Parallel Memory

Chapter 601: The clash at palace

The Devil King’s palace was a place not built for men.

Its walls loomed impossibly high, forged of black stone that seemed to drink the light from torches. Stained-glass windows did not shine with color but bled crimson, their panes warped by infernal craft. Columns carved into twisted shapes rose like petrified screams, and above them, a ceiling so vast it might as well have been the sky—yet no sunlight entered. Even at midday, the chamber was cloaked in perpetual dusk.

Here, the air was wrong. It pulsed, heavy with dark energy that clung to the skin like frostbite, seeping into the lungs with every breath. Shadows did not follow the movements of men, but stretched unnaturally, writhing like living things. Every heartbeat felt amplified, as though the palace itself listened.

And to the gates the two sides of the armies marched. The devil king’s gate had no doors to close, exhibiting power and dominance, as if he meant to say that he was open to any challenge.

On one side: the Demon King’s guards, clad in armor black as night, every plate etched with veins of crimson that pulsed faintly with corrupt mana. They were not merely soldiers but monsters molded into human shape—bodies too large, movements too precise, power radiating from every step. Their weapons dripped with curses, jagged glaives and swords that hummed with hunger for blood. At their head strode General Khali, the abyss made flesh.

On the other: the humans, a coalition of Royal Guards and Vanguard veterans, their armor scratched, their cloaks tattered, but their eyes sharp and steady. They had come from far-flung battlefields—borderlands scarred by devils, fortresses held at impossible odds—and though the palace pressed against them with suffocating force, their lines did not waver.

The silence before the clash was suffocating. The humans could hear their own breaths, quick and ragged, mingling with the groaning echoes of the palace itself.

Then Khali’s voice broke the stillness. Low. Measured. Inescapable.

”Break their courage. Leave only ashes where they stand.”

The Demon King’s guards surged forward, boots striking the obsidian floor in unison.

The first impact thundered across the palace halls.

Silver halberds of the Royal Guard met jagged black glaives with a crash like lightning striking stone. Sparks flew, mana colliding with mana, the air rippling from the force. Shield walls bent under the weight of blows that could crush stone, yet the humans did not falter. Instead of standing rigid, they adapted—sliding back half-steps, shifting into smaller units, absorbing the impact like water bending around a rock.

Arrows streaked from the balconies above, guided by threads of wind magic, striking gaps in infernal armor. Mages hidden behind the frontlines layered their spells in rapid succession—ice spikes erupted at the feet of the enemy, forcing them to stumble, while firebursts detonated in the openings created.

Where one man could not withstand a guard’s strength, three did. Two blocked with shields reinforced by glowing sigils, while the third thrust low, aiming for unarmored joints. Where brute strength failed, creativity triumphed.

And slowly, impossibly, the humans held.

The Demon King’s guards were stronger by far, each one carrying the might of a battlefield captain. But the humans were no longer scattered soldiers—they were a single living machine, each group of four or five acting with uncanny cohesion. Vanguard veterans barked swift orders, Royal Guards fell into rhythm, and together they carved order out of chaos.

Khali himself advanced through the carnage, his glaive leaving arcs of crimson light with every swing. A single strike cleaved through three shields, the shockwave sending men sprawling. His presence was a calamity given form, a constant reminder that the humans faced more than soldiers—they faced the abyss itself.

Yet even against him, they did not break.

When Khali’s glaive swept forward again, shattering another shield wall, a Vanguard unit leapt to fill the gap. One raised his spear high, the tip glowing with runes of light. Another struck the ground with a hammer, creating a quake that staggered Khali’s footing. The third unleashed a spell—wind pressure hammering into his chest.

For the first time, Khali shifted back a step.

A ripple of energy surged across the human lines. Not victory—far from it—but proof that even the abyss could be resisted.

The battle raged on.

Statues of long-forgotten demon lords shattered as bodies were hurled against them. Pools of shadow spread across the floor, summoned by infernal blades, only to be dispelled by coordinated bursts of holy light. Fire and lightning lit the throne hall in blinding flashes, casting monstrous silhouettes across the cracked crimson glass.

And all the while, the humans adapted.

Their captains called out in patterns of signals—two taps of spear on shield to feint left, a whistle to shift formation, a flare of light to trigger a combined strike. Groups rotated, wounded pulled back and replaced seamlessly. Vanguard rogues slipped through gaps, striking from behind, vanishing before a glaive could reap them.

It was no longer a clash of brute strength but of will.

The Demon King’s guards pressed forward with relentless force, their strikes heavy enough to break stone, their aura suffocating. But the humans bent, absorbed, struck back. Their unity turned the impossible into survivable. Every man fought not alone, but as part of something greater.

The palace groaned under the strain, black walls quivering as if resisting the presence of light within its heart. The crimson glass trembled with each explosion, shards falling like blood onto the battlefield below.

In the center, Khali carved a path of destruction. His glaive split a line of halberds, his roar shaking the hall. Yet his every step was answered—not with fear, but with steel. Armand himself met him at the front, his halberd locking against the crimson glaive, sparks flying. Behind Armand, three more Guards braced, their weapons stabbing forward to force Khali’s retreat.

He did not retreat. But he also did not advance.

The balance was held.

And in that moment, it became clear: this was no mere battle of survival. The humans had entered the Devil King’s palace, and though the shadows pressed to consume them, they had not been swallowed. With every strike, with every defiant cry, they carved a truth into the stone of this cursed throne hall—

That even in the abyss, light could stand unbroken.