Parallel Memory

Chapter 641: The Devil Steps Forward

The chamber trembled beneath the weight of silence. The squad stood in a broken circle, armor dulled by soot, blades streaked with the ichor of beasts that had already tested them. Mia’s voice still lingered in the air, sharp as the steel she carried:

"Enough games, Aaron. Face us yourself."

The devil’s smile stretched wider, a crescent of mockery against the backdrop of firelight. His eyes glowed with an intelligence far older than the walls that held them. He had sat, toyed, and watched, measuring them through endless trials. Now, for the first time, he rose from his throne of shadow and flame.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. The squad—breathless, battered, but unbroken—stared as if daring him to refuse.

Then Aaron chuckled, a sound that slithered across the chamber, half amusement, half disdain.

"Kill you all myself, is it?" His voice reverberated like iron dragged against stone. "You tire of champions, of clever distractions, of the games I play. You demand the devil himself."

His gaze swept over each of them—lingering on Mia, then on Zero, then on the others who had survived his trials. "Do you not understand? To me, delay or destruction are the same coin. Whether I let time gnaw at your bones or crush you in one swing, the result does not change."

Mia’s jaw tightened. Her stance didn’t waver. "We’re not here for your philosophy. We’re here to end you."

Aaron tilted his head, as though amused by a child pretending at bravery. "End me? You’ve seen how fragile you are against the champions I offered. Do you believe your blades, dulled by exhaustion, will carve my flesh where fire dragons failed? Foolish."

Yet even as he taunted, he descended the steps from his seat. His feet struck the ground with deliberate weight, each echo hammering into the squad’s nerves. Shadows curled around his form, shifting like serpents, coiling tighter with every breath he took.

Zero’s hand gripped his weapon, his gaze steady despite the exhaustion pulling at his frame. He didn’t rise to the taunt, didn’t answer—just watched. For him, words weren’t the measure of Aaron’s intent; his steps were. And those steps told him the devil had finally grown bored of playing.

Mia, though, stood firm in her defiance. "You’ve already told us too much. You measured us. You tested us. That’s how strategists work. Kaelion said as much—data is everything. But if you think hiding behind beasts will break us, you’re mistaken. We’ve already learned enough about your patterns."

Aaron’s eyes narrowed—not in anger, but intrigue. He stopped midway across the chamber, shadows curling higher around him. "Patterns? You believe you’ve unraveled me, child? That because you glimpsed one corner of my design, you can defy the tapestry itself?"

The squad braced as his aura thickened. It was not raw force alone—it was weight, like an ocean pressing against the skin, promising to drown anything that dared resist.

Yet Aaron laughed. It was not the mocking chuckle of before, but a deeper, resonant sound. "Very well. I will humor you. I will grant you your demand. You wish to test your blades not against my pawns, not against my distractions, but against me. You think cunning is my refuge, that without it I am diminished. How quaint."

He spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the very idea. "But you see, I have always believed muscle speaks louder than guile. Steel, fire, and blood are truths no strategy can conceal. Muscle power, as you would call it, has always been the final arbiter. And so—"

The shadows burst upward, a crown of black flame framing his figure. His voice crashed against the chamber walls like thunder.

"—I shall take matters into my own hands."

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Far away, beyond the chamber’s boundaries, another battlefield unfolded.

Kaelion’s commands rang across the ridge, his mind calculating, adjusting, reshaping every moment. Horns blared as the vanguard rotated, shields locking in desperate rhythm. Yet no matter how sharp the formation, no matter how polished the execution, the devils’ numbers surged back, endless as the tide.

The gates of the Devil King’s palace stood like an insult, looming untouched while men bled at their foot. The elite vanguard struck again and again, their arts lighting the dusk, but each effort drowned beneath the swarm. Already Kaelion could see the lines faltering, fatigue gnawing at discipline. They would have to retreat again, regroup, return to the same slaughter tomorrow—unless something changed.

Nock’s voice lingered in his ears: The Saintess has entered the field.

It was a gamble, but Kaelion’s strategies had always been forged in gambles. If her blessing struck true, if it shattered the devils’ will even for a heartbeat, then the vanguard could breach. And once they breached, the silent pincer could strike from the valley, severing the flow. The enemy’s numbers would not matter if their line was split.

The Saintess was already in motion, her prayer weaving light into trembling air. Kaelion’s hand rested on the comms crystal, ready to give the signal.

And in the chamber, Aaron stepped forward, his shadows curling like smoke from a forge, his eyes fixed on the squad who dared demand his presence.

Two fronts. Two gambits. One thread tying them together: the devil’s hand, finally revealed.

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The squad’s nerves tightened. They had pushed him here, forced his pride, or perhaps his amusement, to abandon games. Yet there was no relief in it—only heavier dread.

Mia’s blade hummed with energy as she raised it, her voice steady despite the gravity of what loomed. "Then stop wasting our time with speeches, Aaron. Step forward."

Aaron’s grin widened, wicked and sharp. "Careful, little champion. You may find that when the devil steps forward, time itself ceases to matter."

He came to stand at the heart of the chamber. No champions between them. No distractions. Only him.

The air grew heavier, the ground trembled, and every soldier in the squad felt the truth settle into their bones.

The games had ended. The real battle was about to begin.