters apart, bearing the weight of a curse too heavy for an ordinary dwelling.
The cracks across their surfaces resembled aging stone veins, proving how time had bitten them mercilessly—yet not a single pillar had fallen.
They stood firm, stained and dusted with dried blood indistinguishable from the paint itself.
To anyone, the house would look repulsive, even threatening, but to satanic eyes, this was the truest form of beauty.
Beauty that needed no cleanliness, no fragrance, no sign of life.
Just fear.
Just honesty.
A reminder that true purity was born of accepted rot.
Shaqar gazed at it for a long time.
To him, the building was not merely a place where Miara and Absyumura lived—it was a symbol of the life he had abandoned years ago.
He still remembered his conversation with Absyumura three months prior—about expanding the interior, adding pillars so the structure could withstand the damp soil's pressure.
At the time, Shaqar thought nothing of it, just small talk without meaning.
But now, standing beneath the darkening sky, he realized something.
Even a cursed palace could grow, be repaired, be expanded, while he had allowed his heart and relationships to rot in the cramped space called regret.
'What should I do first?Knock straight away? Or call Absyumura so he and Miara can come out?E-even such a small step feels like a battlefield.'
"Captain, if you keep standing here, you'll drown in doubt.It's better to move now, before your courage evaporates again."
Hsssssh!
"There's no time to think too long.If your intention is sincere, let your footsteps speak—not your fear."
In front of the moss-covered palace, the air seemed to tighten.
A salty, damp scent seeped into their lungs, making every breath feel like inhaling rotten history unwilling to die.
Apathy stepped slightly ahead, holding the bag of fruit they had chosen from the filthy market—an offering that looked anything but beautiful, yet was drenched in meaning for the both of them.
Cracked apple skins, nearly ruined bananas, grapes beginning to ferment—their scents replacing the sweetness of fresh fruit.
All of it was the strangest offering, yet the most honest, a symbol of intention from a world that rejected perfection.
To be continued…