Parallel Memory

Chapter 577: The Tension Continues

The arena’s stone walls groaned beneath the strain of hurried repairs, each crack packed with scavenged mortar, each broken arch shored up by salvaged timber. Within, the survivors moved with the discipline of ants, keeping torches burning, repairing barricades, and patching holes in the outer tiers. Every corner had a lookout, every stairwell a guard, and the sound of hammering never ceased. They had transformed a blood-soaked battleground into a fortress. Yet even as confidence grew, shadows lengthened outside the walls.

The devils had not truly been defeated.

From the highest battlements, scouts peered out across the ruined streets that surrounded the coliseum. Fires still smoldered in toppled buildings. Ash drifted in the wind, carrying the stench of burned flesh and sulfur. And beyond the smoke, movement could be glimpsed — small shapes flitting between the rubble, watching, waiting. At night, strange horns blew in the distance, low and mournful, and with them came the sound of scraping claws on stone.

The enemy had withdrawn, yes, but not vanished. They were gathering.

Reports filtered in from scouting parties who dared the outskirts. Packs of lesser fiends, once scattered, were being drawn together into larger cohorts. Winged shadows circled overhead at dusk, though never daring to swoop close to the arena yet. Corpses of fallen devils had been dragged away from the streets, leaving only trails of black ichor leading into the ruins, as if the enemy were reclaiming its dead for some darker purpose.

The commanders convened in the old gladiator chambers beneath the stands, where a rough map had been carved into a wooden table. Around it, oil lamps flickered.

"They’re not retreating," one captain muttered, stabbing his dagger against the crude outline of the city. "They’re biding their time. Look here — they’ve cleared the eastern quarter. Our scouts say not a single scavenger remains there. That’s no accident."

Another leaned forward, voice tight. "They’re consolidating. Building strength for a counterattack."

The chamber fell silent. Everyone knew it was true. The arena had been a miraculous victory, but it was only a foothold. If the devils returned in force, the battered survivors might not withstand the tide.

Above them, soldiers and healers carried on their work. Yet unease rippled through the ranks. They heard the horns at night too, and they saw the watchers in the smoke. More than one guard swore they had glimpsed something massive slithering between collapsed towers far to the south, though no one could say for certain.

Still, they could not abandon the fortress. It was their only stronghold, and their only proof that devils could be held back. So they reinforced further.

Shields from fallen comrades were nailed together to create barriers across entryways. Spears were lashed into makeshift pikes and mounted along the inner walls. Oil barrels, once meant for festival lights, were repurposed into flaming weapons to hurl down on attackers. Every soldier who could still stand was drilled in formations, their footsteps echoing in the arena floor where gladiators had once fought for sport.

The priests, few as they were, kept vigil in the lower chambers. Their chants never ceased, weaving wards into the walls, placing seals at the entrances. The faint glow of holy inscriptions shimmered faintly in the darkness, offering comfort to those who passed beneath them. Yet even those priests could not hide the strain in their voices, nor the shadows beneath their eyes.

And then, one night, proof came.

A lookout on the northern wall screamed as black arrows rained from the rooftops beyond. The horns blared again, louder this time, answered by guttural cries from hundreds of throats. Shapes surged from the ruins — twisted silhouettes carrying jagged blades and crude shields, their eyes burning with unnatural light. The devils had returned.

The first assault slammed against the outer barricades with a thunderous crash. Timber splintered, iron groaned, and the soldiers braced their shields as claws scraped against them. The arena erupted with the clash of steel, the roar of voices, the crackle of fire as oil was poured down on the attackers.

Yet this was not their full force.

The first wave was probing, testing the defenses. The devils howled and clawed but did not press deep, retreating back into the shadows after each rush. Still, the cost was bloody. Dozens of defenders lay wounded or dead before the night passed, and the healers’ hands were red with exhaustion.

As dawn broke, the survivors stood wearily on the walls, staring out at the ruins. The enemy had withdrawn again, leaving behind corpses that steamed and dissolved into foul smoke. But in the distance, the horns called once more — this time from three directions at once.

"They’re circling us," a sergeant muttered, voice raw. "They’ll keep testing us until they find a weakness."

And indeed, over the following days, the pattern repeated. Raiding groups struck suddenly at different points of the fortress, vanishing as swiftly as they came. Winged fiends dived from the skies in small squadrons, clawing at torches and watchtowers before fleeing into the clouds. Rumors spread that the devils were waiting for a command, that some greater leader was marshaling them for a single crushing assault.

The soldiers clung to their duties, but whispers spread in the nights — could they truly hold? Would reinforcements come in time? Or would the arena become their tomb?

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Far away at Delta Outpost, the Pope felt the same tension gnawing at him. Though the message from the arena had lifted spirits, he knew what it meant: if the devils had not already struck again, they soon would. Every moment wasted was another soul put at risk.

His staff struck the stone again as he bellowed across the courtyard. "Faster! The inscriptions must be completed before the enemy regroups. The War Council prepares to march, but without the portal, they cannot reach the fortress in time. Push harder, children of the Goddess! Every delay costs blood!"

The priests worked until their voices cracked, until their fingers bled from carving symbols into the stone. The smell of incense and sweat filled the air, mingling with the acrid bite of mana that surged through the half-finished circle. Crystals pulsed, lines glowed, and slowly — agonizingly slowly — the portal began to take shape.

But even as hope flickered in Delta, the arena fortress stood braced on the edge of another storm.

The devils were gathering again.

And this time, when they struck, it would not be with probing claws and testing raids. It would be to shatter the human stronghold once and for all.