Parallel Memory

Chapter 692: THE ASHES OF A FALLEN DEVIL

A soft, strangled laugh.

Aaron’s voice.

"...heheh..."

He wasn’t laughing at them.

He wasn’t laughing at the battle.

He wasn’t even laughing at himself.

He was laughing because... he had forgotten this feeling.

The feeling of being helpless.

The feeling of being small.

The feeling of looking at a broken sky with nothing but a brother’s hand holding his.

As the cracks on his skin spread, his senses dimming, his vision flickered—

And the battlefield disappeared.

Replaced by a memory.

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

Cold.

That was the first thing he remembered.

The cold that crawled through the cracks in ruined buildings. The cold that bit their fingers while they slept on broken stone. The cold that sank into his bones so deeply it felt like part of him.

He was small. Barely able to walk properly. His clothes were rags—thin and dirty. His cheeks were sunken from hunger.

Beside him sat a boy only three years older.

Aamon.

They huddled together in the corner of a dilapidated devil slum, beneath a collapsed archway. The sky above was pitch-dark, clouded by ash and smoke leftover from the last war between humans and devils. It was always like that—no sun, no warmth. Only cold.

Aamon wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close to share their meager body heat.

"Aaron," Aamon whispered. "You awake?"

The young Aaron nodded slowly. "Can’t sleep."

Aamon smiled. It was tired, but warm. "Me neither."

The streets were quiet, but not peaceful. In the distance, devils argued. Somewhere far off, a building collapsed. Hunger gnawed at their stomachs like a creature with sharp teeth.

Aamon tightened his grip. "Someday... we’ll leave this place."

Aaron blinked. "Where?"

"Anywhere," Aamon said with a fire in his eyes far too mature for a child. "Anywhere better than this."

Aaron buried his head against Aamon’s side. "But no one wants us..."

Aamon paused, then ruffled his hair gently.

"That’s why we have to make a name for ourselves," he said. "If we get strong—really strong—no one will chase us away again. No one will ignore us. No one will laugh at us."

Aaron listened, heart pounding. This was their lullaby—Aamon’s dream.

Aamon continued, voice low and steady. "I want to change things for young devils like us. So they won’t have to steal scraps or fight for sleeping spots. I want them to feel safe. Not like they’re worthless."

Aaron stared at his brother.

Aamon had always been like this. Hurt, starving, exhausted—but always dreaming.

Always hoping.

Aaron reached for Aamon’s hand. It was cold. Small. But strong in a way that made little Aaron believe that dreams could be real.

"Aamon..."

"Yeah?"

"I’ll get strong too."

Aamon’s eyes widened a little.

"I’ll get strong," Aaron repeated, more fiercely, "so I can help you."

Aamon laughed—the warmest, happiest sound Aaron had ever heard.

"Then we’ll change the world together."

Aaron nodded, clutching Aamon’s hand with all his strength.

He wanted to protect those dreams.

But somewhere along the way...

He forgot.

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

Aaron’s eyes fluttered open.

Back to the battlefield.

Back to the cold reality.

His vision was fading—edges darkening like burnt paper curling in flames. His body felt lighter. Not in relief.

In the way dust feels light when wind scatters it.

His fingertips crumbled. The blackened armor of his skin turned to ash.

He blinked slowly.

The six humans stood before him—not gloating, not mocking.

Simply watching.

Mia exhaled softly. "He’s remembering something."

Aaron wanted to speak, but his voice broke. His throat was splitting. The cracks reached his jaw, spreading up toward his cheeks.

He tried again.

A breath.

A whisper.

"...brother..."

Sylvia stepped forward slightly. "Aamon...?"

Aaron’s head twitched in a faint nod.

Aaron’s breath hitched.

"we... wanted... to be... better..." he rasped, voice breaking apart. "wanted... to protect... the small ones..."

He coughed—and a broken piece of his chest turned to dust, drifting into the air.

Aaron’s eyes shook violently.

"...but... what did I... become...?"

His vision blurred.

He saw not the humans—but the ruined street where he once sat with Aamon under a cold devil sky.

We became the very tyrants we hated... didn’t we...?

Aaron’s vision blurred, colors bleeding into a dim haze as the battlefield receded like a fading dream. The last fragments of his body wavered like crumbling ash, carried by the winds of holy mana. Yet even as sensation left him, one thing remained painfully sharp—regret.

His knees finally buckled.

His enormous frame struck the ground with a trembling thud.

The humans stepped back cautiously, watching the devil who had terrorized them for hours now kneel in silence, shoulders shaking—not with rage, but with something far quieter, far heavier.

"Brother..." Aaron whispered, voice cracking like dry stone. "I... I’m sorry."

His memories—the cold nights, the hunger, the dream of rising high enough to protect children like them—burned into his fading consciousness. And in those memories, Aamon’s voice echoed with painful clarity:

"Strength alone won’t save us, Aaron. Think. Plan. Survive."

Aaron finally understood.

He had climbed in strength only to become the creature they once hid from.

A tyrant.

A monster.

A tear slipped down his dissolving cheek—unnatural on a devil’s face. Then another.

And with a final, broken roar that shook the dust around him, Aaron’s form shattered completely—

a thunderous cry torn from a lifetime of regret.

The realization tore something deep inside him.

Something he didn’t even know could break.

Tears—thick black droplets—rolled down his cheeks.

The humans froze. Even Mia inhaled sharply.

Devils did not cry like this.

Not from pain.

Not from fear.

Only from regret so deep it reached the soul.

Aaron’s lips trembled.

"...Aamon... I’m... sorry..."

His claws curled weakly into the dust, scraping lines that vanished as his fingertips disintegrated.

"...I forgot... your dream..."

Another piece of his arm broke away.

"...forgot... why... we wanted strength..."

His wings dissolved. His horns cracked.

"...we... became monsters..."

His eyes closed.

"...brother..."

The light consuming him intensified. The holy mana surged through every remaining cell of his body.

"...I wanted... to stand by you... not shame you..."

A shuddering breath escaped him.

"...forgive... me..."

And then—

With the last scraps of his failing strength—

Aaron let out a roar.

Not of rage.

Not of defiance.

Not of hatred.

A thunderous, soul-tearing cry—

Full of regret

Full of grief

Full of the pain of a child who lost his way

A cry that echoed across the broken plains, across ruined towers, across the corpses littering the land.

A cry that made even the humans’ hearts tremble.

Then—

Silence.

His body shattered, breaking apart like glass under a hammer.

Fragments rose into the air—

and turned to dust

and dissolved into nothing

carried away by the faint golden winds of the Saintess’s miracle.

Aaron was gone.

Forever.

But his final cry lingered.

A reminder that even monsters were once children

with dreams

with warmth

with someone they loved.

And that sometimes...

Strength without purpose

leads even the kindest dream

into ruin.