Parallel Memory

Chapter 686: The Relic That Sings of Dawn

The Devil King’s domain had always been a place where color went to die.

A land swallowed in permanent twilight—stone blackened by sulfur, sky smothered by ash, the air itself tasting of metal and ancient curses. But now... now it was worse. Much worse.

Three weeks of continuous war had turned the battlefield into a wasteland of shattered cliffs and pulverized earth. Rivers of molten stone ran between cracked battlements like open wounds. Every breath scraped the throat like shards of iron. Every step felt like sinking into the world’s dying heartbeat.

Kaelion’s vanguard, the strongest fighting force Edolas still possessed, looked like ghosts of their former selves. Armor was dented and hanging by straps; shields were split down the middle. Many had wrapped leather around their hands to keep their weapons from slipping out of blood-slick grips.

And still—they fought.

They resisted.

They endured.

But only barely.

Another wave of devils descended from the broken towers, shrieking like an avalanche of steel. Their blades clashed against Kaelion’s front line, sending sparks and pieces of chipped metal flying. The vanguard reeled. A few stumbled. One collapsed.

The scent of mana burn—sharp, metallic, nauseating—hung in the air like the ghost of a thousand dead mages.

In the middle of this chaos, the Saintess knelt between Adeline and Nock.

Her white robes were no longer white. Torn at the hem, streaked with soot and dried blood, they clung to her like wilted petals crushed underfoot. Her golden hair was a tangled halo matted by sweat. Even her mana, once radiant and serene, flickered unsteadily—like a candle nearly smothered in darkness.

But her eyes...

Her eyes had never been brighter.

For three long, suffocating weeks she had hidden behind the vanguard, conserving strength, feigning fatigue, pretending to be weaker than she was. She tended to the wounded, blessed water, and whispered prayers to hold soldiers together.

All while waiting.

Waiting for this exact moment.

Her breaths trembled—part exhaustion, part fear, part resolve—as her hand reached for the satchel at her hip. Her fingers closed around the relic she had sworn not to reveal. Not unless there was no other choice.

Not unless it was already too late.

She pulled it out.

A fan of golden peacock feathers emerged—each strand gleaming with a soft radiance that felt alive. Not like magic. Not like mana.

Like sanctified life itself.

A piece of the divine.

Adeline stared, the blood on her cheek drying into a dark streak. "Saintess... you—how long have you been hiding that!?"

Her voice cracked with disbelief, but also betrayal. Not anger—fear. She knew the price of holy relics. She knew what it meant to keep one hidden.

The Saintess swallowed, her throat dry and aching.

"The Church would not allow me to use it," she whispered, her voice wavering beneath the weight of memory. "The Pope believed it was too dangerous. That if I unfurled this relic... the last barrier between our world and theirs would shatter."

Adeline’s breath hitched. Nock’s staff froze mid-swing.

"But now—" Adeline began.

The Saintess nodded.

"Now the barrier is already broken."

She rose slowly, legs shaking, but her spine straightened with resolve. Gripping the relic with both hands, she stepped toward the frontline. Her footsteps left faint golden imprints in the soot-covered earth, each one lingering for seconds before fading.

The devils sensed it immediately.

Every creature bearing horns or wings or hellfire recoiled. Snarls turned to hisses. Wings faltered mid-beat. Even the corrupted air warped around the Saintess, bending as if unwilling to touch her.

A single feather on the relic began to glow.

Then another.

The glow spread—like sunlight waking from centuries of slumber.

Kaelion’s head snapped up. "EVERYONE—AVERT YOUR EYES!"

His command came too late.

The Saintess opened the Seraphs Veil

And the world... changed.

*****************************************

A shockwave of holy mana exploded outward, silent yet deafening, as if the air itself forgot how to exist.

The sky reacted first.

Clouds—black, scarred, soaked with centuries of devil corruption—burned away instantly. Gone. Evaporated into radiant white.

For the first time in ages, the battlefield knew brightness.

Every devil froze mid-charge, their bodies seizing as if hit by an invisible mountain. Eyes bulged. Flames sputtered out. Wings shivered uncontrollably.

Every human gasped—chests expanding with breaths that suddenly felt clean. Pure.

The second pulse erupted—

Heavier.

Divine.

It was not the surge of a spell. Not the burst of a relic.

It was judgment.

It rolled across the battlefield, through the ruined fortress walls, across the fissures splitting the land, through the broken silhouettes of fallen soldiers. It spread across miles like the gates of heaven opening and letting sunlight pour through.

Kaelion fell to one knee.

Not in weakness.

In awe.

His sword hummed, vibrating in recognition of the divine descent.

Nock’s staff nearly slipped from his hands, trembling uncontrollably. "This... this is no mere artifact... This is a conduit to the heavens!"

Seraphine lowered her enormous frost-bound sword, staring as its blade ignited with frost-blue flame—something it had never done before.

"No... this is a miracle," she whispered.

Across the trenches, across the broken towers, across every battlefield fragment—

Humans felt it.

Hope.

The first true hope since the war began.

A warmth blossomed inside chests long frozen by fear. Torn muscles stitched. Bleeding slowed. Exhaustion evaporated like dew in summer sun.

Basic soldiers suddenly felt their knees steady.

Veterans felt their hearts thunder with renewed fury.

Even those moments from collapsing found their backs straightening.

On every front, the impossible happened.

They stood taller.

They breathed fuller.

They believed again.

****************************************************

Devils screamed.

Not in rage.

In agony.

Holy mana weighed on them like the crushing force of mountains. Their skin blistered. Horns cracked. Wings tore. The black flames fueling their bodies flickered like dying candles.

Some tried to resist—raising claws, summoning infernal spells—

But holy mana suffocated their magic.

Their blood boiled. Their bones groaned. Their shadows peeled off their feet and disintegrated.

A high-ranking fiend attempted flight—his wings snapped like brittle twigs.

Another tried to dive for Kaelion—his flesh melted before he reached the halfway point.

The Holy Surge had not merely weakened them.

It crippled them.

The Saintess stood at the center of the battlefield like a second sun. Her aura radiated outward in blinding waves, each pulse reinforcing the resolve of her allies and shredding the essence of her enemies.

Her voice trembled—but it rose.

It rang.

It thundered.

"EDOLAS—RISE WITH ME!"

Her cry echoed across the battlefield, through ravaged towers, across broken hills, into the hearts of every soldier who still drew breath.

And they rose.

All of them.

Every last vanguard.

Every last warrior.

Every last human.

Kaelion roared, his eyes bright with a fire that had nearly died. "VANGUARD—ADVANCE!"

The ground shook from the force of renewed battle cries.

Seraphine led the first charge, her titanic blade cleaving through devils like wheat. Each swing unleashed a shockwave of frost and holy fire.

Adeline launched volleys of crackling lightning—now laced with golden resonance. Her bolts did not merely wound; they vaporized anything they touched.

Nock’s holy flames, previously little more than flickering candles, now swirled around him in roaring arcs, sculpting themselves into dragons of white fire.

Every soldier pushed forward with strength they hadn’t felt in years.

Every step reclaimed ground they had once believed lost forever.

Devils tried to flee.

Their wings failed.

They tried to strike.

Their claws crumbled.

They tried to summon hellfire.

It sputtered into smoke.

The tide had turned.

For the first time in the Devil King’s domain—

Darkness retreated.