Parallel Memory

Chapter 567: The two figures

But Mia... she stood unshaken. Her frosted gaze locked onto the intruders, her expression betraying neither fear nor hope. There was no tremor in her stance, no uncertainty in her eyes. Only an icy calm, as though she had anticipated something beyond comprehension to arrive sooner or later. To her, the battlefield was merely following its inevitable course.

The first to move was the masked one. His sword cut through the air with a voice of its own—a sharp whisper laced with threads of dark energy. The arc of steel did not descend upon the humans, as so many feared, but swept cleanly across the elevated rows where the seated devils observed their feast of slaughter. Three of them—creatures of arrogance and ancient cruelty—barely had time to widen their eyes before the blade found them. They dissolved into black dust, scattered like ash on a windless day.

The sound of their disintegration was soft, almost pitiful, but the silence that followed was deafening.

Gasps erupted, raw and uncontained, from both armies. Even the hardened veterans among the war council felt their stomachs twist in disbelief.

The winged one stepped forward then, his shadow stretching long across the arena’s broken sand. He did not chant or gesture theatrically. With the same casual inevitability one might raise a hand to dismiss a servant, he extended his palm. Condensed dark mana flared, igniting the air itself. It condensed into a single beam, pure and merciless, and released in a line of annihilation.

The beam tore through one of the devil commanders as if flesh and bone were no more than mist. The creature did not even cry out; there was no time. His chest caved inward, consumed entirely, and when the beam vanished, the only proof of his existence was a molten scar carved deep into the arena floor. The stone hissed and cracked, exhaling acrid smoke where the energy had lingered.

The arena fell still.

Humans stared, mouths dry, their weapons half-raised in forgotten guard. Devils shifted uneasily, their eyes darting not to their enemies across the sand, but to the two who had so casually undone their brethren. Even Xalvar’s sneer faltered, the proud curve of his lips freezing as his pupils contracted.

Again and again, the two figures moved. They were precise, unrelenting, merciless. The masked one’s blade became a streak of inevitability, every swing dropping another seated devil. The winged one followed with lances of darkness, each beam carving paths of ruin through the higher ranks who had thought themselves untouchable. There was no wasted effort, no hesitation, no indulgence in cruelty. Their work was execution—clean, exact, final.

Xalvar finally roared, the sound thunderous and raw, rattling the stone walls around them. "What are you doing!? Traitors!" His voice cracked with rage, yet his feet did not move forward. His body betrayed him, the instincts of survival clawing at the back of his mind. He could sense it. These were not adversaries to engage lightly. Their aura pressed on him, unfamiliar yet undeniable, warning him in the oldest language of battle: danger.

The human soldiers exchanged bewildered glances.

"Are... are they helping us?" one whispered, voice caught between awe and fear.

"No—they’re devils too. Look at the horns, the wings..." another answered, almost to convince himself.

"But why kill their own kind?"

"Could it be... some kind of trap?"

Speculation rippled through the human ranks, each question unanswered, each word carrying the tremor of disbelief.

Even the veterans of the war council, battle-hardened beyond measure, could not mask their uncertainty. Nock’s eyes narrowed, his shield raised not in confidence but in readiness for an outcome he could not predict. Seraphine’s grip on her spear tightened, her expression carved with unease. Lisa’s wand quivered in her hands, her lips pressed into a thin, pale line. Zion shifted forward, spear leveled against nothing at all—ready to strike if the impossible demanded it.

But Mia did not move. Her gaze remained steady, as though she alone understood. The fact was clear enough: they were not hunting humans.

And then, just as swiftly as they had appeared, the figures were gone.

No sound of retreat, no flutter of wings, no echo of footsteps. One moment their presence crushed the air, and the next, there was nothing. Only the ruin left behind—bodies of the strongest devils reduced to dust and scorch marks on the arena floor.

The silence after their disappearance stretched long and heavy. Soldiers stared across the battlefield, eyes wide, minds desperate to anchor themselves to reason.

The devils faltered. Without their commanders, without the towering presence of the seated elites, the tide of dread reversed. Their lines sagged. Foot soldiers shuffled uneasily, mid-level fiends growled without conviction. Fear—the weapon they had wielded so easily against humankind—had turned inward, sinking its fangs into their own morale.

The humans, in contrast, felt their hearts surge. The sight of stronger devils falling with such ease became proof that the impossible was not immutable. If those tyrants could be brought low, then perhaps so too could the rest.

Mia’s voice cut through the haze, cold and sharp as steel on ice. "They are gone. The battlefield is ours again."

Her words did not rise with passion, but with certainty. That certainty was what the soldiers needed most.

The human forces moved with renewed vigor. They surged from the sanctuary of the ice palace, rallying into organized formations. Sylvia’s arrows darkened the sky, each shaft descending like a shard of judgment to pierce through the lesser devils. Lisa’s magic cracked and flared, streaks of fire and lightning tearing through lines of enemies. Zion and Seraphine advanced like blades themselves, striking with a lethal rhythm, carving gaps into the devil ranks. Nock braced his shield and aura, his presence a bastion for those who pressed forward beside him.

And Hiro.

Hiro’s breathing steadied as he stepped into the fray, his movements sharper than before, no longer the frantic strikes of desperation but the honed swings of someone who had found purpose. His eyes no longer darted in panic. They were locked, unwavering, on one figure above all.

Xalvar.

The devil still sat upon his throne of stone, though the arrogance in his posture was dimmed by a shadow of unease. His sneer had returned, but it did not reach his eyes. The weight of betrayal still lingered on him, though he tried to mask it beneath mockery.

Hiro’s chest burned. The memory his parents left near death, of his own helplessness, had festered too long. Now, at last, the battlefield had thinned, and the tide did not drown him. This was his moment.

Their gazes locked across the distance.

Xalvar rose from his seat, his every movement a taunt. His grin curled wider, mocking, daring Hiro to close the space between them. Yet beneath that grin, the flicker of caution remained, a subtle tremor in his aura.

Hiro’s grip tightened around his sword. His knuckles whitened, the tendons of his hand straining as though his resolve itself was pouring into the steel. He stepped forward, each pace sinking deep into the blood-stained sand.

The battlefield blurred around them. The clash of steel, the cries of dying men, the roar of spells—all of it dulled into distant thunder. What remained clear, sharp as a line drawn in blood, was the distance between Hiro and Xalvar.

A line of fate.

Hiro raised his blade.

Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

The silence between them was heavier than any roar of battle. The air itself bent taut, poised on the edge of a blade. And in that suspended breath of time, human and devil faced each other at last, the culmination of vengeance and cruelty bound in their unbroken stare.