Parallel Memory

Chapter 672: “The Pope’s Wrath”

The portal closed behind Captain Darien Holt with a sound like shattering glass.

Light bled away, leaving him standing beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Grand Arena’s transit hall. The air here felt too clean—thick with incense and polished marble. Even after months away, the sharp contrast to Delta Outpost made his stomach turn. The Arena was supposed to be humanity’s proud symbol—a fortress where champions gathered, a holy ground for the faithful.

Tonight, it felt more like a tomb.

Priests in silver robes moved quietly through the corridors, their faces pale beneath candlelight. The air hummed with tension. News of the ongoing collapse at Delta had clearly reached them, though no one dared speak of it aloud. The soldiers here walked with the stiffness of men waiting for something terrible to happen.

Darien adjusted his cloak, the smell of blood still faint on his sleeve, and strode toward the main sanctum. He ignored the bows and murmured greetings, his boots echoing against the marble. He didn’t have the patience for courtesies—not after what he’d seen.

When he reached the high gate of the sanctum, two Templar guards crossed their halberds.

"State your business," one said curtly.

Darien met his eyes. "Captain Darien Holt, Delta Outpost. I need an audience with His Holiness immediately. It’s about the Saintess."

The guards exchanged a glance, one stepping aside uncertainly. "The Saintess...? His Holiness is in counsel. You’ll have to wait—"

Darien’s tone cut through him. "If you want the Church’s highest relics to stay out of devil hands, open the damn door."

The halberds lifted.

The guards hesitated, then pushed open the sanctum gate. Golden light spilled from within—a stark, almost blinding contrast to the dim corridors outside.

Inside, the Pope stood before the great altar of Lumen, the radiant sigil of the Church glowing faintly above him. He was older than rumor suggested—thin, hair silver-white, his robes layered with gold and crimson embroidery that gleamed faintly in the candlelight.

But what struck Darien most wasn’t the holiness—it was the presence. The Pope didn’t feel like a man. He felt like judgment given form.

Darien knelt as the guards shut the door behind him.

"Rise," the Pope said quietly, not turning from the altar. His voice carried effortlessly through the sanctum. "Captain Holt of Delta Outpost. I was told you held command over the northern recovery wing. Why have you left your post?"

Darien’s jaw tightened. "Because your Saintess isn’t where she’s supposed to be."

The Pope turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "Explain."

Darien told him everything—how the Saintess had supposedly secluded herself for three weeks, how her meals and tonics were consumed by impostors, how he’d discovered demonic infiltrators in her quarters.

When he finished, the sanctum was silent.

The Pope’s expression didn’t change, but the light from the altar dimmed slightly, shadows bending inward. "So," he said softly, "you let three lesser devils waltz into the holiest ward of Delta Outpost. You let them desecrate the Saintess’s chamber. And only after three weeks did you notice she was missing."

Darien swallowed hard. "I take full responsibility—"

"Full responsibility?" The Pope’s voice sharpened, echoing like thunder through the chamber. "You speak of responsibility as if it restores what is lost. Do you even comprehend what the Saintess represents, Captain Holt? Her existence is the last divine tether holding our barrier against the abyss. If she is dead—or worse, captured—then every human stronghold between here and the capital will fall within a fortnight!"

Darien lowered his head, fists clenched. "I understand that, Your Holiness."

"Do you?" The Pope stepped closer, his eyes glinting. "I wonder. Because if you did, you would have died before letting such a thing happen."

The words hit like a blade, but Darien didn’t flinch. He’d faced too many generals, too many losses. This was just another wound.

The Pope turned away, staring at the altar again. His next words came quieter, but colder. "Send word to every outpost. I want the Saintess found. Alive. If the devils have touched her, I’ll burn the entire frontier to ash to retrieve what’s mine."

The guards bowed and hurried from the chamber, leaving Darien and the Pope alone.

When the echo of their footsteps faded, Darien spoke again, hesitant. "There’s... something else, Your Holiness."

The Pope didn’t move. "Speak."

"I don’t think the devils took her," Darien said slowly. "Not from what I found."

The Pope finally turned, his gaze sharp. "You think she left of her own accord."

Darien hesitated, then nodded. "Her quarters weren’t ransacked. The bed was untouched. Her rosary was gone—but the Church’s relic chest hadn’t been disturbed. That means she packed her belongings and left through one of the inner corridors, not by force."

A long silence followed.

Then the Pope sighed, almost inaudibly. "Of course she did."

Darien blinked. "You knew?"

