Parallel Memory

Chapter 593: No place to Mourn

They left the prison in silence, the weight of death still clinging to them. The air in those lower halls had been heavy with the stench of decay and finality, and even as the door closed behind them, the image of the shriveled king lingered in their minds. Lilith’s hands shook faintly beneath her cloak, her father’s last words echoing in her chest, while Zero walked beside her with the grim steadiness of one carrying another’s burden. Yet the palace did not allow them time to mourn—the corridors that stretched before them pulsed with faint red veins of light, oppressive and watchful, as though the walls themselves sought to remind them that grief had no place here.

The palace corridors were suffocating in their silence.

It was not the silence of peace, but a silence that pressed on the chest and gnawed at the edges of thought. The very walls seemed to breathe, veins of faint red light pulsing in rhythm, as though the fortress itself carried the devil king’s heartbeat. Each flicker of light was a pulse in stone, each dimming a slow exhale.

Zero walked a pace behind Lilith, his steps deliberate, his senses sharpened to a knife’s edge. His hand never strayed far from his blade, fingers brushing the hilt in a constant readiness that had become second nature. He had expected her to stay quiet after the last few days, still raw from emotions she had only just begun to recover, emotions that weighed heavily in her gaze. Yet tonight she moved with an urgency that unsettled him. Her pace quickened and faltered in turns, as though pulled forward by something unseen, but also held back by invisible chains.

The passage bent sharply, opening into a vaulted hall where torchlight burned with unnatural steadiness. Here, the glow was not the warm orange of fire, but a cold crimson—like blood congealed beneath glass.

Her steps slowed, faltered. Lilith pressed a trembling hand against the obsidian wall, her skin pale under the sconce’s glow. The corridor sloped downward, leading toward one of the outer gates. She stared down that path with the wide-eyed look of someone gazing into an abyss.

"I..." Her voice was little more than a broken whisper. "I can’t stay trapped in here. Not anymore."

Zero opened his mouth to answer, but the echo of armored boots cut through the air like a blade.

From the shadows, a squad of devil guards emerged, their forms sharp and terrible against the flickering glow. Their helms were forged of blackened steel, their eye-slits burning faintly with malice, and the air around them quivered with the weight of their aura. Each carried a weapon humming with unnatural resonance—blades that seemed to thirst, polearms whose edges glimmered with runes of devouring.

Zero exhaled once, steadying his breath. "Stay behind me."

The first guard lunged with monstrous speed, its blade whistling in a downward arc meant to cleave him in two. Zero stepped into the motion, pivoting with precision, and his counter strike carved upward in a clean, efficient motion. The helm split in two, along with the skull beneath, spraying embers of life-snuffing flame as the body collapsed.

The others did not pause. They surged in a wave, an avalanche of blades and armor crashing toward him. But their ferocity met with Zero’s stillness. His body moved with an economy of motion that bordered on unreal—the slightest sidestep, the smallest tilt of his wrist, and his blade became a streak of steel and shadow. Armor joints split, throats opened, tendons snapped. He cut through the gaps in their defenses as though he had memorized them all his life.

It was over in moments.

The clash that had begun in a storm ended in silence. Blood dripped in slow patters from broken helms and still-twitching bodies. The crimson torchlight licked across the corpses, painting them into grotesque relief.

Lilith’s eyes widened as she clutched her cloak tighter around herself. She had seen countless battles, watched carnage play out across decades of her long life, but there was something different about the way Zero fought. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Not an ounce of panic. Watching him move, she could not shake the thought that the humans outside—the ones bleeding against devil formations—underestimated him far too deeply.

Zero’s expression never shifted. He wiped his blade once, clean and precise, then looked to her with calm eyes. "We need to move. They’ll know something’s wrong."

As if in answer, a horn split the stillness of the palace. The sound reverberated down the stone halls, jagged and harsh. Not the rising notes of celebration. Not the rhythm of ceremony. But the cry of alarm.

