The temple was long behind him now.
Daemon sat beneath a lone tree near the river's edge, just off the hidden riding path. His horse grazed quietly nearby, oblivious to the storm brooding in his chest.
His hands trembled.
Blood ran from his split knuckles. His cloak was torn. His ribs ached with every breath.
Then—
He coughed hard—spat out a mouthful of black-red blood.
He leaned forward, bracing against the tree with shaking arms.
"Damn it…"
The bark bit into his palms as he clenched his fists.
His breath was ragged. His vision blurry.
And he was furious.
That wasn't just a loss.
That was a beating.
She overwhelmed me—faster, stronger, cleaner.
If she wanted me dead, I wouldn't be sitting here.
He slammed his fist against the earth.
Then again. Then again.
Until the grass was stained with blood.
"I used to be the elite soldier…" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I ruled armies. I shattered walls with my will. I ended monsters in a single strike."
His body trembled, not from fear—but from shame.
"And now look at me."
He glanced at his reflection in the river.
A pale-faced boy.
Exhausted.
Covered in cuts.
Twelve years old. A Fourth Star. Still crawling.
"I guess I was cooky"
He sat back against the tree and laughed bitterly.
"I thought I was smarter this time. Thought remembering made me strong. I thought being reborn meant I was chosen."
He looked at his hands.
Burned. Torn. Still healing from the Eclipse Claw.
"I wasn't chosen. I was warned."
Then his voice dropped, barely a whisper.
"But I didn't listen."
The river rippled beside him, quiet as a whisper.
Daemon sat there for a long while, blood drying on his hands, the sting of humiliation still fresh.
But slowly… something changed.
The pain was still there, but it stopped clawing at him.
It settled.
And then he smiled.
Then he laughed.
Low and quiet at first—then sharper, deeper, real.
"She could've killed me.If I hesitated once—if I swung a fraction too slow—It would've ended there."
And yet…
That thrill.
That edge-of-death clarity.
He hadn't felt it before since he regress.
Just one-on-one. Aura to aura.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, still smirking.
"Finally," he muttered. "A reminder I'm not untouchable."
He stood slowly, joints popping from the effort. His body protested, but he swung himself up onto the saddle anyway.
The horse snorted beneath him but didn't resist.
Daemon patted its neck. "Let's go."
The city skyline rose in the distance—spire after spire gleaming in the afternoon sun.
But his eyes were fixed higher—on the temple at the center, and the sealed archives beneath it.
I'm not ready yet, he thought, tightening his grip on the reins.
But I will be.
No more reckless shows of power.
No more wasted blood.
He kicked lightly.
The horse began to trot.
And Daemon rode toward the heart of the capital—not as a prince…
…but as a hunter preparing for his next prey.
•••••
The city gates rose behind him like a pair of judging eyes.
Daemon passed through them without a word, hood drawn low, horse slow beneath him. He didn't take the main road. He took the back alleys—the ones where no one dared to look a cloaked boy in the eyes.
Every hoofbeat echoed in his chest.
His arms ached. His hands were still bandaged. His ribs—cracked, maybe. His core was burning quietly in the pit of his soul, like a forge that had been pushed too far.
One wrong breath and I'll rupture it.
The palace gates welcomed him in silence.
Servants bowed. Maids whispered.
But no one dared ask where he'd been.
Inside his chamber, Daemon collapsed against the wall, gasping. He slid to the floor, cloak pooling beneath him.
He closed his eyes and dropped into meditation immediately.
Inside his mind, his Astral Core pulsed violently—like a bleeding heart. Cracks had formed around it. His aura spun unevenly, light and dark fighting in every loop.
Too much divine pressure.
"That damn women"
But he breathed—slow, deep, focused.
One hand pressed against the floor. The other over his chest.
He whispered his new technique—
"Inverse Divinity."
The red light glowed faintly inside him, coiling around the cracks. Not healing, not fully—but containing.
He gritted his teeth. Blood ran from his nose.
He didn't stop.
Hours passed.
Until—
Stability.
Daemon opened his eyes. It was morning.
His body ached. But he could stand.
He walked to the mirror, looked at his reflection.
"You're not a demon king yet," he muttered.
"But you're getting closer."
He washed his face. Dressed slowly.
Then—a knock.
A maid's voice on the other side of the door:
"Your Highness… a letter. It's from the Holy Temple. Marked urgent."
Daemon took it in silence.
Opened it.
Read the first line—
Then smiled.
She's still stalling.
"Ah lilac she's playing with fire"
And that's when the idea came to him.
Not sudden.
Not random.
But perfectly placed.
She still has something to lose…
Something pure.
Let's see what happens when I poison it.