Parallel Memory

Chapter 565: Battle in the Arena

The battle dragged on without end. Within the arena’s crumbling walls, the humans continued their desperate struggle against the devils. They came in waves—unceasing, relentless, as though their numbers could never be exhausted. For every body that fell, another two emerged from the black mist that oozed from the shattered gates, their eyes burning with hunger, their claws dripping with anticipation. The humans fought tooth and nail, but even with all their strength, it was like trying to scoop water out of a sinking ship with bare hands.

A full day had passed since the battle began. A day of endless clashes, of holy chants against howls that echoed in the marrow. By then, the soldiers were moving more on instinct than on thought. Every swing of a blade was heavier than the last; every chant of blessing cracked and faltered as throats went raw. Even the elite, those with strength above common ranks, found themselves staggering between strikes, their lungs burning, their mana depleted.

The Church’s group, who bore the heaviest burden of all, stood like trembling pillars at the heart of the resistance. They had maintained the divine barrier since the first surge of devils, Nock anchoring the shield with gritted teeth while the clerics chanted prayers to feed it. Light continued to shimmer across the dome, but its radiance had dulled. Where once it had glowed golden-white, now it flickered with cracks of blue and gray, each shuddering impact from outside leaving scars that spread further along its surface.

Even divine will has limits. And the humans knew theirs were fast approaching.

The sound of battle filled every breath—the screech of steel, the guttural howls of devils, the crash of spells that shook the ground beneath them. And still, there was no end. For the first time since the fighting began, despair began to take root in the soldiers’ eyes. The understanding that they could neither defend forever nor attack without collapse settled in their hearts like a shadow. It was only a matter of time.

Mia Frostine, fists coated in frost, stood at the forefront. For hours, she had driven her body against the tide, her knuckles bruised raw beneath layers of ice, her breath misting in ragged gasps. Each devil that fell to her fists cracked like a frozen statue, but each strike cost her strength still she couldn’t stop there she had the responsibility as the commander and as the one who scouted. Her ice blossomed slower, shattered less sharply. And the devils—these accursed creatures—had begun to adjust to her rhythm. Their formation no longer scattered at her charge. Instead, they gathered, prepared, pressing her with claws and blades in coordinated strikes.

Her sharp eyes swept over the chaos, then narrowed with a decision. Without hesitation, Mia drew in her power. Frost swirled around her body, gathering not in shards or spears but in a spiraling blizzard that consumed the arena floor. She raised her hands, and the earth itself groaned beneath the surge of ice. From that storm, a structure began to emerge.

The ground rumbled. Ice climbed skyward, shaping itself under Mia’s will, stretching wider, taller, more intricate with every heartbeat. Towers of crystalline frost rose like spires piercing the heavens, walls layered in sheets of solid diamond-cold. A massive palace took shape, gleaming in the dull light of the cracked barrier, its surfaces reflecting the dying sun as though sculpted from mirrors of frost. Doors swung open on hinges of solid ice, wide enough to swallow whole battalions.

It was the Primordial Palace—the Dominion of the Ice Queen. But unlike the smaller manifestations she had conjured before, this time it dwarfed the battlefield itself. A fortress, large enough to house the entire army, with divisions carved into its vast interior like the wings of a mansion.

Mia’s voice, though hoarse, rang with command. "Retreat!" she shouted. "All units—fall back into the palace!"

At first, the exhausted soldiers hesitated. Retreat meant weakness. Retreat meant admitting they could not hold the ground. But when the towering gates of frost opened before them, a sanctuary glittering in the midst of endless death, hesitation gave way to desperation.

One by one, squads peeled back from the lines, covering each other as they stumbled toward the icy palace. The devils lunged after them, but Mia’s frost erupted in jagged walls and spears, halting their advance. The humans slipped into the palace’s chambers, collapsing onto its cold but mercifully safe floors. Even the most hardened mercenaries sighed in relief at the sensation of solid walls between themselves and the horde.

