Parallel Memory

Chapter 578: The devils counter attack

The night it began, there was no warning horn, no scattered probing raid.

The devils came like a tide.

From the northern quarter, the guttural roar of thousands erupted all at once, shaking dust from the arena walls. Within heartbeats, drums pounded in rhythm — heavy, booming, bone against hide — and shadows spilled out from the broken streets. Soldiers on the wall saw it first: a black mass of bodies surging forward, claws and blades glinting beneath the moonlight, wings blotting out the stars above.

”TO ARMS!” the commander bellowed, voice hoarse. ”ALL TO YOUR POSTS! THE ENEMY COMES!”

The fortress, half-repaired, shuddered as the first wave struck. Barricades splintered beneath sheer numbers, ladders crashed against the walls, and the shriek of winged fiends filled the sky. Arrows loosed from the ramparts lit up the dark like streaks of fire, cutting swathes into the enemy. Buckets of burning oil toppled down, igniting screaming hordes.

Still they came.

The soldiers fought with the desperation of men defending their only hope. Shields locked, spears thrust, blades swung. The clash of steel and claws echoed across the arena, drowning out even the horns. Men were dragged screaming from the walls, wings tore through ranks, and fiends hurled themselves willingly into flames just to drag defenders down with them.

From the stands below, the arena floor had been transformed into the last fallback position. Wagons, shields, and timbers formed a crude barricade, and healers worked furiously behind them. Wounded were dragged down from the walls, some screaming, others silent, and priests bent over them, pouring holy light into gaping wounds until their own lips bled.

A sergeant staggered past, clutching his severed arm. ”They’re swarming the east gate! They’ve breached the lower barricade!”

”Hold it!” the commander snarled, his blade dripping black ichor. ”If they take the gate, they’ll flood the arena floor. Hold it at all costs!”

Above, the sky split with fire. A monstrous winged devil descended, twice the height of a man, its body wreathed in crimson flames. Its screech rattled bones, and with one sweep of its wings it scattered an entire squad from the wall. Arrows bounced uselessly from its hide. Only a ballista, dragged up from storage and hastily manned, brought it down with a thunderous bolt through the chest. The beast crashed into the outer tiers, crushing stone and soldier alike.

Yet for every monster slain, more poured in. The enemy was endless, a tide of claws, teeth, and malice.

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Far away at Delta Outpost, the Pope could feel it. His prayers were met with ripples of disturbance in the mana flow, like distant tremors. The fortress was under siege — not a raid, but annihilation.

”Faster!” His voice cracked across the courtyard where priests and scribes worked by torchlight. Their chisels clinked against stone, carving runes into the floor. Sweat poured down their faces, robes soaked through. Crystals thrummed with unstable power, the half-finished circle glowing dangerously.

One young priest collapsed, trembling, blood dripping from his nose. The Pope’s staff struck the ground beside him, holy light flooding the boy with borrowed strength. ”You will not falter. The enemy does not rest — neither can we!”

The air reeked of incense and burnt mana as they worked through the night. Every line carved brought the portal closer to completion, yet also more volatile. Sparks leapt between the inscriptions, arcs of light that burned flesh if touched. The Pope’s voice never ceased, hammering faith into the weary. ”Hold fast! Each symbol you carve is a shield against damnation! Carve!”

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Back at the arena, the stronghold buckled under the onslaught.

The eastern barricade collapsed. A flood of fiends poured through the breach, shrieking, their blades dripping with human blood. Soldiers rallied desperately, reforming ranks, their boots sinking in black ichor. A young recruit screamed as claws pierced his chest, only for his comrades to drag him back and close the gap with trembling shields.

On the northern wall, archers fired until their quivers were empty, then threw stones, then fought with daggers. One by one, they fell, dragged screaming into the dark.

Inside the arena floor, the wounded groaned in endless chorus. Healers’ hands shook, their mana nearly depleted, yet they worked still, binding wounds with cloth and prayer when magic failed. Blood pooled so thick it turned the sand beneath them black.

Above the din, horns blared again. This time from the west.

The defenders’ hearts sank.

Another wave surged, this one led by towering beasts with spiked limbs that smashed through stone. They struck the walls like living battering rams, tearing holes large enough for swarms to spill through. The fortress quaked as if the gods themselves hammered against it.

”Fall back to the inner tiers!” the commander roared, his armor drenched in blood, his voice breaking with strain. ”Draw them into the choke points! Don’t let them reach the floor!”

Step by step, the defenders gave ground. The walls were lost, the outer barricades shattered. The fight became hand-to-hand in narrow corridors, blades clashing in the flicker of torchlight, screams echoing through once-proud halls.

By dawn, the arena was half overrun.

The survivors were exhausted, many too wounded to stand. And yet, still, they fought.

But outside, the devil army showed no sign of waning. Their horns shook the ground. Their numbers swelled. The survivors knew — if no help came, the fortress would fall before another night passed.

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At Delta, the portal neared completion. The circle burned so bright the courtyard was lit like midday. The priests’ voices rose in a trembling chant, sweat running down their faces as they bled mana into the lines.

And then — a crack like thunder split the air. The inscriptions surged, light lancing upward in a column that pierced the sky. The portal flared, unstable, flickering wildly between colors.

The Pope raised his staff high, voice booming across the outpost. ”Hold the line of the chant! Bind the flow! The War Council awaits our call!”

Priests wept, some collapsing in exhaustion, others screaming as raw mana lashed across their skin. Still, they pressed on, their voices breaking, their faith the only thing anchoring the unstable rift.

The portal pulsed once. Twice. Then steadied, glowing with furious light.

It was ready.

But would it be in time?

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Back at the arena, the gates finally burst inward. The survivors, backs to the final barricades, raised their blades in trembling defiance as the tide of devils flooded in. Screams rose, steel clashed, fire raged. The fortress trembled beneath the assault.

Above the carnage, the horns blared one final time — deeper, louder, a signal that the true slaughter had begun.

And in the chaos, the defenders prayed. Not for themselves — but that someone, anyone, would step through a portal before the last wall crumbled.