Lilith’s lips parted, panic flashing briefly across her features. Then, with a spark of determination, she tugged at his sleeve and guided him toward a narrow stairwell hidden behind an arched pillar. Her voice came hurried, hushed. "This way. Quickly."

Zero followed without question, his gaze scanning every shadow as they descended.

The stairwell wound downward in disorienting spirals, its walls damp with an ancient chill. Each step echoed, though muffled as though the air itself tried to swallow the sound. The deeper they went, the stronger the sense of weight pressed upon them, as if the palace’s heart was pulling them toward it.

Finally, the stairwell ended, spilling into a vast chamber.

Zero halted at the threshold. His breath caught—not in awe, but in wary unease.

The chamber stretched far beyond what his eyes could fully take in. Shelves rose in impossibly high tiers, reaching toward a ceiling lost in shadow. They were filled, every one, with scrolls, tomes, tablets of stone, and sheaves of parchment so old they seemed ready to crumble. And yet none of it felt decayed. None of it smelled of dust. Instead, the air vibrated with quiet power.

At the chamber’s heart floated a massive tome, its pages slowly turning as though an invisible hand guided them. Beside it hovered a quill of pale silver, scratching tirelessly across parchment. No hand held it. No ink pot rested nearby. Yet the words flowed ceaselessly, glowing faintly before settling into dark permanence. Every so often, another book along the shelves shuddered and cracked open. Words appeared across its surface in glowing crimson script, recording without pause.

Zero stiffened. The sound of the quill’s scratch was too loud in the silence. Too deliberate. Too knowing.

Lilith’s expression softened as her steps slowed. Sorrow dimmed her eyes, but reverence flickered there as well, as though she were standing in the presence of something holy—or profane.

"The Records Chamber," she whispered, voice low enough to be mistaken for prayer. "One of the palace’s oldest halls."

She moved closer, almost hesitant, as if approaching an altar. Her fingers brushed the air near the floating tome but stopped just short of contact, as though fearing it might burn her. "This place doesn’t need scribes. It never did. The quill writes on its own, recording everything that occurs within the palace walls. Every secret, every betrayal, every triumph... nothing is lost here. Not even whispers."

She swallowed, her voice trembling faintly. "That tome—" her eyes flicked to the great floating book, "—is called The Chronicle of True Echoes. It writes only what is, never what is wished. The absolute truth, stripped bare. Even the devil king cannot silence it."

Zero’s gaze swept the chamber again, unease coiling through him. Shelves upon shelves of knowledge, untouched by human hands. Records written by something unseen. He had trained long enough to trust his instincts, and his instincts screamed that this place was more dangerous than any battalion of guards. "Why bring me here?"

Lilith lingered by the great tome, her expression shadowed. "Because if we’re to survive what’s coming... knowledge may be sharper than your blade."

Her voice faltered, turning softer. More vulnerable. "And because... part of me hoped, even after all that’s happened, that there are answers here. About what they did to me. About who I was before the darkness."

For the first time since stepping into the palace, Zero saw her shoulders tremble. Not from fear of pursuit, not from exhaustion—but from the weight of what the truth might reveal.

The quill scratched again. Slowly, deliberately. A line of fresh ink spread across the parchment of The Chronicle, glowing before settling.

Zero narrowed his gaze. "It’s writing about us."

Lilith shuddered. Her eyes closed for the briefest moment, lashes trembling against pale skin. "It always does."

They both looked at the parchment.

The words glowed faintly in the silence:

The intruders spill blood within the heart of the palace. One carries the burden of forgotten chains, the other the blade of unseen storms. Their choices echo already, though neither dares to speak them aloud.

Lilith stepped back as though struck. The Chronicle had not simply recorded their actions. It had recorded their thoughts. Their fears. Their silence.

Zero’s hand tightened around his hilt. For the first time, not against an enemy he could see—but against something that left no target, no defense.

The scratching of the quill did not stop.