Parallel Memory

Chapter 640: The Weight of Numbers

The battlefield before the Devil King’s palace stretched like a wound carved into the earth. Blackened soil, cracked by fire and scarred by steel, ran all the way up to the colossal gates—gates large enough to swallow armies whole. They towered, etched with infernal symbols, a reminder that no human hand had ever breached them.

And at those gates, the vanguard bled.

Kaelion stood atop a ridge overlooking the clash, his cloak torn at the edges, his eyes sharp despite the exhaustion etched into his features. His strategies had carried the vanguard this far—through ambushes, countercharges, traps layered by devils who understood numbers as well as he did. But here, at the threshold, the weight of sheer quantity pressed down like a mountain.

The devils poured from the palace grounds in endless waves. For every one slain, two more emerged. They didn’t fight with precision or brilliance—they didn’t need to. They relied on overwhelming force, flooding the battlefield with sheer mass. It was a wall of claws and fangs, a tide that threatened to drown even the sharpest of human blades.

Kaelion’s voice cut through the chaos as he relayed commands to his aides. "Rotate the third line! Bring in the reserve shields—we’ll hold the flank for ten more minutes."

A commander at his side, General Orick, gritted his teeth. His armor was spattered with devil blood, his beard stiff with ash. "We can’t keep this up, Kaelion. Even with your formations, the men are breaking. Every push we make, they smother it. Every wedge we try to carve, they drown in bodies."

"I know," Kaelion said evenly, though his voice carried a razor’s edge. He had expected as much. Numbers were a weapon of their own, and though his mind could cut through confusion, he could not conjure soldiers where there were none.

On the field, the elite vanguards fought like lions. Blades gleamed, arts flared, and devils fell in heaps. But progress was nonexistent. Each step forward came at the cost of three backward. They had to retreat at dusk the day before—and at this rate, they’d retreat again, only to wake tomorrow and repeat the same blood-soaked struggle.

Kaelion’s eyes flicked across the horizon. He had split their forces deliberately—one army hammering at the front, another moving silently in a pincer through the valley paths. The silent team, his knife in the dark, was meant to strike from behind and sever the devils’ tide. But if the front did not break, if they could not draw enough strength here, then the knife would be blunted before it ever reached its target. The pincer would be swallowed.

He clenched his fist. The plan was sound. The timing was perfect. And yet—numbers. Always numbers.

Behind him, another commander approached—slender, sharp-eyed, his armor gleaming with command sigils. Nock Fletcher, the priest turned strategist, bowed slightly. "Kaelion."

Kaelion didn’t look back. "Speak."

"You should know," Nock began, his voice calm but heavy, "that the Saintess has entered the field."

The words cut sharper than any blade. Kaelion turned, his expression cold as frost. "What did you say?"

Nock met his gaze, unflinching. "The Saintess. She has slipped past the lines. Not with my permission—she moved on her own. But I learned of her path through those who aided her entry. She intends to fight."

A silence hung in the air, broken only by the distant roars of war. General Orick’s face darkened. "That girl... reckless as always. Does she think her miracles will replace steel?"

"She isn’t wrong," Nock said evenly. "The men are at their limit. Morale is waning. The enemy has numbers we cannot hope to match. But the Saintess carries what we do not—holiness. Her blessing is a force no devil can shrug off. Even the weakest prayer she utters burns their flesh. Imagine her light cast over this battlefield."

Kaelion’s mind spun. The Saintess was a living miracle—he knew this. He had seen her work before. A touch of her hand could steady soldiers on the brink of collapse. A prayer could turn aside a mortal blow. And her blessing... yes, her blessing was the only thing the devils truly feared.

But she was untrained. Untested. A child compared to generals hardened by decades of blood. The devils would see her as a beacon—and converge upon her in numbers Kaelion could not shield.

He closed his eyes, weighing the variables.

"Kaelion." Nock’s voice was softer now. "We do not have the luxury of time. The vanguard will break within the hour. And if they break, tomorrow we fight the same battle again—only with fewer men. The silent team in the valley will be surrounded. The pincer will collapse. You know this."

The ridge shuddered as a devil’s roar shook the battlefield. Kaelion’s eyes snapped open, his decision forming like steel hammered in flame.

He reached for the comms crystal at his belt. The faint rune-glow lit his hand as he activated it. His voice was calm, but iron-bound.

"Saintess."

A soft crackle answered him, followed by a gentle voice—hesitant, but steady. "Kaelion."

"You have taken the field." His words were not a question.

"Yes."

"Reckless," he muttered, though his tone carried no venom. Only fact. "But if you are here, then I will use you."

A faint intake of breath answered him. "Then... you’ll let me?"

Kaelion’s gaze swept the battlefield below. Men screamed, devils roared, and the gates loomed ever higher. "We are not winning. Not like this. You want to help? Then listen carefully. Do not squander your light."

"I understand."

He exhaled slowly, his mind already calculating formations, rotations, how best to deploy her strength without letting her be consumed. "At my command, you will release your blessing. Focus on the vanguard center. Not to destroy—no, to fracture. Burn their will. Blind them. We will open a wedge, and through it, we will break their line."

"I can do that," she whispered, conviction growing in her tone.

"You must," Kaelion said. His eyes sharpened, his voice rising like the strike of a blade. "Because if you fail, Saintess, we all fall. Do you understand?"

"I understand," she repeated, firmer this time.

The crystal dimmed, the connection closing. Kaelion lowered his hand, his jaw set.

General Orick barked, "You trust her to shift the tide?"

Kaelion didn’t answer immediately. His eyes stayed locked on the battlefield, the tide of devils crashing endlessly against human steel. Then, in a voice low but unwavering, he spoke.

"She is not a soldier. She is not a general. But she is what they cannot counter. Her blessing is not a weapon—it is inevitability. And inevitability, Orick, is exactly what I need."

He raised his hand, signaling to the vanguard below. Horns blared, formations shifted, and soldiers braced.

The time had come.