Parallel Memory

Chapter 575: Fortifying the Arena

The aftermath of the battle was a grim silence broken only by the groans of the wounded and the distant crackle of fires still smoldering in the ruined city. Where the devil army had once thundered in numbers that blotted out hope, now only scattered corpses remained. Their bodies lay twisted and burned across the blood-soaked stone, black smoke rising from the carnage. The arena—the place that had nearly become their grave—was now their sole stronghold.

The commanders wasted no time. They knew the devils would regroup, and if they lingered unprepared, they would be annihilated.

"Secure the entrances!" one captain barked, his voice hoarse yet commanding. "Barricades up, double the guard rotations. If they come again, we will hold them here!"

Soldiers, mercenaries, and adventurers moved at once. Shattered doors were ripped apart and repurposed into barricades. Broken stone from collapsed walls was dragged into place, forming crude but sturdy bulwarks. The wide gates of the arena, once meant to welcome cheering crowds, were now choked with debris and reinforced with iron poles scavenged from the devils’ siege equipment.

Masons and craftsmen who had survived took up tools, hastily reshaping the broken architecture into defenses. Archers stationed themselves on the upper balconies, their vantage points now transformed into battlements. They strung ropes and pulleys across the interior of the arena, turning its very structure into a fortress.

The wounded were carried to the lower chambers beneath the stadium. Where gladiators once sharpened their weapons and prepared for bloodsport, now the priests and healers worked tirelessly. The air was heavy with the stench of blood, the chanting of spells, and the cries of the injured. Makeshift beds of cloth and straw filled the underground passages, and alchemists distributed whatever potions remained from their dwindling stores.

"We don’t have enough salves!" a young healer shouted, panic creeping into her voice as she knelt beside a soldier whose leg had been mangled.

"Then ration them!" her superior snapped, grim but calm. "Light wounds get bandages, keep the potions for those who can still fight. Every sword matters now."

Above, the commanders met in hurried council at the center of the arena floor. Their armor was dented, their cloaks stained with blood, yet their eyes burned with determination.

"Our first priority is communication," said Commander Nock, his voice carrying over the exhausted men. "If the capital doesn’t learn of this victory, reinforcements won’t come. We cannot hold forever."

"But how?" another questioned. "The devils severed every line of supply, every messenger. The teleportation gates were destroyed when the city fell."

Rurik’s expression hardened. "Then we find another way. If the priests at Delta Outpost succeed in restoring the portal, we must be ready to send word."

The soldiers nodded grimly. There was no other choice.

Meanwhile, duties were divided with brutal efficiency. Veterans were assigned to watch the perimeter, their experience vital for spotting devil scouts. Younger recruits were placed in support roles—hauling stone, carrying supplies, or aiding the healers. Mercenary companies claimed responsibility for manning the upper levels, their leaders knowing their men could adapt quickly to shifting battle conditions.

Even civilians who had survived the onslaught found roles. Blacksmiths worked the forges, reforging broken weapons into usable tools. Tailors stitched together scraps of cloth into bandages. Farmers who had fled the countryside helped distribute rations, setting up cookfires in the great halls beneath the arena stands.

Everyone had a part to play. And for the first time since the city’s fall, there was a spark of unity among them.

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Far from the bloodied stronghold, in the sanctified halls of Delta Outpost, a different battle raged—a battle against time and unseen resistance.

The pope himself stood at the center of the great ritual chamber, his white and gold robes stained with soot and sweat. Around him, lines of priests chanted in unison, their voices weaving together like threads of light. The air shimmered with divine energy, the smell of incense thick and cloying.

The portal before them—once a stable gateway linking the frontlines to the capital—was nothing but a broken arch of stone, cracked and silent. Its core crystal had been shattered in the first devil incursion, leaving only a hollow frame that refused to respond.

"Focus!" the pope commanded, his voice strong despite his age. His staff glowed with holy light, runes along its length burning brightly as he poured his mana into the ritual. "The devils struck it down to sever us from our kin. But we shall restore it. We must!"

The priests around him obeyed, their hands raised, streams of divine mana flowing into the broken arch. Yet the resistance was immense. The portal flickered, sparks dancing across its surface like lightning, before fizzling into darkness.

"Again!" the pope urged. "Channel as one. Do not falter!"

A younger priest stumbled, collapsing to the ground, blood dripping from his nose. The strain was killing them.

The pope’s heart ached, but he did not waver. He remembered the fortune tellers of old, the prophecies that had haunted humanity’s path. He had always believed that their survival was not bound by fate, but by will. Now, as the leader of faith for all mankind, he bore the weight of proving it true.

Assistants rushed to carry the fallen priest away, replacing him with another. Sweat drenched every brow, voices trembled under the weight of the chant, but the ritual continued.

At last, after hours of relentless effort, the portal flickered again—this time stronger. A thin veil of light stretched across the arch, unstable but visible. A ripple passed through the chamber, and hope surged in weary hearts.

"It responds!" cried one of the bishops, eyes wide with relief.

"Hold it steady!" the pope roared, planting his staff firmly into the ground. Holy light burst outward from him, stabilizing the trembling veil. The golden radiance spread across the cracked runes of the arch, repairing them one by one. "Anchor it with faith! Anchor it with strength!"

The chanting grew louder, echoing against the chamber walls like the tolling of a hundred bells. The flickering veil solidified into a swirling gate of white and silver, though it wavered dangerously, like a flame threatened by the wind.

At last, with a sound like thunder, the portal roared to life. Its light filled the chamber, illuminating the weary but triumphant faces of the priests.

The pope sagged, leaning heavily on his staff, his breaths ragged but his eyes fierce. "It is not complete. It cannot yet bear armies... but it can send a message. That is all we need."

He turned to his bishops. "Prepare the scripture of contact. Inform the capital at once. They must know the humans at the arena still live—that Hiro’s battle was not in vain."

The priests bowed, hastening to obey. And for the first time in many days, the halls of Delta Outpost rang not with despair, but with renewed purpose.