Parallel Memory

Chapter 562: Trapped in the Arena

The arena shook with the roars of monsters and the wild cheers of devils. The cries bounced off the black stone walls like thunder rolling through a storm. To the humans, bloodied and staggering, it was a nightmare given voice. They realized the truth in a single terrible instant: there was no path back. The portal they had marched through with such resolve was gone, sealed shut by devil magic.

Behind them, where the way home should have been, there was only a solid wall of black stone. No shimmer of escape. No light of return. Only darkness. Retreat was no longer an option.

"Fall back! Inside the barrier!" someone screamed, desperation twisting their voice, and the soldiers scrambled to obey.

The only thing that kept them alive was the barrier of light raised by the Church group. Nock Fletcher stood at its heart, his feet planted firmly though his arms shook from strain. His voice stayed steady even as sweat streamed down his brow and dripped into the dust. His shield burned with white-gold radiance, stretching outward to form a great dome above the huddled army.

Every impact from devil claws, spears, or bursts of magic struck the barrier with the sound of cracking thunder. The light trembled with each blow, threatening to collapse, but Nock stood strong.

"Hold the line!" he bellowed, voice raw yet unyielding. "The Saintess is with us. Do not falter!"

Inside the barrier, the Saintess stood in quiet contrast to the chaos around her. Her face was calm, her eyes closed in prayer, her hands folded gently before her. A soft radiance clung to her like a second skin, and with each word she whispered, her blessings flowed outward in warm waves.

The weary soldiers felt her power settle over them—wounds knitting, pain fading, limbs lightened, weapons glowing faintly with holy strength. For a moment, hope flickered.

But even her strength had limits.

She could not bless everyone at once. Her light had to be rationed, given in turns. And though her faith was unshakable, her body could only endure so much strain. Already her skin had gone pale, her lips bloodless from pouring so much power into so many.

The army was forced into a cycle born of desperation.

Groups of soldiers would step out from the barrier one at a time, carrying the Saintess’s blessing with them. Their blades cut deeper, their shields felt lighter, their movements faster. Devils that once seemed untouchable now fell screaming before them. For a brief stretch of battle, the tide seemed to bend.

But the moment the blessing faded, their strength vanished. Exhaustion slammed into their bodies, their wounds reopened, their courage wavered. They had to stumble back behind the shield, bloodied and gasping for breath, just to stay alive.

Then another group would step forward to take their place.

Again and again it went on. Attack, retreat, recover. Attack, retreat, recover.

It was a strategy for survival, not victory.

For every devil that fell, more poured in from the gates of the arena. The high-ranked ones barked sharp comments, their voices booming like drums. Lesser devils hurled themselves against the barrier, clawing, biting, screaming, as if eager to die just to weaken the humans’ resolve. Their corpses piled against the light, only to be replaced by more bodies, more fangs, more rage.

The air grew thick with the stench of sulfur and iron. Smoke hung heavy, carrying the smell of burning flesh. Every breath felt like swallowing ash.

Above them, seated in rows of jagged black stone, the devils watched. They laughed, they jeered, they shouted gleefully. To them, this was not war—it was theater. A blood sport arranged for their amusement by Lord Aamon himself.

Inside the dome of trembling light, however, the humans had no luxury of thought beyond the next breath. Each man and woman fought with fear clawing at their ribs and grit holding their legs steady.

Every time a group returned behind the shield, fewer stood among them. Every time a new group stepped forward, the hesitation in their eyes grew heavier.

Still, they rotated. Still, they marched into the slaughter.

For they had no other choice.

********************************************************************************

Far away, at the Delta Outpost, the scene was painfully different.

The dozen young recruits who had escaped through the portal stumbled into the outpost courtyard just moments before it sealed shut. Their bodies collapsed to the ground as though their bones had been stripped of strength. Pale-faced, trembling, and drenched in sweat, they looked more like ghosts than survivors.

Soldiers rushed to them, dragging water skins into their hands, lifting them from the dirt, demanding answers.

"What happened? Where’s the rest of the army?"

The recruits could not speak at first. Their mouths opened but no words came, only broken sobs and strangled gasps. It was as if their voices had been torn out by what they had seen.

Finally, one of them forced the words through cracked lips.

"It’s... it was a trap. They knew. They were waiting for us. The devils... there were too many. Too many." His voice broke, his body shaking. "We barely made it out."

His words spread through the outpost like wildfire. Panic grew in whispers and sharp breaths. Within minutes, the message was on its way to the capital.

**************************************************************************************

In the great hall of the capital city, both the War Council and the Authority gathered in grim assembly. Long tables stretched across the chamber, maps and reports scattered across them. The air was thick with smoke from burning incense, but it could not hide the tension that weighed on every heart.

When the report was read aloud, it struck like a hammer blow.

"They sealed the portal?!" an Authority official roared, slamming his fist against the table so hard that ink spilled from its pot.

"A trap," muttered one of the War Council’s hardened commanders, his voice low and grim. "We rushed forward exactly as they wanted."

"Then what are we waiting for?" another Authority member snapped, his face flushed red. "Send reinforcements! Open the portal again before it’s too late!"

"We cannot," replied a veteran from the War Council, his tone sharp enough to cut. His face was like stone, his eyes full of warning. "The devils had control of it all along. We were never in command of the portal. We were only made to believe we were."

The chamber erupted into noise.

Authority officials demanded action, their words hot with urgency and pride. The War Council demanded restraint, their words heavy with hard-won caution. Commanders found themselves caught between the two, voices drowned in the storm.

The shouting went on, echoing against the marble walls until the sound seemed to scrape at the very bones of those inside.

But all the fury changed nothing.

There was no way to open the portal. No way to send aid.

The silence that finally settled over the room was heavier than all the shouting had been. Authority officials sat pale-faced, their lips pressed tight in frustration, some biting down so hard they tasted blood. The War Council members leaned back in their seats, their faces carved from stone, their silence louder than any words.

They all knew the truth.

There was no rescue.

There was no plan.

There was nothing left to do but wait.

Wait, and hope for a miracle.