Daemon leapt from the stone ledge, landing with a heavy thud at the base of the chasm. Dust and damp air hit his face as he stood upright, staring across the forgotten temple.
The blood river coiled lazily through the chamber, its surface glistening under faint torchlight — the same river that ran beyond the cliff, outside this cursed place.
"So this is it," Daemon muttered, eyes sweeping over the structure.
"Must've taken a magician, or a lunatic, to carve this pit into the world."
The stonework was ancient, rough but deliberate — the walls and ceiling stitched together with bones and blackened iron. The deeper he looked, the more unnatural it all felt.
But the moment of quiet didn't last.
A faint sound echoed through the dark.
Clack. Clack.
Like dry bones rattling against stone.
Daemon's expression flattened.
Of course. A dungeon wouldn't let him take its prize so easily.
From every shadow, every crack and hole in the walls, skeletons began to emerge. Dozens at first. Then hundreds. Their bones bleached pale, jaws hanging open as if mid-scream, weapons fused into their decaying hands.
Daemon stepped back, tensing. His heart didn't race — no, skeletons were the bottom of the food chain. Low-level monsters. Easy prey.
But as the horde closed in, something else crawled forward.
A tiny hand. Another. And another.
Daemon's gaze snapped downward.
Infants. Skeletal infants. Their heads tilted unnaturally sideways, jaws hanging slack, hollow eye sockets fixated on him.
His stomach tightened.
"No way."
"The king... sacrificed babies too?"
It wasn't just soldiers and villagers. The hands around the sword — the people who gave them — weren't all adults. They were children. Newborns. Sacrificed to protect one damned blade.
The thought didn't stall him for long. The first skeleton lunged.
Daemon moved on instinct, fists raised — channeling raw aura through his bones as he met the charge head-on. His master, Ash, had drilled this into him back in his past life:
If you can't reach your sword, your body becomes your blade.
The first few skeletons crumbled under his punches, ribcages collapsing like dry leaves. He ducked, rolled, crushed another with a kick so fierce it split the skull clean in half.
The rush of battle brought back muscle memory, but the swarm was endless.
One bony infant clamped onto his leg with its tiny jaw. Daemon snarled and drove his heel down, smashing its skull into powder. Another wave closed in.
His breathing was growing ragged. His knuckles split open from the strain.
His aura was burning low. He couldn't keep this up.
But then — among the shattered bones, something glinted.
A broken sword. Still sharp, buried in the remains of a skeleton knight.
Daemon snatched it up without hesitation, gripping the battered hilt tight.
"Let's see if your old bones can still cut."
The blade was chipped, stained black with rot — but sharp enough. His aura surged along its edge. His stance shifted, the exhaustion flickering behind his crimson eyes as he raised the weapon.
The skeletons didn't hesitate.
Neither did he.
Bones cracked, blades clashed, and shattered limbs scattered across the bloodstained floor. Daemon moved like a shadow wrapped in fury, cutting down the endless wave of skeletons. But as his blade tore through another brittle spine — a cold shiver crawled down his back.
Something was watching him.
Something with real killing intent.
His eyes flicked to the far end of the chamber, just as the last of the skeletons slowed, their jaws hanging slack as if waiting for a command.
Daemon exhaled, chest heaving — and then he felt it.
A pressure sharp enough to slice the air itself.
The ground trembled.
Out from the darkness, armored boots stomped against the stone. A figure stepped forward, towering over the swarm of broken dead — cloaked in iron so rusted it looked like dried blood.
A crown of tarnished bone sat on its skull.
The creature didn't lurch like the others. It stood tall, its hollow sockets gleaming faintly, and with a voice dry and ancient, it spoke.
"Who dares?"
Daemon's breath hitched.
A skeleton... that could talk?
The thing tilted its head, sword dragging behind it, voice cold as a tomb.
"Intruder. You approach the Demon King's blade. You tread on cursed ground."
Daemon's lips curled into a slow, dry smile, even as he wiped blood from his mouth.
"So you're the king," he said, voice sharp with mockery.
"The sick bastard who sacrificed his own people... just to babysit someone else's sword."
The skeleton froze. The room seemed to sink into silence.
Daemon chuckled darkly, spitting more blood onto the floor.
"And here I thought all the fairy tales were just to scare kids. Guess you're not a myth after all."
The king's jaw creaked into a slow grind, and the air thickened.
"You speak as though your life will last long enough to tell the tale."
The shift was instant. Aura surged from the armored corpse like a storm breaking loose — suffocating, ancient, and merciless.
Daemon's grin twitched. His hands tightened around his chipped blade.
"Oh, I don't plan on dying. Not today."
The king moved first.
The crown-wearing skeleton lunged, faster than anything its decaying frame should allow, the black-iron sword aimed straight for Daemon's chest.
Daemon barely raised his blade to parry, the impact sending him skidding across the stone. His back slammed against the temple wall, bones rattling from the shock.
He coughed, blood staining his lips.
"First the ogres. Now this."
His eyes locked onto the figure stalking toward him.
"Tch. I walked right into a royal graveyard."
The skeletal king stopped a blade's length away.
"You are not the first fool to seek the sword. But you will be the last."
Daemon's aura surged, dark and untamed, licking at his limbs like living shadow.
He straightened his spine, cracking his neck.
"No. I'm the only one who deserves it."
The two stood in silence, the air between them charged like a blade pressed to skin.
And when the next blow came — neither of them held back.