Parallel Memory

Chapter 564: Rescue Mission Dispatched

The devils’ arena was a cage of blood and shadow, and for a fleeting moment it felt as if the humans had pried open a crack in its walls.

Mia’s fists blurred in a storm of strikes, each hit ringing with the crunch of flesh and bone. Frost exploded outward with every blow, climbing up devil bodies like veins of crystal. Those humanoid devils—more cunning, more dangerous than the beast-like ones—had been the greatest threat, but they were also the ones who fell hardest under her dual art. Her knuckles slammed into a snarling devil’s chest, and in the same instant, ice shot down its limbs, locking it stiff before it shattered into frozen fragments.

Behind her, Seraphine’s spear burned like a miniature sun. Every thrust detonated into fire, each sweep scattering dozens of lesser creatures into ash. Her flame clashed against the devils’ darkness, creating bursts of light that pushed back the suffocating gloom of the arena.

For the first time since they had been trapped, the humans had air in their lungs.

"They’re falling back!" shouted a mercenary, his eyes wide with disbelief as a devil stumbled under Sylvia’s arrow, ice and fire converging to finish the kill.

"They bleed the same as anything else!" another cried, voice cracking with hope.

Hiro’s sword flashed beside them, cleaving through a devil’s shoulder and sending the corpse crashing into the ground. His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, sweat running down his brow, but there was no hesitation in his movements. Every swing was fueled by something deeper than duty—something raw. His group pressed behind him, matching his tempo, cutting down the stragglers that tried to reform their lines.

Zion’s spear was a lance of precision. Where Mia and Seraphine struck with fury, Zion struck with restraint. Every thrust was measured, perfectly placed to pierce a throat or heart. His movements were clean, controlled, and utterly relentless.

Lisa’s wand glowed from behind their front lines, her chants steady even as exhaustion tugged at her shoulders. Bolts of light erupted from the tip, arcing across the battlefield and detonating into sharp bursts that sent devils sprawling. She stayed close to Sylvia, covering her, and together they formed a rhythm of arrow and light, the two keeping the flanks secure.

The shield behind them, upheld by Nock Fletcher and the church group, held firm. The priests inside gasped with every wave of pressure, but they didn’t falter. The Saintess, pale and trembling, continued to pour blessings into the fighters who cycled out. Her strength was stretched thin, but her light—Amelia’s light—burned bright enough to sharpen every sword, steady every hand.

For the first time, the rhythm of the battle shifted. The arena floor, once painted with human desperation, now cracked under devil corpses. The air, once choked with despair, now vibrated with the roar of fighters finding their courage.

"We can win this!" someone shouted.

That spark was dangerous. Hope was a fragile thing, but when it burned, it spread fast.

Mia ducked under a devil’s claw and countered with a rising uppercut. Her ice erupted into a frozen spire that pierced through its skull. She exhaled, her breath misting in the air, and glanced over her shoulder. Seraphine’s flames danced dangerously close, Hiro’s sword glowed crimson in the flickering firelight, Zion’s spear blurred with precision. For once, it didn’t feel like they were just surviving.

The roar of the devils faltered. Their humanoid elites—so confident and cruel before—hesitated. A few tried to pull back, their formation bending under the humans’ assault. From the spectator seats above, the mocking laughter of devils dimmed, replaced by low growls of displeasure.

Sylvia loosened another arrow, the shaft embedding itself into a devil’s eye. It howled and fell, thrashing until Seraphine’s fire finished it. Sylvia’s lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze never wavering.

"Push forward!" Seraphine called, voice ringing with fire. "Don’t give them time to regroup!"

And they did. Step by step, corpse by corpse, the humans advanced. The ground was slick with blood and ice, lit with flames and shattered by divine light. Each second stretched into eternity, but they were moving. For the first time, it wasn’t the devils dictating the pace.

Hope spread through the survivors behind the shield, their cheers trembling but fierce. They began to believe—if only for a moment—that the impossible might not be so far out of reach.

****************************************************************************

In the capital, the atmosphere was thick with urgency. The Pope had wasted no time once the news had reached him, and now the vast halls of the cathedral were alive with motion. Priests, scholars, and battle-ready paladins hurried under the gilded arches, preparing for what would be one of the church’s most dangerous ventures in years. The Pope himself stood at the center of it all, his aged face hardened by anger and resolve.

The Authority and the War Council had their doubts, but the church’s motives were far clearer. To the outside eye, one might have thought the Saintess was easily replaceable. After all, throughout history, when one fell, another was chosen. The rituals of succession were old, tested, and strictly guarded. Yet there was a truth few outside the highest echelons of the church knew: the line of Saintesses could only continue unbroken because each successor was personally entrusted with the secret art of the Holy Blessing by the one before her. That art was the core of their miracles, the very heart of the light that could stand against devil corruption.

Without Amelia, there could be no true Saintess. The ceremony could take place, a new girl could be robed in white and blessed before the people, but she would lack the ancient transmission of the secret. The line of divine inheritance would shatter. The church could not—would not—risk that.

That was why the Pope acted with such desperation. His advisors had urged caution, warning of the risks of interfering in devil territory. But his decision had already been made. Amelia had to be retrieved at all costs.

Trusted guards clad in radiant silver armor flanked him as preparations were finalized. Behind them marched scholars of the church, holy researchers whose task was to aid in the creation of the holy portal once enough markings had been traced. Their grim expressions betrayed how heavy the task would be. Yet they followed, for the Saintess was not merely a figure of faith, but the very embodiment of their divine heritage.

Meanwhile, the War Council had also settled their plans. The choice of who would embark on the rescue mission was made swiftly but not lightly. All available SS-ranked members were to be dispatched, save one. Commander Rurik, though burning with the will to go, was forced to remain behind. He bore the heavy responsibility of leadership—someone had to remain at the heart of the council to maintain order, especially now. The gates had grown more unstable over the years. What once had been manageable had, in the past decade, become unpredictable surges of chaos. Rurik’s presence was critical should another gate suddenly open, threatening one of the outposts or cities.

So the burden of the rescue fell to the others. Four SS-ranked champions of humanity, each more than capable of leading armies, now prepared to ride into devil territory not with battalions, but as a small spear of strength. The danger was immense, but so was their power.

Their departure was swift, as though hesitation itself might invite disaster. The moment the decision was finalized, the four left with little ceremony, their figures soaring through the skies with frightening speed. These were not ordinary warriors. The title of SS was rare for a reason—each could move faster than wind, fly with sustained power, and cross distances that would take armies weeks to march in a single day.