"I suspected," the Pope said, voice low. "Our Saintess is devout... but she is not obedient. She has been restless since the collapse of the Divine Barrier three months ago. When the Vanguard Corps began their march toward the central rift, she begged me to let her go."

"And you refused," Darien guessed.

"Of course I refused. Her role is to preserve balance, not to chase glory on the battlefield."

He turned fully now, the flickering candles casting hard shadows across his face. "If she has joined the vanguards, she has placed herself at the mercy of chaos itself."

Darien frowned. "She’s with Adeline, isn’t she?"

The Pope’s expression darkened. "If so, then we have two problems. A reckless Saintess—and a heretic knight who thrives on disobedience."

He began pacing slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "Without her, the cathedral’s divine conduits will weaken. The outer barriers will follow. The devils will sense it—perhaps they already have."

Darien felt the cold realization sink in. "Then you believe the devil army’s surge was—"

"A response," the Pope interrupted. "They must have sensed the void her absence created."

He turned toward the far end of the sanctum where a golden chest sat atop a pedestal, sealed with layered enchantments and divine sigils.

Darien recognized it instantly. Even at a distance, its presence felt suffocating—a relic so sacred it radiated heat.

The Pope approached it slowly. "She left without it," he murmured. "Foolish girl."

Darien straightened. "What is it?"

The Pope’s gaze flicked toward him. "Something no mortal should carry—and yet only she can. A relic forged to destroy sin itself. With this, the Saintess would stand even against the Devil King. Without it... she will die before the rift closes."

He placed a hand on the chest, and the sigils pulsed faintly.

"Captain Holt."

Darien stepped forward. "Your Holiness?"

"You failed to protect her once. You will not fail again."

Darien stiffened. "You want me to deliver it."

"I want you to redeem yourself," the Pope said. "You will take the relic and find her—wherever she has gone. The path will not be simple. The vanguards march through hell itself. But if she falls before reclaiming what is hers, the light of the Church will fade forever."

Darien’s jaw tightened, but he bowed deeply. "Understood."

The Pope lifted his hand, and a golden sigil burned across the chest. The locks opened one by one with heavy clicks. The relic within was veiled beneath white silk, but its glow spilled through the fabric—pure, blinding, and heavy with divine pressure.

Darien’s knees nearly buckled just standing near it.

"Take it," the Pope said softly. "But do not touch it with bare skin. Its judgment is absolute."

Darien wrapped the relic carefully, binding it within a reinforced pack. Even through the seals, its heat burned faintly against his side.

The Pope stepped back toward the altar, his eyes distant. "May the light guide you, Captain Holt. You will not have a second chance."

Darien turned to leave—but just as he reached the sanctum doors, the ground trembled.

At first, it was subtle—a vibration through the marble floor. Then came the low, rolling rumble that made the chandeliers sway. The guards at the door stumbled.

"What was that?" one shouted.

A second shockwave hit, louder, deeper—followed by a thunderous roar that shook the entire arena complex. Candles toppled. Dust rained from the ceiling.

Darien spun, hand on his sword. "Your Holiness—"

But the Pope was already moving toward the window, his expression carved from stone.

Outside, the night sky above the Arena was glowing—red, black, and alive. Massive shadows spread across the horizon, blotting out the stars. Screams echoed from the lower levels as the first alarm bells rang.

Darien’s blood went cold. "They’re here..."

The Pope’s voice was quiet but grim. "The devils."

The third tremor hit like a cannon blast. The stained-glass windows shattered inward as pillars of dark flame erupted beyond the city walls.

Darien shielded his face from the heat, then looked out the broken frame. Dozens—no, hundreds—of winged figures were descending from the clouds, their shapes silhouetted against the firelit sky.

An invasion force.

The Arena—the heart of humanity’s defense—was being surrounded.

The Pope turned toward him, robes whipping in the rising wind. "Go, Captain. Take the relic and run. If they reach the sanctum, even I cannot stop them."

Darien hesitated only a second. "I’ll deliver it to her. I swear it."

The Pope’s eyes met his. "Then go. And may the light forgive you for what comes next."

Darien sprinted from the sanctum as another explosion rocked the upper halls. The bells were ringing now, their sound lost beneath the roar of descending devils. The Arena’s protective wards were already cracking under the assault.

As he ran through the burning corridors, Darien knew one thing for certain:

What was supposed to be a mission of redemption had just become a suicide run.

And somewhere out there, the Saintess who never was—was walking straight into a war she couldn’t win alone.