Parallel Memory

Chapter 673: The Siege of the Arena

The bells of the Grand Arena never stopped ringing.

Their sound—deep, ancient, laced with the echo of centuries—rolled across the marble halls like thunder. Each toll was a warning, a prayer, and a death sentence, all at once. The arena that once hosted champions and heroes had become a fortress—a holy bastion now under siege by the devils’ unholy legions.

Captain Darien Holt pressed his back to a pillar, his breath shallow and uneven, the sacred relic secured in a reinforced case slung across his shoulder. Around him, the vast colonnades of the arena trembled with every impact from the outside bombardment. Cracks snaked up the once-perfect marble, and golden dust from the ornate ceiling rained down like falling embers.

He peeked around the corner. The outer walls were already breached. Black smoke coiled into the air, carrying with it the metallic scent of burning mana. Screams and roars echoed through the grand corridors. Soldiers—those still breathing—rushed to man their posts, spears of light clashing against the devils’ crimson blades.

Darien’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. "Damn it..." he muttered, eyes narrowing. "They came faster than we thought."

He hadn’t even made it to the departure gate.

After the Pope’s furious outburst, after being tasked—condemned, really—with delivering the Church’s most sacred relic to the missing Saintess, Darien had barely an hour to prepare. The Pope’s fury had been legendary, his voice shaking the golden chamber as he shouted: "You let the Saintess vanish under your watch, and now you will redeem that failure—or die trying!"

And Darien had accepted it without a word.

But now the Arena itself was collapsing. The devils weren’t just attacking—they were invading, pouring through the rift gates like a flood.

A shadow darted past. Darien ducked instinctively as a scythe of corrupted mana sliced through the pillar, leaving a molten groove. He rolled, drew his blade, and met his attacker in one fluid motion.

The creature was humanoid, but barely—its skin cracked and leaking crimson light, wings like torn parchment stretched from its back. It hissed something in a language not meant for human tongues before lunging. Darien’s sword gleamed as he cut upward, splitting the thing in half. Its body exploded into black dust, leaving a burning afterimage in the air.

He didn’t have time to breathe before three more followed.

They came screaming, clawing at the air, their speed monstrous. Darien moved like a storm—years of front-line combat reduced his movements to pure survival instinct. His blade flashed, parried, deflected. Sparks flew, screams erupted, and by the time his momentum stopped, the marble beneath his feet was slick with blood that wasn’t his.

He exhaled sharply. "Still alive," he muttered. "For now."

The relic case pulsed faintly, responding to his heartbeat. Whatever lay within—whatever the Saintess had abandoned—it wasn’t just a weapon. He could feel it. It was alive.

Above, the dome of the Grand Arena blazed with divine light.

Darien looked up just in time to see the Pope descending from the central sanctum—robes of white and gold flowing like wings, his eyes burning with celestial fury. In his hand, the Pope wielded a staff that shimmered like the sun itself, and from its tip, streams of radiant energy burst forth, lancing into the invading devils.

"By the light of the Creator," the Pope’s voice thundered, amplified by divine resonance, "no corruption shall pass these halls!"

The air shook. The devils screamed as pillars of holy fire descended upon them, burning away hundreds in an instant. The ground itself became sanctified, the sigils of the Holy Domain glowing beneath the Pope’s feet.

Darien shielded his eyes from the brilliance, his heart pounding. The Pope was not merely a religious figure—he was a weapon of godly power incarnate. But even as his light spread, the shadows kept growing back.

A massive crack split the eastern wall. From the other side, something enormous moved—its presence like a mountain of malice. The devils’ warlord.

Darien didn’t need to see it to know that if it entered, the Arena would fall.

He turned and ran, boots hammering against the cracked marble. The case thudded against his back with every step. His goal was clear: the southern warp gate. It was the only stable exit left before the Pope’s barrier collapsed.

"Captain Holt!"

A voice called out—one of the remaining Holy Knights, bloodied but standing. "The devils are breaching the lower levels! The Pope’s holding them for now, but we won’t last long!"

