Parallel Memory

Chapter 574: In the devil kings palace

In the depths of the Devil King’s palace, the air was heavy with silence. The torches that lined the obsidian walls burned low, their blue flames crackling weakly as if fearful of what lingered in the grand throne hall. At the far end, upon a throne not of gold or marble but of jagged, blackened stone, sat the figure known to the devils not as "King," but as Lord Aamon.

He was unmoving, eyes shut, yet the oppressive weight of his presence alone crushed the air in the hall. His aura rolled out in waves, thick with malice, thick with inevitability. No servant dared to step closer than the shadow of the throne itself.

Then, the silence broke.

A messenger devil stumbled through the doorway, chest heaving, his once-polished armor stained with the filth of the battlefield. He collapsed to his knees before the throne, unable to even raise his head.

"My Lord," the devil rasped, each word trembling, "Commander Xalvar... has fallen. The army sent to breach the human fortress has been destroyed. The humans... they have fortified the stadium. It now stands as a stronghold under their banner."

For several seconds, nothing followed. Only the echo of the messenger’s ragged breath filled the chamber.

And then—Aamon’s eyes opened.

They were not eyes of crimson flame nor pools of endless darkness. Instead, they gleamed with something far more terrible: cold certainty. The kind of gaze that had witnessed centuries of bloodshed and believed in nothing less than absolute conquest.

The messenger dared to glance upward—and instantly regretted it.

The weight of Aamon’s aura doubled, slamming him flat against the stone floor, his bones groaning beneath the unseen pressure.

"Xalvar..." Aamon’s voice rumbled, low and steady, yet carrying enough venom to still the blood in one’s veins. "A loyal hound. And still, he dies like all the rest."

The blue torches flickered wildly as if recoiling from his words.

But instead of erupting in fury, Aamon leaned back in his throne, expression unreadable. His clawed hand rose, fingers curling slightly as though grasping at some distant memory.

The fortune teller.

The image returned to him unbidden: an old devil, blind in both eyes, her form bent and frail, yet her words sharper than any blade. He had once called upon her before his rise, back when whispers of rebellion were only embers.

She had warned him.

"Do not take the throne. The name of ’Devil King’ will be your undoing. If you crown yourself as the king of all devils, you will inherit not only the power but the fate of those who bore the title before you. Deny it, and you may yet escape the chains of prophecy."

And so, he listened. He had not crowned himself. He had forbidden his followers to call him "King." Instead, they called him Lord Aamon. A title that implied power, yet not kingship. A distinction he had clung to like a shield against destiny itself.

That decision had been the root of his arrogance. If fate dictated the Devil King would fall, then so long as he never bore the name, his path to victory was secure. The fortune teller herself had said as much. And with every human city burned, every battlefield drowned in blood, that conviction only deepened.

But now—Xalvar’s death, the collapse of the vanguard, the rise of resistance at the arena stronghold—felt less like accidents and more like whispers of fate clawing closer.

Aamon’s lips curled in a faint, disdainful smile.

"Fate," he murmured, voice echoing across the hall. "How many times has it been said that destiny cannot be escaped? Yet here I stand. Not bound by prophecy... ."

The messenger, still groveling on the ground, dared to speak, his voice breaking under pressure. "M-My Lord... shall we send reinforcements to crush the humans before they rally further?"

Aamon’s cold gaze shifted to him, pinning him in place like an insect.

"No," he said flatly. "Not yet. Let them build their little fortress. Let them gather hope. A flame burns brightest before it dies."

The messenger trembled, but dared not question.

In the stillness that followed, Aamon’s thoughts turned inward again. His plans had not been undone. The humans were weakened, their numbers a fraction of what they once were. He had anticipated resistance. Even the rise of heroes was something he had accounted for. What mattered was that the end was inevitable. His end... or theirs.

But then, his gaze drifted downward, toward the shadowy corridors beneath the throne room. Few knew what was sealed there. Fewer still dared to speak of it.

The former Devil King.

The one who once ruled before Aamon’s rebellion. Not slain, but bound. Not exiled, but imprisoned within his own palace, kept alive in chains of cursed steel.

Aamon kept him close not out of mercy, but calculation. To hold dominion over the old king’s life was to keep the last fragments of the old regime firmly beneath his heel. And more than that—keeping him alive was a reminder. A warning. A lesson.

He would not repeat the mistakes of kings past.

Or so he told himself.

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

Far from the obsidian palace, in the dim confines of ruins, Zero and Lilith sat across from each other, a tattered map sprawled out between them. The faint flicker of candlelight cast their faces in shadow, but the tension in their eyes was unmistakable.

For weeks, they had been following fragments of whispers, piecing together scattered reports, scouring every lead. And now, at last, the truth lay before them like a cruel revelation.

"The former Devil King...my father" Lilith’s voice was soft, but heavy. "He’s there. In Aamon’s palace. All this time."

Zero’s jaw tightened. The moment he’d feared had arrived. He traced his finger along the map, to the jagged lines that marked the capital of the devil domain, and the sprawling structure at its heart. The palace.

"It makes sense," Zero muttered. "If you were Aamon, you’d want him close. Out of sight, but under control. Alive, but powerless."

Lilith’s expression darkened. "That means our mission... is ten times harder than we thought. The palace isn’t just guarded—it’s the heart of his power. His followers... his generals... everything leads back there."

Silence stretched between them. The enormity of the task weighed like an iron shackle.

Zero exhaled slowly. His thoughts turned to Aamon himself. Back when the rebellion began, Aamon had already been at least Rank SS-. And since then? It had been years. Years of victory, of bloodshed, of feeding on conquest.

There was no telling how much stronger he had become.

Zero closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. If Aamon has grown... if he’s stepped beyond SS- into something greater... then this isn’t just dangerous. It’s suicide.

Lilith seemed to read his thoughts. Her gaze softened, though her voice remained steady. "You’re thinking of facing him."

"I’m thinking of what happens if we don’t," Zero replied quietly. His hand curled into a fist on the table. "If the former king dies in that palace, Aamon’s reign becomes absolute. There’ll be no hope of turning the tide. No symbol left for the devils who still resist him. No chance."

Lilith lowered her eyes, her hands tightening around the map’s edges.

For a long while, neither spoke. The candle sputtered, nearly burning out. And then, Zero opened his eyes again, his resolve sharpened like the edge of a blade.

"We’re going," he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of decision.

Lilith looked up, searching his expression. There was no hesitation in his gaze, no doubt—only grim determination.

His eyes narrowed, and the candlelight caught in them like sparks against steel.

"If the path to saving the former Devil King lies through his palace, then that’s where we’ll go. No matter how impossible it looks."

Lilith’s lips parted, as if to argue, but instead she simply nodded, a quiet strength flickering in her eyes. "Then we’ll do it together."