Parallel Memory

Chapter 674: Ashes of the Arena

The world that greeted Darien Holt was not the one he had left behind.

He stumbled out of the warp gate and fell to his knees, coughing violently as the air hit his lungs—thick with smoke, dust, and the metallic sting of scorched mana. The light from the gate flickered out behind him, shrinking into a dim shimmer before vanishing completely.

Then there was silence.

Not the kind that followed peace, but the kind that lingered after annihilation.

He pushed himself up slowly, wincing as his knee protested. His armor, once polished silver, was now marred with black soot and streaks of dried blood. He blinked through the haze, his hand instinctively going to the relic case strapped to his back. Still intact. Still pulsing faintly with life.

But the land around him—

The trees had been turned to charcoal silhouettes, their branches clawing at a crimson sky. The horizon shimmered with the heat of distant fires, and what few structures remained of the Holy City's outskirts were nothing but broken walls and shattered glass.

A wind blew across the ruins, carrying ash like snowflakes. It whispered as it passed through the bones of fallen spires, the sound almost mournful.

Darien stood there, his breath visible in the cold air, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

Where the Arena once stood—there was now only a pillar of light. It rose from the heart of the Grand Arena, piercing through the clouds, so bright it painted the ruins in ghostly shades of silver.

He stared at it for a long time, his mind slow to comprehend what his eyes already knew.

The Pope's final act.

A sealing light—one strong enough to contain an army of devils, and perhaps even himself.

Darien's throat tightened. "He… he really did it," he muttered, voice hoarse. "That old man… sealed himself inside."

The memory hit him in fragments—the last words echoing across the collapsing dome, the Pope's command to go, the blinding radiance as the warp swallowed him whole. At the time, Darien thought the man meant to hold the devils off until he escaped. But now, standing here in the aftermath, he realized the truth.

The Pope hadn't held them back. He'd taken them with him.

Darien clenched his fists. The ache in his chest had nothing to do with exhaustion this time.

He reached up, brushing the ash from his hair, and turned to scan the landscape. He was somewhere outside the Holy District—far from the inner sanctums, but close enough to see the outer walls' devastation. What had once been the capital of faith was now a graveyard of light.

Bodies lay scattered along the roads—priests, soldiers, civilians—all frozen in place as though caught mid-prayer. Their forms were preserved in white stone, encased by the residual energy of the sealing spell.

It was beautiful, in a cruel way.

"Pope…" Darien whispered. "You didn't just seal the devils, did you? You sealed everything."

The relic on his back pulsed again, as if responding. He looked over his shoulder. The light inside the case flickered gently, almost alive. For a fleeting moment, he thought he could hear a heartbeat—a slow, steady rhythm.

He frowned. "You're restless too, huh? Guess you can feel it."

The relic's warmth spread faintly against his spine.

He exhaled and started walking.

The ground was unstable, and every step left a faint impression on the layer of ash. He passed by broken banners bearing the Church's insignia—golden crosses now blackened by soot. The scent of incense still clung faintly to the wind, mingling with the acrid smell of death.

Hours might have passed—or maybe only minutes. Time had no weight here.

As he reached the edge of the collapsed southern gate, he paused, looking back once more toward the blinding light at the city's heart.

The pillar hadn't dimmed. If anything, it had grown stronger. The clouds around it churned violently, and occasionally, streaks of golden lightning rippled outward like cracks in reality. The light was both shield and tombstone—protecting the world from what it contained, and mourning what it had lost.

He whispered quietly, "Rest well, Your Holiness."

The wind answered in silence.

Then—a sound.

Faint, distant, but unmistakable: movement.

Darien immediately dropped into a crouch, hand going to his sword. He scanned the broken landscape. Shadows flickered between the ruins, moving low and quick. Not devils—their aura was different. More human.

He stayed still until the first of them emerged from behind a fallen wall—a soldier in battered armor, limping heavily, one arm slung around a wounded companion.

"Captain Holt?"

Darien straightened, relief washing over his face. "By the gods… survivors."

The soldier nearly collapsed in front of him, panting. His armor bore the insignia of the Holy Vanguard. "Captain, thank the light—you made it out. We thought everyone in the Arena was—"

"Gone?" Darien finished grimly. "They are. The Pope's light sealed everything inside."

The soldier's eyes widened. "You mean—His Holiness…?"

Darien nodded once. "He's gone. Along with the devils."

A stunned silence followed. Even the wind seemed to pause.

The wounded companion—a priest with bloodstained robes—shook his head weakly. "No… no, that can't be. The Pope… he wouldn't abandon the faithful."

"He didn't," Darien said quietly. "He saved them. In the only way he could."

For a moment, none of them spoke. The three men stood amidst the ruins, surrounded by the silent statues of those who'd once prayed.

Finally, Darien looked to the horizon. "What's the situation outside the city?"

The soldier swallowed hard. "The outer rings are overrun. The devil forces retreated after the sealing light, but smaller rifts are still appearing. Command's scattered. We've lost contact with the northern and eastern divisions."

Darien cursed under his breath. "And the Saintess?"

The soldier hesitated. "Rumor says she's alive. The Vanguard found traces of her mana near the frontlines. But she's not with the Church anymore. She's fighting alongside Adeline's detachment near the border."

Darien exhaled. "Then she's already ahead of us."

The priest looked up weakly. "You… you have the relic?"

Darien tapped the case on his back. "Still breathing."

"Then the Pope's will isn't gone," the priest whispered. "He meant for that to reach her. It must."

Darien nodded grimly. "Then I'll see it done."

Before anyone could respond, a deep rumble shook the earth beneath them. The air crackled. The pillar of light in the distance flickered—just for a second—and a wave of pressure rolled across the ruins, so strong it forced Darien to his knees.

"Damn!" he hissed.

The soldier beside him gritted his teeth. "What was that?"

Darien looked up, eyes wide. "The seal. It's destabilizing."

Another surge followed, this one stronger. The pillar pulsed violently, sending ripples of golden energy that tore through the sky like thunderclaps. Cracks of pure light spread outward from the Arena, carving lines into the land itself.

The Pope's sacrifice had bought time—but not enough.

Darien clenched his jaw. "We need to move. Now."

He hoisted the relic case higher on his back and turned toward the western ridges. Beyond them lay the Vanguard lines—and somewhere among them, the Saintess.

He motioned for the survivors to follow. "If the seal breaks, everything that was trapped in there comes pouring back out. We won't survive another wave."

They began to run—stumbling, limping, but moving. Every step away from the city felt like tearing away a part of themselves.

As they reached the outer ridge, Darien paused and looked back one last time. The light of the Holy City still burned, fierce and unyielding, a monument to faith and sacrifice.

But beneath that light, he could see movement.

Shadows.

Something was still alive inside the seal.

He turned away, his expression grim. "Guess your fight isn't over yet, old man," he murmured.