Parallel Memory

Chapter 576: Good news

The days that followed in the fortified arena passed in a haze of vigilance and exhaustion. Patrol shifts changed with the chime of makeshift bells; watchfires burned night and day at every barricade. The smell of blood still lingered in the air despite the hurried attempts to scrub the floors, but the arena now pulsed with a sense of grim defiance. It was no longer a stage for slaughter — it was a fortress, and for the moment, it was theirs.

Food was rationed, water gathered from what cisterns they could repair, and the wounded were tended in the underground chambers, where healers had set up rows of cots. Even with all these efforts, despair threatened at the edges. They had cut down the devil army here, yes, but no one knew if reinforcements would come crashing down upon them.

It was during one of the scouting runs that fortune finally shifted.

A young soldier — barely past his first campaign — had been climbing the broken upper tiers of the city to check for devil stragglers when he spotted movement against the dim sky. At first, his hand went to his weapon, thinking it another fiend. But then he heard the faint, almost familiar hoot. His heart stilled. An owl — not the wild kind, but the trained, crested messengers bred only in the capital.

The boy scrambled down, cupping his hands around the exhausted bird. Its wings were ragged, one side streaked with soot, but its leg still bore the silver insignia clasp that marked it as property of the Authority. The soldier carried it back into the arena as though it were a sacred relic.

When the commanders gathered around, a hush fell over the troops. For the first time since they had seized this fortress, a thread to the outside world had returned.

The owl was fed, cleaned, and given water. Then, carefully, a new scroll was bound to its leg. The commanders, alongside the scribes who had survived the battle, poured their strength into the message: the arena was secure, but at great cost. Hundreds had fallen, but the devils were driven out. What remained of the army now held the stadium as a human bastion in the heart of a shattered city. Supplies would not last forever, but the stronghold had been won — and more than that, it had given the survivors a reason to believe they could endure.

When the owl lifted into the smoky dawn sky and vanished toward the capital, many in the arena knelt where they stood. Some wept openly, others whispered prayers. For the first time since the massacre began, they no longer felt alone.

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The message reached the capital two days later.

In the grand halls of the Authority, council members read the words aloud to assembled generals, nobles, and envoys. The chamber stirred with disbelief at first — how could a battered force, cut off from reinforcements, have taken and held such a ground? But when the truth sank in, relief swept the council like a tide. The cost was steep, yes, but the arena stronghold was a miracle amidst despair.

The War Council convened at once. The generals, clad in armor polished for ceremony, stood before a sprawling map of the front. Reports from Delta Outpost came in tandem: the priests and Pope himself were still struggling to stabilize the portal, but progress was being made. With the arena secured and the link to Delta nearly restored, a chance to push back the devils had opened.

”Send word,” one of the marshals declared. ”Tell them reinforcements are coming. The War Council itself will march to their side.”

Messengers flew, orders echoed down the chain, and across the Authority’s vast network of legions and guilds, the tale of the arena’s stand spread like wildfire. Soldiers who had doubted, who had feared that every bastion was doomed to fall, now raised their heads with new fire in their eyes.

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Back at Delta Outpost, the Pope received the news with solemn gravity.

The high priest stood atop the half-finished altar, robes billowing with the winter winds, his hands clasped in both prayer and urgency. The portal circle sprawled across the courtyard below him, dozens of priests working in unison as they traced the sacred inscriptions line by line. Some knelt with trembling arms as they brushed chalk and ink into the grooves, others held crystals that glowed faintly as mana surged into the pattern.

The Pope’s voice carried above the noise, stern yet filled with conviction. ”The arena has been fortified. Our warriors bleed, but they endure. The War Council moves to answer them. We will not let them stand alone. Quick — the inscriptions must be finished. Every heartbeat counts!”

The priests redoubled their efforts. Hands blistered from holding quills and chisels, foreheads streaked with sweat despite the cold. They were exhausted, but none dared slow. Each knew the weight of their task — without the portal, no aid could cross the distance swiftly enough.

From time to time, cracks appeared in the inscriptions as the unstable mana strained the circle. When that happened, entire lines of priests would chant together, channeling divine energy into the breaks until they sealed once more. It was painstaking, dangerous work, but under the Pope’s relentless drive, progress quickened.

In the quiet moments between commands, the Pope lowered his eyes in thought. He remembered the days when humanity’s faith was strong and unbroken, when devils were whispered nightmares rather than the very air they breathed. Yet now, amidst the ashes of war, the spark of faith was brighter than ever. The arena’s survival was proof — and he would see that flame carried forward.

”Faster!” he called again, his staff striking the stone with a ringing sound. ”Each rune laid brings our brothers and sisters closer to salvation. Do not falter. The will of the Goddess carries you!”

The courtyard answered in unison, voices raised with conviction. The words of the army’s achievement had traveled quickly, and now every priest inscribing the portal knew exactly who they labored for.

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And in the arena stronghold, the weary soldiers, mercenaries, and adventurers held their vigil. They did not yet know how soon aid would come, or if it would reach them in time. But with the owl’s success and the knowledge that the capital had heard their cries, they no longer fought as the forsaken.

They fought as humanity’s line — and the bastion they had carved from ruin was now the heartbeat of resistance.