Parallel Memory

Chapter 622: The Champions Boast

The Champion’s Boast

The chamber was too quiet, too heavy. The suffocating darkness pressed in from every direction, broken only by the faint glow of Lisa’s Soterei blessing that flickered like a fragile lantern. The devil sat unmoving on his stone seat, his wings slightly curled like a predator pretending to rest, horns gleaming faintly in the dark. His eyes glowed faintly red—half-lidded, unreadable, as though watching ants squabble over crumbs.

But the silence didn’t last long.

Because Loren Vance stepped forward.

He felt the gazes of the group burn into his back as he pushed through them, taking those deliberate steps toward the center of the chamber. His pulse was hammering in his throat, but he didn’t let them see that. He forced a confident grin onto his face, lifted his chin high, and tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword. If the devil wanted a champion, then who better than him?

The wolf was already there—its shadowy mass looming out of the gloom, easily two and a half meters tall at the shoulder, its body a walking abyss of fur darker than any night. Its scar, a cruel gash across its right cheek, seemed to glow faintly, as if etched by fire that refused to heal. And the name the devil had spoken for it still echoed in his ears:

Erebus

The Black Wolf of Ruin.

Even saying its name made his skin crawl.

But still, a beast was a beast. Loren could face that. A devil... no, that was something else entirely. He’d made the right choice stepping up. If he triumphed—or even if he fell with some grace—the story would follow him back home. His name would not be forgotten.

He stopped a short distance from the wolf and drew his blade in one sharp motion, letting the steel catch the dim light. He turned his head slightly, letting his voice ring through the chamber, not just for the beast or the devil—but for his companions too. They had to see his worth. They had to remember him.

”I stand as champion,” Loren declared, voice booming with carefully crafted confidence. ”Not merely as one among this group of so-called geniuses—but as Loren Vance, heir of Moonspring’s proudest line!”

His words struck the silence like sparks. He could feel their stares—Hiro’s firm, unreadable gaze; Zion’s clenched jaw; Mia’s cool but sharp eyes; Sylvia’s narrowed suspicion. Even Lisa tilted her head, a faint glimmer of amusement on her lips.

Good. Let them look. Let them know who he was.

”I am the son of Virgil Vance, guildmaster of the Platinum-graded guild Moonspring!” he continued, his voice swelling. ”S-Rank guildmaster, undefeated in a hundred duels, whose name echoes across the Human Domain! Blood of his blood flows in me, and his legacy shall be mine to carry forth!”

Erebus’s burning eyes didn’t so much as blink. The devil’s lips curved faintly, as though indulging an amusing performance. Loren ignored them both. His speech wasn’t for them.

”I am a top student of the Academy of Moonspring! No scholar, no swordsman, no mage has outmatched me in skill or theory. The halls of the academy know my name, and the generations to come will remember it as well! I am Loren Vance, the one destined to rise above them all!”

He swung his blade up, pointing the edge directly at Nyxrend. His arm trembled faintly, but he masked it behind a forceful glare.

”And mark this day, beast! Mark it, devil! This is the day Loren Vance takes the first step toward the title of Guildmaster. This is the day the son surpasses the father! The day Moonspring’s heir proves his worth in battle against darkness itself!”

His words echoed until the chamber itself seemed to hold its breath.

And then, faintly—choked back, but there—he heard Sylvia and Lisa snort. Hiro’s lips twitched, caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. Even Zion’s stony face cracked with something like disbelief. Only Mia’s eyes stayed sharp, unreadable, though he thought he saw the faintest flicker of irritation—no, wariness—at how loudly he was making himself a target in front of such a foe. For some reason, Misha seemed to show no reaction.

But that didn’t matter. Let them mock, let them doubt. Every hero needed skeptics to make the triumph sweeter.

Loren held his head high and drove his voice louder.

”Remember this name! Loren Vance! Son of Virgil Vance, heir of Moonspring, top student, swordsman unmatched! The next guildmaster, and the one who will defeat this beast!”

Erebus’s lips peeled back, revealing massive fangs that gleamed white even in the dark. The growl that followed reverberated like thunder across the chamber floor, low and deep enough to make the ground itself tremble.

For the briefest moment, Loren’s mouth went dry. But he refused to step back.

Instead, he set his stance, forcing calm into his limbs. He didn’t let the wolf’s monstrous size shake him. He remembered every duel, every spar, every lecture from the academy. He remembered the way his father looked down at him sometimes, disappointed, as though he weren’t quite enough yet. That memory alone stoked a fire in him hotter than fear.

Better to fall in battle than to live forever in that shadow.

Behind him, his companions whispered.

”...he’s not serious,” Sylvia muttered.

”At least he’s not running,” Zion said.

”He talks too much,” Mia remarked flatly.

”Still,” Hiro said quietly, his voice low but carrying enough weight for them all to hear, ”he’s not running.”

And standing he was. Sword in hand, heart hammering in his ribs, Loren Vance prepared to face Erebus, the Black Wolf of Ruin. He could feel the devil’s gaze like burning coals on his back, measuring, amused, waiting.

But he wouldn’t falter. Not now.

He raised his blade high, the steel trembling faintly in the half-light.

”I am Loren Vance!” he roared, voice echoing against the stone. ”And I will not yield!”

The chamber itself seemed to tighten around them, the moment stretched on a knife’s edge—boast against growl, pride against terror, man against beast.

And somewhere deep inside, despite the bravado, despite the pride and the declaration—Loren knew this was the moment his life would be measured.

Not by his lineage. Not by his academy record. Not even by his father’s shadow.

But by the clash of his sword against the fangs of Erebus.

And he swore—swore with every fiber of his being—that he would not let that clash make a fool of him.

Not here. Not now.

Not in front of them all.