Parallel Memory

Chapter 602: The stalemate at the gates

The clash at the Devil King’s gates dragged on, neither side yielding, neither side breaking.

Steel rang ceaselessly, halberds clashing with glaives, arrows hissing into the gloom only to be shattered by demon shields. The humans had adapted quickly—shield lines rotating, mages casting in disciplined volleys—but their enemies were no less cunning. The Demon King’s guards had fought countless invaders across centuries; they responded to each new tactic with brutal countermeasures.

A wave of demons pushed forward in tight formation, their glaives weaving a deadly net that forced the Royal Guards back step by step. At once, Vanguard fighters slipped between the halberd lines, striking at exposed flanks, while mages froze the gaps to halt the momentum. For a heartbeat the humans surged, but then the demons adjusted, breaking formation into pairs that fought like dueling predators, cutting down any who dared to come close.

The ground between them became a killing floor.

The courtyard’s cracked stone ran slick with blood. Fallen bodies—human and demon alike—were dragged back whenever there was space, but many simply lay where they had fallen, weapons still clenched in their cooling hands. The air was thick with iron and smoke; every breath tasted like ash.

Still the humans fought on.

"Hold steady!" Captain Armand roared, his voice hoarse but unbroken. His halberd locked against a demon glaive, teeth gritting as sparks flared. To his left and right, his men braced, catching the blow as one, then thrusting forward together to drive the enemy back.

On the opposite flank, General Khali moved like a reaper of the abyss. His glaive carved arcs of red fire, each swing forcing men to scatter. He fought not like a beast but like a commander who knew exactly where to cut to unmake a line. Yet every time he advanced, the humans bent but did not break. Groups of three or four converged, forcing him to guard as much as strike, stealing the momentum from his blade.

Hours seemed to stretch within the clash.

Spells lit the air in harsh bursts—fire searing, lightning cracking, wind shrieking down the line. Black blood sizzled where it splattered stone, glowing faintly as though alive. But the demons refused to falter, their armor steaming as they forced forward again and again.

And yet the humans endured. Their discipline held, their adaptability turned every small opening into survival. Neither side gained ground.

The war at the gates had become a stalemate of will.

Soldiers on both sides sagged with exhaustion, sweat streaking beneath their helms. Demons snarled through bloodied fangs, their crimson-lit runes flickering weakly as mana burned away. Shields were shattered, weapons dulled, armor cracked—but still they fought, unwilling to yield the gates of shadow or the hope of breaking them.

The courtyard became a place where time itself bled away, replaced only by the endless rhythm of strike and counter, roar and cry, life and death.

But still, the vanguard had no way of pressing through the gate. The clash continues in front of the Devil King’s palace gates, brutal but balanced, neither side breaking through. The fight — exhaustion, blood, strategy, and both humans and the Demon King’s guards adapted to each other..

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Away from the grinding clash, another squad moved through the outer shadows of the palace.

Mia led them, her silver hair dulled in the gloom, her expression sharp. Beside her walked Hiro, his sword drawn but lowered, eyes sweeping every archway. Behind them, Vance and the others followed, the silence of their boots pressed against the suffocating dark.

Here, away from the battlefront, the palace walls seemed alive. Veins of red light pulsed faintly within the black stone, as though the fortress itself had a heartbeat. The air was colder still, heavy enough to make lungs ache. Shadows clung unnaturally to corners and doorways, writhing faintly when touched by torchlight.

"Nothing yet," Hiro muttered, his voice low. His knuckles tightened around his blade. "It’s like the palace doesn’t want to let us in."

"It doesn’t," Mia answered. Her tone was calm, but every sense was on edge. She could feel the weight of the place pressing down, as though a thousand unseen eyes tracked their every step.

Vance scoffed quietly from the rear. "We’re wasting time. If the main force can’t breach the gates, what chance do we have of stumbling around like rats?"

Mia turned her gaze on him, cold enough to silence further complaint. "The chance we find a way in they don’t expect. Keep moving."

They moved along the curved outer wall, passing broken statues whose faces had been defaced, their crowns shattered. Here and there, side doors were visible—but each was sealed by black iron etched with demonic wards. When Hiro brushed one, the stone itself shuddered, forcing him back with a jolt of icy mana.

"No good," he muttered.

"Mark it," Mia ordered. "Even barriers weaken with time."

They pressed on.

The further they went, the quieter it became. The roar of battle at the front gates faded into a distant hum, replaced by a silence so thick it felt wrong. Even their breaths seemed muffled, swallowed by the walls themselves.

Mia’s hand hovered near her weapon, her instincts burning. Something about this silence was not peace but warning.

Still, they found no entrance. Only endless walls, sealed doors, and corridors that led nowhere. The palace seemed designed not just to keep intruders out, but to disorient, to swallow.

At last, Hiro broke the silence again, his voice tight. "Feels like we’re walking in circles. Are we even making progress?"

Mia paused, studying the faint red glow in the stone. Her gut twisted—was it her imagination, or had the veins pulsed faster since they’d begun? As if the palace itself was watching their search.

She steadied herself, her voice firm. "Progress or not, we don’t stop. If there’s another way in, we’ll find it. And if not—then we’ll make one."

The squad nodded, tension etched in every movement, and pressed deeper into the shadows of the Devil King’s palace, unaware of whether the silence was mercy—or the prelude to something far worse.