Darien didn’t stop running. "Tell him to keep holding. I have my orders."

The knight hesitated. "You’re leaving?"

"I’m delivering the only thing that can turn this around," Darien snapped. "If the Saintess doesn’t get this relic, we all die anyway!"

The knight swallowed hard, then nodded. "Godspeed, Captain."

"Don’t waste prayers. Use your sword."

Darien sprinted through the arched hallways, his lungs burning. The devils were everywhere now—some breaking through the walls, others emerging from swirling rifts that bled red light. Every corridor he crossed was another battlefield. Every room, another grave.

He cut through anything in his path—humanoid devils, winged beasts, even corrupted humans who had turned under the influence of demonic essence. His movements grew slower, heavier, as exhaustion clawed at his limbs. But stopping wasn’t an option.

When he reached the lower stairwell, he found it already half-destroyed. The marble had collapsed inward, forming a jagged pit of rubble and fire. The southern warp gate shimmered faintly below, flickering like a dying star.

"Perfect," he muttered grimly. "Just perfect."

He jumped.

The fall was brutal. The heat scalded his face as he landed amidst broken stone, rolling to absorb the impact. His sword clattered beside him. The case thumped hard against his ribs but stayed intact.

He pushed himself up, wincing, and looked toward the gate—only to see it crawling with devils. Dozens of them. Some small, some massive, their bodies wreathed in smoke and veins of red lightning. The air around them warped with the pressure of their mana.

Darien spat blood and drew his sword again. "Guess we’re doing this the hard way."

The first one came charging. He met it with a full swing, severing its head clean off. Two more lunged from opposite sides—he ducked under one, parried the other, then rammed his knee into the first one’s gut before skewering it through the chest.

But for every devil that fell, two more took its place. The ground shook as a winged monstrosity the size of a carriage landed in front of him, roaring.

"Enough!" Darien shouted. His voice echoed with something primal—rage, exhaustion, defiance. "I don’t care if you’re devils, gods, or ghosts. You’re in my way!"

He charged, sword glowing faintly as his mana surged. His blade cut through the creature’s leg, then its throat, then its core. A spray of black ichor followed, sizzling against the holy runes that flared under his boots.

For a brief moment, there was silence.

And then—

A deafening crack.

The upper dome shattered. A rain of golden glass fell like meteors. Darien looked up and saw it—the warlord.

Its body was covered in black armor fused with flesh, its face hidden behind a mask of bone. Two burning eyes glared down at him. With one swing of its massive blade, it tore through the Pope’s barrier.

The divine light dimmed.

The Pope staggered in midair, coughing blood, his once-luminous robes darkening with scorch marks. But still he stood, raising his staff again.

"Holy Domain—Resurrection!" he shouted, driving the staff into the air.

A sphere of pure white light exploded outward, holding the devils back for a final moment.

Darien seized his chance.

He ran, leaping over the corpses, dodging collapsing debris. The warp gate flickered violently as he approached, the sigils struggling to stabilize under the distortion.

He slammed his hand on the rune plate. "Come on! Come on!"

The gate flared weakly. Then stronger. The air trembled.

From above, the Pope’s voice roared: "GO, DARIEN!"

Darien turned, just in time to see the warlord’s blade coming down—straight toward the Pope. The holy light met the demonic black in a collision that split the heavens. The entire arena shook, marble exploding outward, divine energy scattering like falling stars.

The gate’s pull yanked at Darien’s body.

He hesitated—just for a heartbeat—looking back at the Pope, the man still standing against impossible odds, holding the devils back with what remained of his faith.

Then the warp swallowed him whole.

The last thing he heard was the sound of divine bells breaking—the death knell of the Grand Arena—as the light faded behind him.

When the world stabilized, Darien fell to his knees, gasping for air, surrounded by unfamiliar terrain. Smoke rose from the hills. The relic case still glowed faintly at his side, untouched.

He was alive.

But as he looked back toward the distant horizon, he saw the sky above the Arena burn—a column of light piercing through clouds of shadow.