Once the last squad had crossed the threshold, Mia’s gaze turned inward. Her voice carried across the hall: "Amelia. Nock. Now. Deploy the shield around the palace."

Amelia nodded weakly, gathering what little strength she had left. She and Nock raised their hands, channeling their mana in unison. Golden light spilled across the frozen walls, merging with the frost until it formed a second skin of holiness. A barrier, not around the army this time, but sealing the palace itself. The fusion of holy radiance and glacial walls shimmered with power.

When the devils crashed against it, their claws screeched uselessly against the combined might of ice and faith. They could not enter.

At last, the endless slaughter outside ground to a pause.

The devils regrouped, their chaotic frenzy slowing as they realized the futility of throwing themselves against an impregnable fortress. From the outer ranks, their snarls and roars turned into a disciplined order, the wild mob reorganizing under the gaze of their general.

At the center of the horde stood Xalvar. His form was tall, broad-shouldered, his armor darkened with the sigils of the abyss. He bore no aura of overwhelming strength like the greater devils before him, but his presence alone commanded obedience. Xalvar had not risen through might—he had risen through his cunning loyalty, his close ties to Lord Aamon himself. Yet that loyalty now twisted into fury as he watched his army beaten back by mere humans sheltering in ice.

With a snarl that bared jagged fangs, he lashed out, kicking one of his own soldiers to the ground. The devil crumpled, wheezing, and Xalvar’s foot ground into its chest as he roared. "Failures! Worthless! You cannot break a single human shield?!" His voice thundered across the ranks, cowing the lesser devils into silence.

But the humans within the palace could not hear his words. For them, silence was its own relief.

Inside the icy halls, the air was heavy but calm. The soldiers sprawled across the palace floors, their armor clattering as they finally allowed themselves to rest. The wounded were carried into side chambers, where medics and priests rushed to treat them. Bandages soaked in blood were replaced, salves applied, and soft incantations whispered to ease their pain.

The weaker members of the army—those who had not been strong enough to take the front lines—sprang into action with renewed energy. They carried water, gathered rations, tended to the injured, and moved between the rooms, trying their best to lift morale. Some offered quiet words of encouragement; others sang low, familiar chants to remind their comrades they were not alone.

At the heart of the palace, Mia stood with Nock and Seraphine. In a chamber of frost that gleamed like polished marble, they gathered to speak.

"The barrier and the palace together will hold them," Nock said, his voice grim, his hand resting on the edge of his shield. "For now. But..."

"But it won’t last," Seraphine finished, folding her arms. "They’ll adapt. They always do. And when they do, this fortress will become a coffin."

Mia said nothing at first, only letting her icy gaze drift to the walls, where faint shadows of devils moved beyond the barrier. She knew they were right. This reprieve was temporary, and their strategy would not hold forever.

They discussed quietly, weighing options, proposing maneuvers, discarding them just as quickly. The same conclusion met them each time—they were running out of choices.

Finally, Mia stood, her face pale with exhaustion but her voice steady. "Rest. For now, that is all we can do. We need our strength when the time comes."

They agreed, though reluctantly, and returned to their chambers. But peace was a gift the devils had no intention of granting.

The foot soldiers of the horde began their torment. They gathered at the walls of the palace, banging their claws against the barrier, the sound reverberating like drums of war. They howled and shrieked, their guttural cries echoing through the halls. Horns blared, low and mocking, reverberating through ice and bone alike.

The humans pressed their hands to their ears, trying to block out the endless noise, but there was no escape. Sleep became a cruel illusion, snatched away by every crash against the walls, every shrill laugh that sliced through the air. The night passed in torment, the soldiers trapped in half-sleep, their bodies desperate for rest but denied by the cacophony outside.

And when dawn rose, weak and colorless, they stood once again at their posts—eyes heavy, movements sluggish, faces pale from exhaustion. The palace still held, the shield still stood, but their spirits were weak.