Parallel Memory

Chapter 671: The Saintess That Never Was

For three weeks, no one questioned her absence.

The Delta Outpost was a place where exhaustion was the air itself—soldiers slept standing, officers wrote reports with trembling hands, and priests walked with eyes so heavy they looked half-dead. After the last great surge from the devil army, silence had fallen across the frontlines. It was not peace—merely the quiet of a wound trying to heal.

And within that fragile stillness, the Saintess’s seclusion went unquestioned.

The Church’s ward maids—dressed in pristine white, their golden rosaries glimmering faintly in the lantern light—were seen carrying her meals, her medicine, and her letters. They moved with purpose, always together, always quiet. No one dared to question them. After all, the Saintess had saved countless lives during the initial onslaught, sealing away the poisoned mana that had nearly turned Delta Outpost into a graveyard. If she was unwell, it made sense she would rest.

That was what they all believed.

But to Captain Darien Holt, something was off.

He wasn’t a man known for curiosity—just a veteran soldier whose only real talent was staying alive when smarter men didn’t. Yet over the last few days, something about the reports gnawed at him. The consumption log for the Saintess’s meals had grown heavier, not lighter. According to the kitchen, her appetite had nearly doubled. Three full plates per meal. Two bottles of tonic a day.

Darien frowned as he leaned over the ledger in the mess hall, the candlelight flickering across his scarred cheek.

"The hell kind of sick person eats that much?" he muttered under his breath.

He flipped to the earlier pages. Two weeks ago, her portions were modest—barely half a serving. Now the kitchen was sending extra trays at the maids’ insistence. "His Holiness said she needs strength," they’d say. "The Saintess is recovering."

Recovering, huh.

He looked up, watching one of the white-robed maids stroll past, carrying a covered tray and a faint, unsettling smile. Her gait was wrong. Too loose. Too casual. The other two followed behind her, whispering to each other as they vanished down the hallway leading to the restricted quarters.

Darien’s fingers drummed the ledger. Something deep inside him stirred—a soldier’s instinct honed by too many ambushes and false reports. He pushed away from the table, strapped his sword to his belt, and made for the upper ward.

The guards saluted as he passed. "Evening, Captain!"

"Evening," Darien replied curtly. "Saintess still hasn’t taken visitors, right?"

"No, sir. The church maids said she’s in deep recovery. Something about overusing her divinity during the barrier collapse."

He nodded, though the explanation didn’t ease the unease crawling beneath his skin. The hallway leading to her quarters was dim—lit only by flickering runestones. The walls here smelled faintly of incense and medicine. The silence was heavy, too heavy, broken only by the soft clinking of glass vials from the nearby apothecary.

When he reached the door marked with the Saintess’s emblem—a blooming lotus of light—he stopped.

Two maids stood outside, their heads bowed slightly, hands clasped. They smiled when they saw him.

"Captain Holt," one said softly, "the Saintess is resting. She cannot be disturbed."

Darien’s gaze flicked between them. "Resting, huh? She’s been resting for twenty-one days straight."

"The Saintess’s condition—"

He raised a hand. "Spare me the sermon. I’m not here to pray."

Before they could react, he reached out and slammed the door open. The wood cracked against the wall.

The scent hit him first—meat. Freshly roasted meat, heavy with fat and spice. Not the smell of recovery porridge or herbal soup.

His eyes adjusted to the dim room—and his stomach turned.

Three maids sat cross-legged on the floor around a tray piled with food. Chicken bones, half-eaten bread, sauce dripping down their fingers. Their holy robes were smeared with grease. When the door burst open, they froze, eyes wide, like rats caught in the lantern light.

Darien’s hand went to his sword instantly. "Where’s the Saintess?"

One of the maids stood too fast, knocking over the plate. Her eyes glinted unnaturally red for a fraction of a second before returning to brown. "The Saintess... she is meditating."

"In her bed?" Darien’s voice was flat.

"In her heart," another whispered, grinning faintly.

That grin told him everything.

He drew his blade halfway. "Enough of this crap. Step aside."

When they didn’t move, he shoved past them. The bed was empty. Perfectly made, untouched. The sheets were cold.

He turned slowly. The maids had gone utterly still now—faces blank, expressions wiped clean. Their fake piety gone.

"You’ve been eating her meals," Darien said quietly, the realization solidifying like lead in his gut. "All of them."

One of them tilted her head, smiling in a way that made his blood run cold. "The Saintess gives nourishment to all," she said softly, mockingly.

That was enough for him. His sword slid from its sheath with a hiss.

The nearest maid lunged. Darien’s blade flashed once, clean and fast—cutting through the false flesh. Her body dissolved into a cloud of black ash that scattered across the floor. The other two hissed, their skin rippling, revealing faint demonic sigils beneath their robes.

"Figures," Darien muttered, lowering his stance. "Should’ve known it was too quiet."

The fight lasted less than a minute. He was no saint or hero, but Darien Holt had survived the frontlines since the first devil war. His strikes were efficient, unhesitating. When the last of the false maids fell, the silence returned.

He exhaled slowly, glancing at the bed again.

The Saintess was gone.

He sheathed his sword and walked out, boots echoing down the empty corridor. The guards who saw him flinched at the sight of blood on his sleeve, but he said nothing.

It wasn’t shock anymore—it was fatigue. Another lie in a world already built on too many.

As he stepped outside, the wind carried the faint scent of burning oil from the distant campfires. The night above Delta was starless.

He paused at the edge of the courtyard, staring toward the sealed portal that linked Delta Outpost to the Grand Arena—one of the few stabilized warp gates remaining since the war began. Its runic frame pulsed weakly with white light, a thread of connection between two fading worlds.

He turned to his lieutenant, a young woman barely past her twenties, her eyes wide with confusion. "Captain? What happened in there?"

Darien looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "We’ve been feeding ghosts."

She blinked. "Sir?"

"Get the priests to clean that room. Seal it after. No word leaves the outpost until I return."

"Return from where?"

He adjusted his coat and pulled his hood over his face. "The Arena. Someone needs to tell the Pope that his Saintess has vanished—and that the Church has rats."

The lieutenant hesitated. "Should I send a message ahead?"

"No," he said sharply. "If the Pope’s involved, I’ll find out in person."

The portal shimmered faintly as he approached. Its light reflected on his blade as he placed a hand on the activation rune. The sigils flared, rippling like water, and a low hum filled the courtyard.

"Captain," the lieutenant called again, voice uncertain. "What if... what if she didn’t vanish? What if she left?"

Darien glanced back over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

"If she left on her own, then maybe the Church has bigger problems than I thought."

And with that, he stepped into the portal.

The light swallowed him whole, leaving the courtyard silent once more—save for the faint flutter of discarded white robes drifting in the night breeze.

Far away, beyond the reach of Delta’s broken walls, the stars flickered as if watching. The world was fracturing, piece by piece—and not even those closest to the light could be trusted to stand where they once did.

The Saintess was gone.And no one yet knew what that meant.