Parallel Memory

Chapter 610: Seven Days of Blood and Blade

The air in the record room was thick with silence, so much so that Zero could hear the sound of his own breathing and the faint rustle of the page as the chronicle turned again—this time without his hand. It was eerie, almost like the book anticipated his doubts, answering them before he could even form the questions aloud. The parchment stilled, and in flowing ink, the story deepened.

"The duel with the Devil King stretched beyond the limits of mortal endurance," the script read, the words almost glowing under the dim lantern light. Zero leaned closer, his pulse quickening. He could almost see it: the grand hall of the palace, the shattered chandeliers hanging like broken stars overhead, the throne itself cracked under the tremors of battle.

Two swordsmen stood before the tyrant—a figure draped in blackened armor, his horns long and curling like spears toward the heavens. One of the warriors wielded a blade infused with shadow, its edge dissolving into wisps of midnight as though it drank the light around it. The other held a sword radiant with starlight, so luminous it seemed to carve the very darkness of the hall with every swing.

The chronicle described how the clash rang out like thunder in the heavens. Their blades met against the Devil King’s monstrous weapon—a jagged greatsword that looked as though it had been forged from the abyss itself. Each strike rattled the very foundations of the palace.

And yet, the story didn’t belong only to the duel. The chronicle was careful to tell of the others—those who kept the tide of devils at bay, holding the gates, refusing to yield even as their arms trembled from exhaustion.

There was the healer, standing at the center of the chaos, her robes torn and her body marked with burns and cuts. She channeled every last fragment of her mana into weaving light over her comrades’ wounds. Each spell took something from her, but she pressed on, whispering words of encouragement through bloodied lips. Without her, the line would have broken long ago.

Beside her stood the spear user, whose weapon danced like a silver serpent. The chronicle painted him as relentless, a storm of precision thrusts and sweeps that kept the devils from overwhelming the barricades. He fought not for glory but to buy another heartbeat, another breath for the swordsmen inside. His strikes punctuated the endless rhythm of war—stab, sweep, parry—never faltering though his body cried out for rest.

Then there was the mage, her incantations echoing through the courtyard. She alternated between walls of flame and barriers of crystal, conjuring storms to scatter the winged fiends and lightning bolts that reduced lesser demons to ash. Her role was dual: she was their sword and their shield, protecting the healer when foes slipped past and bolstering the spear user when his movements slowed.

Finally, the initiator—the one whose shield stood firm as a mountain. He bore the brunt of every charge, every explosive spell hurled by the Devil King’s lieutenants. His shield cracked more than once, splintering under the sheer force of the assault, but he reforged it with mana, roaring back at the devils with unyielding defiance. The chronicle compared him to a fortress incarnate, one that refused to crumble even when its stones were chipped away.

Together, these four bore the impossible burden of stemming an ocean tide with their bare hands. And for six nights and seven days, they succeeded.

Zero’s hand tightened on the book’s edge as his eyes skimmed the next lines.

"Within the throne room, the duel knew no end. The Devil King wielded darkness like a second skin, every strike layered with malice strong enough to corrode steel. Yet the swordsmen did not falter. The one of shadow slipped through the king’s blows, his blade a whisper of death that sought every weakness, every blind spot. The one of starlight blazed like dawn, his strikes wide and punishing, each swing a beacon that repelled despair."

It wasn’t merely a battle of strength—it was a balance, yin and yang locked in harmony. Shadow and starlight, two halves of one whole, weaving together in perfect rhythm. Where one faltered, the other filled the gap. Where one struck from darkness, the other answered with light.

Still, the Devil King was not so easily undone. The chronicle described how his rage only deepened as the days dragged on. The palace itself became a war-torn graveyard—marble pillars shattered, walls collapsed, rivers of molten mana tearing through the floors. His laughter echoed across the battlefield even as blood dripped from wounds carved deep by the twin swords.

Outside, the four defenders reached their own limits. The healer collapsed more than once, only to be lifted back to her feet by her comrades. The spear user’s hands were raw and bleeding, his grip slipping on the shaft of his weapon. The mage’s voice cracked from overuse, her chants turning hoarse. And the shield bearer, his armor shredded, looked more like a walking scar than a man.

Yet they endured. Because they knew their role was not to win, but to endure. To hold until the duel reached its end.

Zero could almost hear it: the clash of blades, the cries of the wounded, the roar of spells. His chest tightened as if the chronicle’s tale was not mere history but something alive, replaying itself through him.

Then came the seventh day.

The text shifted, the ink bold as if even the chronicle understood the gravity of what it recorded.

"On the dawn of the seventh day, when all were at the brink of collapse, the twin swordsmen struck as one. Shadow and starlight fused, their blades weaving into a single strike that defied heaven and earth alike. The Devil King raised his abyssal shield, pouring into it all the hatred and despair of his kind. The clash shattered the air. Light and darkness collided in a storm that tore the throne room asunder."

Zero leaned back, his throat dry. He didn’t need the chronicle to finish the sentence—he knew. He felt the weight of that moment. The Devil King fell. The heroes prevailed.

And yet, something unsettled him. The detail of the two swordsmen—shadow and starlight, yin and yang—echoed in his mind. It wasn’t mentioned in the novel he once knew. This wasn’t a story written for entertainment. It was history. Truth.

The chronicle whispered one last line before the page stilled again:

"From balance was victory born. From unity, the tyrant was undone."

Zero exhaled slowly, his hands trembling over the parchment. The words pressed into him heavier than steel, their meaning gnawing at the edge of his thoughts. Was this what the fortune teller meant? Was this what Xalvar had alluded to? Two humans, blood and spirit bound to heroes who once fought in balance, destined to face the same darkness again?

He wasn’t sure if the answer terrified him or gave him resolve.

The chronicle closed itself with a heavy thud, the sound echoing like the toll of a bell.

And Zero knew—the story was far from finished.