Parallel Memory

The ground shook violently as another wave of devil foot soldiers poured through the yawning portal, their clawed feet striking the dirt in a rhythm like war drums beaten by a hundred hands. The sound rolled across the Delta Outpost in a deep, thundering cadence, carrying with it the promise of violence. The air was thick with the stench of sulfur and burning flesh, each breath tasting faintly of ash and blood. Ahead of the human lines, guttural roars rose in unison, raw and bestial, drowning out even the clang of swords and the snap of bowstrings.

The first rank hit the barricades with the force of a tidal wave, their momentum splintering thick wooden shields and driving seasoned soldiers back a step, boots skidding in churned mud and blood. Cries of pain and anger mingled in the chaos, steel scraping against armor, and the wet, heavy sounds of blades finding flesh.

Hiro’s squad was already in motion—an island of precision amid the churning madness. Steel and magic interlaced in a deadly dance. Nock’s barrier spells flared bright blue over the front line, curved sheets of mana absorbing the crackling blasts of black fire hurled by enemy warlocks. Each barrier shimmered under impact, the air sizzling as corrupted energy dissipated harmlessly. Seraphine, her armor streaked with devil blood, lunged and spun with her long spear, each strike carving a clean, brutal path through two or three enemies at once, the weapon’s reach keeping her allies safe from sudden flanks.

Even Vance, whose pride had been wounded days earlier in his clash with Hiro, fought now with a reckless ferocity. His blade was a flicker of steel darting in and out of gaps in the enemy’s guard, the movements precise despite the chaos. This was not the cocky, self-assured duelist—this was a man fighting as if the outpost’s survival rested entirely on the edge of his sword.

But for every devil that fell, two more seemed to take its place. The enemy kept coming, undeterred, unending, their snarling ranks surging forward like a tide determined to erode the shore.

Mia’s sharp eyes moved constantly, scanning the entire field. She saw what others, lost in the heat of their own fights, could not: the way some soldiers’ steps faltered ever so slightly, the subtle hesitation before a counterstrike, the breathless grunts that came too soon in the rhythm of battle. The weaker-ranked combatants were pushing themselves beyond their limits just to hold the line, spending mana and stamina at a pace they could not maintain.

Her mind connected the dots instantly.

Her heart didn’t pound from fear—she’d seen too many battlefields for that—but from understanding. This isn’t their true assault.

The devils weren’t throwing these foot soldiers at them to win here and now. They were grinding the defenders down, testing defenses, exhausting their magic and their strength. Each wave was another pull at the thread, slowly unraveling the humans’ endurance until the inevitable killing blow could be delivered.

Her gaze snapped to the far end of the killing field, where the source of the infestation loomed—the portal. It towered over the battlefield like a wound in the world, a vast, shimmering tear in reality itself. Black-and-crimson light pulsed within it, the rhythm steady and unnatural, almost like the beat of a monstrous heart. Around the edges of the rift, twisting threads of dark mana crept and curled like living tendrils, feeding into the storm of energy that kept it open. Every few minutes, without fail, another detachment of devils marched through, their ranks unbroken, their faces lit by the hellish glow.