They said it happened five thousand years ago.
A war so vast, the stars themselves turned their faces from it. A time when the Demon Realm and the Mortal Realm were one, stitched together by chaos, greed, and ambition.
Daemon stared up at the ceiling of his cold, temporary prison. The gold-painted angels of the Holy Temple looked down on him with perfect, frozen smiles.
Back then, the world was a single continent. Mortals lived beside demons, and the sky didn't know who it favored. The demons weren't monsters—they were rulers. And humans?
They wanted more.
So they prayed.
And the goddess Gaia listened.
She didn't descend. She sent a sword.
A boy born of light, raised in fire.
His name was Michael—the first and only Myth Star Hero. A creature shaped by divinity. Armor of gold, wings of flame, voice like thunder.
He gathered kings under his banner. Rallied saints. Purged bloodlines. He turned entire nations into crusaders.
And across from him stood one man.
The Demon King.
Not a beast. Not a snarling caricature of evil.
He was reason. Strategy. Power wrapped in silence. The only being who refused to kneel, even as the world bowed to light.
They met under the twin moons—one red, one silver.
And they killed each other.
Or so the stories say.
Daemon closed his eyes.
Their battle didn't end the war. It froze it—like two blades caught mid-strike. Gaia sealed the Demon Realm, scattered its fragments to the edges of the world. And she declared.
"When the sky weeps black, the war will resume.
When the eclipse returns, so shall they."
The Eclipse Twins.
Daemon exhaled.
"Your Majesty, you cannot protect him forever!"
The nobleman's voice cracked, trembling beneath the stained-glass light of the temple chamber.
Dozens of voices rose behind him like a tide.
"He's a threat to the realm!"
"The demon king!"
"Put him down now—before the Demon King fully awakens!"
The crowd was hysterical. Priests, dukes, even old battle-hardened knights—begging. All united in a rare moment of fear, all staring at the boy who stood in the center of the room, soaked in holy water gone black.
Instead, he let out a soft, amused exhale. The kind that came before laughter.
Kill me? he thought. They can scream all they want. But he won't let it happen.
His crimson eyes turned toward the throne.
King Aleric Dominick III sat like a monolith, unmoving, silent. His jaw clenched tight behind his beard, his stare locked—not on the nobles—but on Daemon.
Daemon stepped forward once.
And then, with deliberate grace, he extended his hand.
Palm up. Eyes calm. Expression blank.
A child's gesture of trust.
But something in it made the king's eyes widen—just slightly.
Gasps fluttered through the nobles.
Bianca tensed beside the throne, her hand twitching at her side.
But Aleric... he didn't move.
Daemon's mouth curled into the softest smile. Not for the king—but for himself.
You saw it, he thought. Didn't you?
My hand. My eyes. That quiet defiance.
She looked just like this, too.
Aleric's voice finally broke the silence.
"He will not be executed."
Shock snapped through the room like a whip.
The nobles erupted again.
"Your Majesty—!"
"He's manipulating you!"
"He'll become the second coming of—!"
"Enough."
The king's voice boomed with command now.
"I will not strike down my own blood. Not today. Not like this."
The room fell into stunned silence.
And then—
"Then allow me," Saintess Lilac said softly, stepping forward.
All heads turned.
Her yellow eyes shimmered like molten gold. Her voice was gentle, sweet.
But Daemon saw it.
The hatred behind her smile.
"The boy's core is unstable. If left unchecked, it could consume him—and all of us. But I can stop it before that happens."
Aleric narrowed his eyes. "How?"
She placed a hand on her chest, humble, pious.
"I propose a rite. One older than our books. A test of will, spirit, and divine judgment."
"Seven days in the Sanctum of Light."
Gasps echoed. Even the bishop beside her flinched.
"That chamber's been sealed for decades," he said. "No one's survived longer than three days in it."
Lilac nodded. "If the boy is truly the Demon King reborn... the light will break him."
"And if not?" Aleric asked.
The bishop spoke up now, somber. "If he survives, the sacred runes within will brand him. Seal his inner core. Prevent full awakening."
Bianca's voice was the first to cut in after the silence.
"Would he... still be alive afterward?"
"Barely," the bishop answered.
The nobles murmured, uncertain. But no one opposed.
Because it was better than letting him walk free.
The king's silence sealed it.
He gave a single nod.
And with that, two Holy Guards stepped forward—cloaked in white, bearing radiant spears etched with divine glyphs. They moved without hesitation.
"By the will of His Majesty and the Church," one intoned, "Daemon Dominick will be taken to the Sanctum of Light. The Rite of Purification shall begin at dawn."
The crowd parted like waves, no longer screaming—but watching him like a spectacle.
As if he were already dead.
The guards seized his arms. Not rough, not gentle—just routine.
Daemon didn't resist.
Across the temple chamber, the nobles began to rise.
"All praise Prince Gabriel."
"Child of Radiance."
"The Hero reborn!"
The choir returned. The golden bells sang. Gabriel was lifted metaphorically—and almost literally—by the flood of admiration.
He turned to wave, light catching his features like a painting of divine royalty.
But his eyes flicked sideways.
Toward Daemon.
Their gazes met.
And in that brief second, Daemon smiled.
Not kindly.
Not weakly.
A smirk born of patience.
Gabriel's smile faltered, just for a blink.
Daemon said nothing, but his thoughts were loud enough to shake the sky.
Enjoy it, brother.
Bask in their love. Soak in their cheers. Savor every lie they feed you.
As he was dragged away, the cold marble underfoot echoing louder than any praise, Daemon's mind shifted.
That cursed sanctum...
He'd been there before.
In his past life, they had sent him there too. Said it was mercy. Said it was "for his own good."
He had almost died.
Seven days of agony. Of light that burned, voices that broke him, hallucinations that whispered madness.
I barely survived. That time... I had no plan.
But now?
Now he would need a way out.
He would endure.
He would lie.
He would bleed if he had to.
But he would not lose.
I need seven days. Seven days of freedom... and the saintess will give it to me herself.