Parallel Memory

Chapter 675: The Vanguard’s Oath

The horizon burned crimson. A storm of ash and fire swept across the blackened plains where the Holy City once gleamed in the distance. But the Arena—now twisted, warped, and buried in a dome of black flame—was no longer part of that world. It hung like a scar against the horizon, its structure swallowed by the expanding maw of the Devils' Domain.

Darien stumbled across the charred soil, the sacred relic clasped tightly in his arm, his armor cracked and streaked with divine light that refused to fade. Every breath he took seared his lungs. The land itself rejected him—rejected anything human.

He didn't know how long he'd been running. Only that the air had grown colder, the cries of the devils had faded behind him, and the light of the Pope's barrier still shimmered far off—barely visible through the smoke.

"…Father…" he muttered under his breath, his steps slowing. "Please tell me it wasn't for nothing."

The relic pulsed weakly in his grasp, answering with a faint resonance—warm, steady, and achingly familiar. It was the last echo of the Pope's power, the fragment of divinity the old man had entrusted to him. Darien gritted his teeth and kept walking, forcing his trembling legs to move until he reached the first of the Saintess's encampment banners fluttering in the wind.

Soldiers turned at the sight of him—bloodied, limping, but alive.

"Sir Darien!" one shouted, rushing forward. "Open the gate! He's back!"

The iron gates creaked open, and a rush of figures flooded toward him—clerics, paladins, and soldiers who had waited in terror since the first explosion split the sky.

Darien barely had time to breathe before a familiar voice cried out from ahead.

"Darien!"

Adeline sprinted across the courtyard, her white robes stained with ash and holy oil. The Saintess herself followed behind, radiant even in exhaustion, her golden staff flickering dimly with divine runes that refused to fade.

Darien collapsed to one knee as Adeline caught him, steadying him before he could fall. His vision swam, but he managed to raise the relic toward the Saintess.

"He… held them back," Darien said, his voice hoarse. "The Pope—he… sealed the entire Arena. The devils… they're trapped inside with him."

For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

The Saintess's eyes widened, her lips parting as if the words refused to form. "…He stayed behind?"

Darien nodded weakly. "He said it was the only way to contain the breach. His last command was… to bring this to you."

He handed over the relic—a crystalline sphere carved with divine sigils, still glowing faintly despite the black dust covering it. The Saintess took it with trembling hands, the light of recognition breaking across her features.

"This… was the heart of the Cathedral's sanctum," she whispered. "He must have torn it from the foundation itself."

Adeline's eyes filled with tears, her voice cracking. "He's gone, then?"

Darien didn't answer. He didn't need to.

The silence that followed felt heavier than the battlefield itself. Around them, even the wind seemed to die.

When the Saintess finally spoke, her voice was both soft and unyielding. "Then we must make his sacrifice mean something. The devils will not remain trapped forever. If the Arena has fallen into their domain, they will rebuild from within."

Darien looked up at her through bloodstained lashes. "Then we take the fight back to them."

The Saintess met his gaze—and nodded once.

Moments later, the command tents stirred to life. Maps were spread, banners redrawn. The surviving captains of Kaelion's vanguard were gathered around the central flame, their expressions grim and hollow from loss.

Kaelion himself stood over the war table, the edges of his armor still glowing from residual heat, one arm wrapped in bloodstained bandages. Nock Fletcher leaned against the opposite end, his usual calm gone, his gaze sharp and narrowed. Seraphine stood nearby, silent, her halberd resting against her shoulder, the reflection of the burning sky glinting off her eyes.

When Darien entered the tent, Kaelion turned immediately. "You made it."

"Barely," Darien replied, setting the relic on the table. "The Pope sealed the Arena himself. It's… gone, Commander. Everything inside."

The tent went silent again.

Kaelion closed his eyes briefly, his jaw tightening. He didn't ask for confirmation; he didn't need to. His hand clenched around the map's edge, the faint tremor betraying his composure.

"The Pope knew what he was doing," Nock said after a moment. "If he sealed the devils inside, it means he believed the rest of us could still finish this war."

"Or," Seraphine muttered, her tone sharp as steel, "it means we've just lost one of the only beings capable of holding back that corruption."

Darien met her eyes. "He didn't die so we could mourn him. He gave us a window. If the Arena is sealed, the devils' main gate is closed—for now. That's our chance to regroup."

Kaelion nodded slowly, straightening. "Then we honor him the only way we can—by surviving long enough to make his sacrifice matter."

He turned to the gathered captains, his voice cutting through the heavy air. "The Saintess will stabilize the relic's core. Nock, you'll reinforce the barrier lines across the eastern ridge. Seraphine—gather the remaining soldiers. We'll hold position until the next wave hits."

"And after that?" Adeline asked softly.

Kaelion's eyes flicked toward her. "After that… we move on the Devils' Domain."

A heavy silence followed his words. Even speaking them felt like an invocation—one that carried the weight of thousands of lives.

The Saintess stepped forward, the faint light of her staff flickering again. "Then let it be sworn here."

She planted the staff into the earth, and a thin pulse of divine light spread through the ground, circling the gathered vanguards. Her voice rose, steady and resolute.

"For the fallen Pope who gave his light," she said, "for the souls who remain trapped beyond the barrier, and for the world still trembling under shadow—"

Kaelion stepped beside her, placing his hand upon the relic. "We stand as the vanguard."

Darien followed, then Nock, Seraphine, Adeline, and the other commanders. One by one, they laid their hands upon the relic, and the divine glow brightened—its fractured surface pulsing as if recognizing the oath being made.

"No retreat," Seraphine murmured.

"No surrender," Nock added quietly.

"Until the Devils' Domain falls," Kaelion finished.

The relic flared—pure white light spilling across the tent, reaching toward the heavens through the fabric as if echoing the Pope's final blessing.

Outside, the soldiers who saw the radiance knelt instinctively, believing it to be the return of divine favor. But those within the tent knew better. It was not a blessing of hope—it was a covenant of resolve, born from sacrifice and fire.

The Saintess looked at Darien, her voice barely above a whisper. "His light still burns through you, doesn't it?"

Darien managed a faint, tired smile. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just too stubborn to die."

Kaelion exhaled slowly, glancing out toward the smoldering horizon where the black dome of the Devils' Domain pulsed faintly in the distance.

"Then we hold fast," he said, his tone low and unshakable. "Until Zero returns… until the Anchor rises again."

And as the wind carried the echo of his words through the camp, the vanguard of humanity swore their silent oath—knowing that the next dawn might very well be their last.