Parallel Memory

Chapter 585: The former devil King

The door groaned open, heavy iron scraping against stone, and a gust of stale air poured out from within. The sound echoed hollowly in the long, narrow corridor, reverberating like the groan of something ancient being disturbed after far too long. Dust swirled in the faint shaft of light that fell across the threshold, stirred from its slumber.

It was not the stench of rot that met them—it was something far worse: the suffocating stillness of abandonment. The air was dry, stagnant, as if even time itself had forgotten to flow within these walls. Every breath carried the taste of neglect, of hopelessness, of years piled on top of years with no change, no voice, no life.

The cell beyond looked less like a prison meant for a king and more like a forgotten tomb carved from despair itself. The walls, dark stone cut with precision long ago, were bare. They had no markings, no sigils, no protections left—just lifeless surfaces where patches of mold and fungus had spread unchecked, climbing like grotesque vines. Cracks ran jagged across the stone where dampness had seeped in during countless seasons, evidence that no one had maintained or cared for this place.

There was no furniture, no comforts, not even the cruel courtesy of chains. A single slab of rock jutted from the side wall, its surface uneven and jagged, as though time itself had gnawed at it until it became unfit even as a place to rest. Dust lay thick across the floor, undisturbed for years, disturbed only now by Zero and Lilith’s intrusion. Faint black stains marked the ground—trails of old blood dried long ago, scars of torture that had never been cleaned away.

It was not a prison. It was a coffin where the living had been forced to wait for death.

And yet, in the far corner, beneath the deepest shadow of the walls, sat a figure.

Zero’s breath caught in his throat before he even realized it. His sharp eyes, so often steady, faltered as they took in the sight. Even with all his experiences, with the countless things he had seen in this world, something about this moment hit deeper than any battle. He felt it in his chest, heavy and unshakable.

Lilith stood frozen for a heartbeat, then slowly—almost instinctively—removed her disguise. The faint flicker of her shadows dissipated from her frame, revealing her true self as though this place, above all others, demanded honesty.

The man—if such a broken figure could still be called that—was little more than bones wrapped in shriveled skin. His once-mighty frame, a body that had once stood like a fortress before armies, had been reduced to a fragile husk. His arms curled inward toward his chest, his spine hunched as though the years themselves had bent him lower and lower until he could bow no further. His horns, once a crown of majesty that marked him as sovereign among devils, were cracked, chipped, dulled—brittle like the branches of a tree long dead. His wings, those mighty symbols of devil nobility, had withered to little more than leathery remnants, torn and unusable.

The rags clinging to his body were not clothing anymore. They were strips of what had once been regal fabric, now reduced to tatters that barely covered him. The color had faded to nothing, threadbare and clinging only where they had not rotted away completely.

And yet—despite all this—his eyes lived.

They were sunken deep into his gaunt face, ringed with exhaustion so profound it seemed eternal. But when they flickered open at the faint scrape of the door, they carried something no torture had managed to extinguish. There was fire. Weak, yes—dimming to embers, fragile as though a single breath might snuff it out. But unmistakably alive.

"...Lilith?"

The word was no louder than a whisper, fragile as silk drifting in the still air. But it cut across the silence with the weight of a storm.

Lilith’s throat tightened instantly. For years she had carried the belief—buried deep within her—that this day was impossible. That her father had long since been slain, or worse, consumed and erased by the cruelty of Lord Aamon’s reign. And now here he was. Not the figure of power she remembered, not the towering sovereign who once lifted her with ease and made the palace ring with his laughter. Instead he was a broken shell, withered by torment and years of neglect. But alive.

Alive.

Her steps were hesitant at first, as though she feared that rushing forward would make the vision dissolve into nothing. Her boots scraped gently against the dusty floor, each movement trembling, fragile, unsure. Yet when his gaunt, trembling hand lifted—slowly, painfully, but unmistakably—in her direction, something within her broke.

She could no longer hold back.

"Father!"

Her voice cracked as it burst from her, raw and unrestrained. The sound shattered the suffocating stillness of the cell, as though the walls themselves were startled awake by it. She fell to her knees beside him, shadows rippling across the floor as if they too yearned to reach for him, powerless to help but unwilling to stay still.

She grasped his withered hand in both of hers. The shock of it made her gasp—it was so light, so frail, so cold. It was like holding dry sticks, fragile enough that she feared her grip alone might break him.

The devil king—once a being whose strength had towered above nations, whose very presence had once commanded awe—smiled. Not the smile of power or command, but a smile of relief.

"You... came back... My daughter... freed from their chains at last." His words trembled with weakness, yet each syllable carried unyielding pride.

Lilith’s tears spilled freely, hot streaks cutting down her pale cheeks. "Father, don’t speak. Please, don’t. I’ll heal you. I’ll give you my energy, I can still save you." Already the shadows around her stirred violently, gathering in thick tendrils. Her mana surged, pooling at her fingertips as she poured it into him, guiding it carefully into his veins, into the fragile remnants of his core.

For a fleeting moment, it seemed to help. His chest rose a little fuller. His grip on her hand tightened faintly, almost imperceptibly. Hope, raw and desperate, ignited in her heart.

But the truth came crashing down almost immediately. His body resisted. The dark energy she gave him sank into his veins only to be rejected, dissipating as though cast into a void. The wounds carved into his very essence, the scars of years of torture at Aamon’s hands, were far too deep. It was not his body alone that had been broken, but his soul.

Lilith felt it. The futility of it. The shadows around her flickered, writhing in despair. "No... no, no, no—please! Why won’t it work?" Her voice cracked, a raw cry that echoed painfully in the empty chamber.

Zero stood just behind her, his own chest heavy with silence. His gaze remained fixed on the frail figure before them. He understood without words. This man—this king—had not survived by strength alone. He had endured through will, clinging desperately to a single reason. To see his daughter again. To pass on the truth he had held within him.

The devil king coughed, the sound brittle and dry, tearing at his frail chest. But when he looked at Lilith again, there was no pain in his expression. Only peace.

"Listen well... child." His words came slowly, every one of them an effort. Yet his voice carried, steady despite the fragility of his frame. "I held on... all these years... because I could not leave this world... without giving you the truth."

Lilith’s tears blurred her vision as she clutched his hand tighter, as though her desperate grip could anchor him to life. "Then tell me, Father," she whispered. Her voice trembled, but her will was unyielding.

The old king’s lips curved faintly, his gaze locking onto hers with all the warmth of a father who had endured the impossible only for this moment.