Parallel Memory

Chapter 591: Day 2 of the vanguards attack

The dawn came gray and muted, as though even the sun hesitated to look upon the battlefield. Mist clung low to the ridges, curling around armor and cloaks like ghostly hands. The vanguard rose without cheer, every motion deliberate, the exhaustion of yesterday’s breakthrough still carved into their faces.

Valen Drazmir was the first to stand at the edge of camp, his cloak gathered around him like a mantle of shadow. He watched the horizon, where the black spires of the Devil King’s palace jutted from the earth like spears, closer now than ever before.

By midmorning, the march resumed. Their formation was tighter than the day before, smaller but sharper, like a blade honed against stone. Hiro and his friends walked near the forward squads, every sense straining under the weight of the palace’s presence. Even from a distance, its looming gates radiated dread, as though the fortress itself hungered for their blood.

The devils were waiting.

Not the scattered lines of the previous day, but ranks upon ranks of hardened warriors—hulking brutes clad in obsidian armor, winged elites circling overhead, and spellcasters whose chants turned the very air poisonous. They crowded before the gates, a wall of hate and fury that blotted out the black iron doors beyond.

The first clash was thunder itself. Mia led the charge, her frost sweeping outward to meet the inferno of devil fire. Seraphine’s lightning tore craters into the ground, while Nock’s sanctified chains coiled through the enemy ranks. The air became a battlefield of its own, mana colliding in bursts that rattled bones and seared eyes.

Hiro and Zion broke into the melee with their squad, blades flashing, spells striking, their movements tied to survival more than victory. Misha’s sword arced, a blur of cold precision, cutting down one foe only for two more to press forward. Every step toward the gates was paid for in blood.

And still, they pushed.

By noon, the vanguard stood less than a stone’s throw from the Devil King’s gates. Their wedge had carved a path through carnage itself, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed as though the impossible could be done—that the palace doors would fall.

But the devils had held back their strongest until then.

The gates thundered open just enough for new horrors to emerge: towering creatures clad in shadow-forged plate, their weapons reeking of death. These were no common soldiers, but guardians bred to slaughter champions. They moved with unnatural coordination, intercepting Mia’s frost, parrying Seraphine’s lightning-charged spear, snapping through Nock’s golden chains as if sanctity itself had no meaning.

The air turned against the humans. What had been forward momentum became desperate resistance. Even Valen’s commands grew sharper, shorter, his mind pressed to its limits.

”Pull back!” His voice rang like a blade. ”We cannot breach here. Fall back to the ridge!”

Reluctance wavered in the human line, but discipline held. Step by step, they retreated, shields raised, covering each other as the devils surged. Hiro stumbled once as a crimson bolt nearly caved his chest, but Zion’s shield flared in time. Misha dragged another wounded S-ranker with her as they withdrew.

The retreat was no rout, but it was costly. By the time they reached safer ground, dusk had fallen, and the gates still loomed untouchable behind them.

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The camp that night was tenser than the last.

Fires burned even lower, conversations clipped to whispers. Every soldier had seen how close they had come—and how violently they had been turned back. The palace gates were no longer just a goal; they were a promise of slaughter if approached unprepared.

At the command circle, the War Council’s vanguard members gathered. Valen crouched again over the dirt map, this time his expression unreadable, the lines on his face deeper with thought. Kaelion and Ilyra stood watch, their silence as heavy as stone.

”They were waiting for us,” Seraphine muttered, her hand flexing over the haft of her spear. ”Not just waiting—expecting us. Those guardians didn’t come from the field. They came from inside.”

”They’ll be stronger tomorrow,” Nock added, his voice grim but steady. ”Aamon will not underestimate us again. Every hour we wait, more traps will be laid.”

Mia’s cold gaze fixed on the palace horizon, her frostmist curling faintly around her shoulders. ”Then we plan for it. No more brute forcing the gates. We need precision.”

Valen’s hand hovered over the map, tracing lines of advance that never touched the palace walls directly. ”They want us to believe the gates are our only path. That’s the illusion. If we batter ourselves against them, we will break. But there are weaknesses elsewhere—supply routes, unseen passages, gaps in the outer structure.” He paused, his eyes sharp. ”Aamon is clever, but arrogance leaves cracks.”

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Inside the palace itself, Aamon stood in the shadow of the grand hall, his fingers tracing patterns into the air. Below him, the guardians who had driven back the humans knelt, their weapons resting against the stone floor.

The strategist’s lips curled in a thin smile, though his eyes burned with irritation. ”They reached my gates. Too soon. Too swiftly.” His claws tapped against his staff, each sound echoing. ”This Valen Drazmir... his hand guides them. He cuts through illusions as though they are smoke.”

His smile sharpened. ”Then let him come closer. If he wishes to outthink me, he will do so in my garden of traps. Let them step through the gates, believing they have won. That is when they will drown.”

Around him, devil mages bowed, their hands already weaving the beginnings of enchantments—illusions that bent space, wards that swallowed mana, runes that bled life with every step. The palace itself would become the execution ground.

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Back in the human camp, Hiro sat apart with his friends, his sword resting across his lap. The palace shimmered faintly in the distance, black and cruel under the rising moon.

”They’re getting ready for us,” Zion murmured, his hands tightening around his spear.

”They always were,” Misha replied, her voice quiet, her eyes still sharp. ”The question is if we’re ready for them.”

Hiro glanced toward the command fire, where Mia and the others debated under low voices. His chest tightened, but not with fear—something colder, heavier. They had come too far to stop now. Whatever waited beyond those gates, he would not turn away.

And just beyond the edge of camp, Amelia sat with Adeline under her hood, her gaze locked on the palace as well. The faint light of its walls reflected in her eyes, and though her face was hidden, her jaw was set.

Tomorrow would bring blood. But tonight, strategy ruled.