Parallel Memory

Chapter 561: Attack on the devils

For days, Delta Outpost was a hive of activity. Word had spread quickly—reinforcements from the capital were on their way. The soldiers already stationed there kept up a relentless pace of training. Blades were sharpened until they gleamed like silver light. Armor was polished, straps checked, and supply wagons unloaded in the yard.

The air felt heavy with expectation. Every clang of steel, every barked order, carried the weight of what was coming. There was no mistaking the atmosphere—war was no longer a rumor, it was a certainty.

When the reinforcements finally arrived, the Authority wasted no time. The order was given almost as soon as the newcomers dismounted the military buses and unloaded their gear. The attack would begin immediately. The urgency was not born of confidence, but of pressure.

The generals and officers barked instructions, their voices carrying across the yard. The army, still fresh from their preparations, assembled into formation. The mercenaries went first. They strode toward the portal with grins and confident swagger, their weapons already in their hands. They were in it for the glory, for the gold, and for the thrill of battle. Fear had no place in their eyes—only hunger for the rewards to come.

Behind them, the main body of the army moved in—rank upon rank of disciplined soldiers, boots striking the ground in unison. Armor clinked in rhythm, banners fluttered in the cold wind, and faces were set like stone.

Last came the church’s fighting group, priests and holy knights clad in white and gold, their weapons inscribed with blessings and charms. Their chants of prayer mixed with the sound of marching feet, a low hum of faith to strengthen the hearts of those stepping into the unknown.

One by one, they passed through the shimmering surface of the portal. Each step forward carried them into the enemy’s land. The faint hum of magic filled the air, and then—

Blood.

The moment they emerged on the other side, the ground was already stained with battle. Screams rang out before half of the soldiers had even cleared the gateway. The army had walked straight into a killing ground.

It was not an open city arena as the reports had suggested, nor a vulnerable street leading toward the palace. Instead, they stood in the center of a massive, circular arena. Only the walls towered high above them, black stone streaked with crimson markings that pulsed faintly.

All around, the seats of the arena were filled—not with cheering humans, but with devils of every size and form. Some were beast-like, with claws and tusks dripping with saliva. Others were tall and human-shaped, their skin dark, their eyes glowing red or gold. They sat like spectators at a grand performance, their twisted grins showing too much teeth.

On the arena floor, waiting for them, stood an army of devils. Not the weaker ones that had been seen near the border before—these were high-ranked monsters, each radiating an aura heavy enough to make the air feel thick.

At the head of the enemy formation stood a figure Hiro knew instantly. His heart clenched, and rage boiled up inside him. Xalvar.

Memories flashed in his mind unbidden—his parents lying still in the debris of destruction, unresponsive, trapped in an unending sleep. He had uncovered during the last battle at the Ace Academy, the confirmation that it was Xalvar who had done it.

Now, that same devil stood before him, calm and mocking, as if daring him to try.

Hiro’s breath quickened, his hands tightening around the hilt of his Sword. This was it. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Revenge for everything Xalvar had taken from him.

But there was no time for personal duels. The enemy army moved first.

Before the human soldiers could even spread out, the devils charged. Their speed was unreal, closing the distance in heartbeats. The clash was immediate and brutal—steel against dark weapons, shield against dark arts. The air filled with the sound of screaming metal, cracking bones, and spells erupting like thunder.

From above, a deep, chilling voice spoke—not shouting, but carrying easily over the chaos.

"A perfect trap," one of the stronger devils seated in the stands declared with satisfaction. His tone was filled with cruel pride. "Lord Aamon was yet to be outdone. With this, Edolas will come to know his name , and they shall bow in fear of his name, all without leaving the comfort of his throne."

The words were like a punch to the gut. Soldiers who heard them understood instantly. They had not stumbled into a battle—they had been lured into it. Everything, from the placement of the portal to the false sense of opportunity, had been crafted for this moment.

The arena gates slammed shut. High above, and barriers flared to life, sealing the walls with magic too dense to break.

The truth settled in like a cold weight in every heart. There would be no quick strike at the Devil King. No march to the palace. They were trapped, surrounded, and vastly outnumbered.

Still, they had to fight.

Hundreds fell within minutes, their cries swallowed by the roar of the devil army. Mercenaries who had been so confident now found themselves pressed back, their numbers shrinking with every heartbeat. The church knights called on their blessings, forming protective circles around the wounded, but even their light was dimmed under the oppressive dark aura flooding the arena.

Near the portal, a group of young recruits—barely more than trainees—had frozen when they realized what awaited them. Some of the older soldiers tried to push them forward into the fight, but instinct screamed at them to run.

When the first shock of the battle hit and the devils’ focus shifted toward the main ranks, the recruits saw their chance. They turned and sprinted back toward the portal, shoving past the incoming stragglers.

"Go! Go now!" one of the sergeants bellowed, holding off a lunging devil long enough for them to pass.

The shimmering surface of the portal was already beginning to distort. The devils were moving to close it.

One by one, the young soldiers hurled themselves through, their boots striking the stone floor of Delta Outpost on the other side. A few dozens had started running but Only a dozen made it out before the magic seal flashed and the gateway vanished entirely.

The soldiers left behind were cut off.

In the arena, the fighting raged on, but the truth was undeniable. This was not a battle to be won—it was a battle for survival. And at the heart of it, Hiro’s eyes never left Xalvar.

Above them, Lord Aamon sat unseen on his throne, somewhere in the shadows of the palace, smiling at the perfect execution of his plan.