Parallel Memory

Chapter 608: The Gates of Shadow

The moment Zero’s fingers brushed the edges of the closed chronicle, the book trembled again.

It was not like before—no violent storm of pages, no flare of blinding light—but rather a steady hum, as though the tome itself waited for him. A muted heartbeat thrummed beneath the leather cover. He drew in a slow breath, steeling himself, and pulled it open once more.

This time the parchment did not resist.

It rolled forward by itself, the crackle of shifting pages echoing through the vast records chamber. Lilith stood quietly beside him, her arms folded across her chest, eyes narrowed in careful observation.

The pages stilled at last, and a new Chapter revealed itself. The words bled into existence as though ink were being written at that very moment, sharp strokes etching themselves upon the surface.

Zero swallowed, his pulse quickening, and leaned closer.

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"At the gates of the palace, where no sunlight reached and the walls themselves dripped with malice, the devil king’s vanguard gathered. Countless soldiers clad in black iron stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes hollow and their mouths chanting hymns to death. From the towers above, arrows dipped in poison rained endlessly, blotting out what little light seeped into that cursed citadel."

The chronicle unfolded vividly. Zero could see it—an army of shadows, their discipline unbroken, their ranks unending. The air around them thick with the choking fog of corrupted mana, a miasma that clawed into the lungs of mortals and left their skin clammy with dread.

Yet before that abyss, the five heroes stood.

The healer lifted her staff, a gentle light spilling forth, pure and golden, cutting through the suffocating dark. The mage raised her hands, walls of shimmering flame flaring upward to intercept the rain of poison-tipped arrows.

The guardian marched forward, shield braced, every heavy step resonating like a drumbeat of war. Behind him, the spear wielder twirled his weapon, its steel glinting defiantly against the haze. And at the rear, cloaked in contrast, the twin swordsmen—one cloaked in shadow, the other radiant as starlight—watched in silence, blades drawn, waiting for the storm to break.

The devil army struck first.

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Zero’s hands gripped the lectern unconsciously as he read.

The gates erupted open, and from the cavernous mouth of the palace poured an endless tide of fiends. Fangs bared, claws glinting, the vanguard surged forward with howls that rattled stone. Steel met steel in a deafening chorus.

The guardian crashed into the frontline, his shield absorbing the first wave with a resounding boom. Sparks flew as monstrous blades hammered against the barrier, but it did not yield. With a roar, he shoved forward, toppling several foes at once.

The spear user darted into the gaps, thrusts like lightning piercing through blackened armor, each strike perfectly timed to the guardian’s movements. Where one struck, the other defended; where one faltered, the other advanced.

Above them, the mage’s flames burst in sweeping arcs, igniting the vanguard ranks. But for every foe that burned, another rushed in, relentless, their chants echoing in grotesque unison.

The healer worked tirelessly, weaving golden light over her comrades. Cuts sealed in moments, bones mended, lungs filled with breath anew. Her light grew dim at times, but her will never wavered—she anchored them, tethering them to life when death reached too close.

And behind them all, the swordsmen moved.

Shadow flickered, fast and merciless, each strike falling from blind angles, cutting tendons, severing joints. Starlight shone in wide arcs, cleaving through clustered enemies, his presence a beacon in the suffocating dark. They did not fight side by side, but rather in rhythm—darkness striking where light left openings, light covering where shadow’s reach faltered.

Zero felt his chest tighten. The balance between them... it was beautiful, terrifying, perfect.

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The chronicle pressed on.

The battle at the gates became a war of attrition. Hours bled into one another. For every dozen demons cut down, more emerged from the palace depths. For every surge of mortal valor, waves of fiendish strength crashed in reply.

The ground turned slick with blood, both human and devil alike. Arrows littered the earth like twisted thorns. The cries of steel and sorcery echoed without pause.

And yet, the heroes adapted.

They shifted their positions with uncanny instinct, covering for each other’s weaknesses, rallying whenever one faltered. When the mage’s flames waned, the shadow swordsman cut down archers before they could release volleys. When the guardian’s knees buckled beneath the unrelenting tide, the healer flooded him with strength, and the starlight swordsman planted himself at his side, blades flashing.

For every tactic the devils used, the humans found an answer.

But they paid the price in exhaustion. Their breaths came ragged, their movements slower. Blood ran freely down their limbs despite healing, their armor dented, their robes torn. And still the tide pressed them.

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Zero’s vision swam as he read, his mind caught between the ink on the page and the phantom sounds of battle echoing in his head.

He could feel the despair of those long-forgotten warriors—the endlessness of their struggle, the suffocating hopelessness of fighting an enemy that never tired, never broke, never stopped.

And yet, they held.

He thought of Hiro, of Misha, of Mia and the others he knew. Could they stand like this, shoulder to shoulder, day after day against an unbroken tide? Could he?

The chronicle darkened.

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"For two days and three nights the gates bore witness to bloodshed. Neither side gained ground. Neither side yielded. The palace groaned beneath the weight of battle, its stones cracked with fury, its skies choked with ash. And still, neither fell."

On the fourth day, the tide shifted.

The vanguard of the devils began to thin—not from exhaustion, for demons knew none—but because the devil king himself had summoned his henchmen deeper within, preparing for the final clash.

The gates, still sealed, loomed above the exhausted heroes, but now a silence hung in the air, heavier than the cries of battle before.

The five stood there, bleeding, trembling, yet unbroken.

The healer wiped blood from her cheek, eyes burning with fierce light. The mage leaned heavily on her staff, her flames flickering weakly yet still burning. The guardian knelt behind his battered shield, breathing like a storm yet unwilling to collapse. The spear user twirled his weapon again, shoulders sagging but his stance ready.

And the swordsmen... they looked not at their wounds, nor the broken battlefield, but at the gates themselves.

The chronicle’s ink shimmered faintly as it recorded their silent vow.

They would enter.

They would end this.

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Zero exhaled shakily, his chest rising and falling as though he had been the one standing at those gates for days without rest.

He glanced at Lilith, who had grown pale as she listened to him whispering the tale aloud. Her lips parted, as if she wanted to speak, but no words came.

The silence in the records chamber was deafening.

At last, Zero turned back to the page, his voice barely audible as he continued reading.

"The gates opened."

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And the chronicle fell still again, its ink cooling into silence as though it demanded the reader brace themselves for what came next.

Zero stared at the words, his heart hammering.

Lilith’s voice, hushed, broke through the tension: "It’s not finished, is it?"

He shook his head slowly. "No. It’s only beginning."

The book would show him more. He knew it. But the weight of what he’d just read pressed down on him so heavily he could scarcely draw breath.

The heroes had endured. They had stood before despair and not broken. And if the chronicle had dragged him here to witness this... perhaps it was telling him he would one day have to do the same.