Parallel Memory

Chapter 580: The Army has new motivation

The arena, once a place of blood sport and despair, had now become the humans' most crucial stronghold in the heart of enemy territory. Its walls were patched and braced with rubble from fallen towers, broken stones dragged by soldiers until the gaps were filled. Archers manned every ledge, while lines of spearmen stood ready in the lower galleries. What had once echoed with screams now pulsed with determination—a fortress built on survival.

At the center of it all stood Mia Frostine, her silver-white hair matted from days of battle, her armor scarred, yet her presence unyielding. She was not alone. Arrayed beside her were the veterans of the War Council: Seraphine with her blade ever-humming with mana, Nock Fletcher quietly leading the clerics and healers, and the others who had helped clear the devils' counterattack. Only one was missing—Commander Rurik, whose duties bound him to the capital. But the absence of his authority seemed only to strengthen the bond between the council members present, as if they had inherited his mantle for the campaign ahead.

Mia's voice carried through the ranks.

"Hiro's victory has proven what we needed to remember—that devils can bleed, and they can fall. We've held this ground with our blood and steel, and now we move forward. The devil king's palace is not untouchable. It is our next step."

A murmur of voices answered her, swelling into a chant. Soldiers, mercenaries, even civilians who had taken up arms—they drew breath as if Hiro's defiance lived in them all. The fortified arena no longer felt like a desperate shelter; it felt like a spear pointed at the heart of the enemy.

But not all were as eager to leap forward.

In the great chamber beneath the stands—where the priests had established their command posts—the Pope himself waited. His robes were dirtied from resurrecting the portal, though the golden threads still glimmered faintly even under the soot. He had watched the humans regroup and felt the weight of both relief and dread. When Amelia arrived, sweat on her brow and her staff in hand, he wasted no time.

"You must return to Delta Outpost," he said firmly, his tone leaving little space for argument. "The portal has been stabilized, but it must be protected and maintained. If the devils cut us off, this victory will collapse into nothing."

Amelia's eyes widened, and she took a step forward, her staff striking the stone. "With all due respect, Your Holiness, no. I am needed here. The army prepares to march on the palace, and my power is far better suited at the front than idling in an outpost. You've seen what we face—the devils will not yield without throwing horrors we haven't imagined yet. I can't abandon them."

The Pope's face tightened, lines of fatigue and authority etched deeper across his skin. "Child, do not mistake pride for duty. I will remain here, in your place, to lend guidance and shield these men. You will return. The outpost is not 'idling.' It is the anchor of our survival. If it falls, no army, no victory here will matter. You will go."

"I…" Amelia hesitated, her breath trembling. She wanted to argue further, to hurl her will against his words, but the gravity in his gaze was immovable. Slowly, painfully, she bowed her head. "…Yes, Your Holiness."

The Pope turned away, his staff clicking softly against the floor. "Good. Prepare yourself. The war demands sacrifice from all of us, even if that sacrifice is where we would rather not be."

Amelia left the chamber with her heart burning. She wanted to stay—to fight, to prove she could stand beside Mia and the others—but the Pope's command had forced her to carry a burden she had not asked for. She clenched her staff, whispering a promise to herself. Then I will protect the outpost with everything I have. So that they may strike with all their strength, I will hold the path open for them.

Meanwhile, word of the humans' resilience and the fortified arena rippled outward through the lines of communication. By the time the messenges reached the capital and the reports spread, the Authority gathered in their halls to deliberate.

They heard of Hiro's triumph, of the War Council's arrival, of the arena transformed into a bastion amidst the devils' lands. They also heard of the casualties—heavy losses among the soldiers and mercenaries who had held the first defense. Yet to them, those sacrifices were weighed against the gleaming prize now within reach.

"The devil king's palace lies near," one of the Authority members declared, slamming his hand upon the table. "With our armies regrouped and the council deployed, there is no reason to delay. We strike now and end this war before the devils can rally."

Another, older and sterner, frowned. "You speak as if victory is already assured. Lord Aamon has not yet revealed his full hand, he is not to be underestimated."

But the greedier voices drowned him out, laced with ambition and hunger.

"Every day we hesitate is another day the devils prepare their counter. The soldiers have already proven their worth—the arena stands because of them! Now is the moment to press forward. If we falter, we hand Aamon the time he needs."

"Indeed. With the War Council assembled, this is humanity's greatest strength gathered in one place. If they cannot end the devil king, no one can."

The final decision came swiftly. Orders were drafted, sealed, and dispatched back through the portal. The Authority's stance was clear: the humans were to advance on the devil king's palace without delay.

Back at the arena, that order arrived like a spark in dry kindling. Soldiers readied themselves with renewed energy, smiths worked day and night repairing armor, and the wounded who could still stand took up arms once more. Supplies were rationed, weapons distributed, and every man and woman braced themselves for the next march.

Mia stood with her fellow War Council members, gazing toward the dark horizon where the devil king's palace loomed like a shadow against the skyline. The decision was reckless, she knew. Perhaps even suicidal. But the fire in her chest—the same fire that had carried her through countless battles—burned brighter now.

"The time has come," she said softly, more to herself than the others. "We carry not only our blades but the hopes of every soul waiting in the capital, in the outposts, in the ruins we've left behind. This is no longer survival. This is our war."

And with those words, the humans prepared to march, the arena no longer just a fortress of defense, but the staging ground for the greatest assault of the age.