The world stretched wide, open and endless beyond the stone walls of Varyndor.
For the first time in sixteen years, Daemon tasted air that wasn't soaked in politics or royal perfume. The scent of grass and wildflowers was sharp on his tongue, the wind cold and biting against his skin.
Carriages rattled along the merchant roads, carts overflowing with exotic spices and steel, peasants barking out prices to passing nobles, and mercenaries sharp-eyed for thieves.
Daemon didn't stop for any of them.
His black cloak fluttered behind him as his horse, Caldrin, trotted forward — steady, patient, the same way Daemon had learned to be. Each step away from the kingdom felt like peeling off old, dying skin.
By dusk, he left the roads behind, guiding his horse into the wild. The deeper he went, the quieter the world became. The only sound left was the steady rhythm of hooves and the occasional howl of distant beasts.
The stream came into view just as the sky turned violet.
Daemon dismounted, knelt by the water, and splashed his face. The cold stung, but it cleared his head.
He reached for the battered, leather-bound book at his side. The Book of the Demon King. The one the Saintess had buried behind holy walls and lies.
Daemon flipped through the last worn pages of the book, his fingers tense as the ink deepened — as if the words themselves had been waiting for him.
The truth hit harder than any blade.
In his past life, he'd thought the Saintess had sent him on those missions — seven cursed places scattered across the continent — to "cleanse evil" in the name of the Empire.
But the book called them something else.
The Seven Thrones of Sin.
Each place wasn't just a battlefield. They were graves. The shattered fragments of the Demon King's lost power, pieces of himself, scattered and sealed across the world.
And him?
The Saintess had used him like a dog, sending him to crush each fragment one by one, until Gabriel — polished and perfect — stood as the hero, while he bled, hunted, and burned in the shadows.
No wonder Gabriel had known exactly how to kill him in the end. The Saintess made sure of it.
Daemon's nails dug into the leather binding, almost tearing the page. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding as a bitter laugh clawed its way up.
"So that's all I was," he muttered darkly. "A knife to cut myself apart."
His eyes glinted cold as the weight of it all settled.
"But you made one mistake, Saintess..."
He ran a finger across the names, each one carved like a scar onto the parchment.
"...You trained the wrong fool. The man you used wanted to be a hero."
His voice dropped lower, sharp with quiet fury.
"But this time, I'll be the devil the world deserves."
The wind rattled the leaves around him as the sky dimmed, and his voice sank to a whisper.
"I won't destroy them. I'll reclaim them. Every last piece."
His lips curled into a slow, vicious grin.
"And when I'm whole... I'll start with you."
The forest stretched wide around him, ancient and silent, save for the crackle of the small campfire he'd built beneath the twisted limbs of an old hollow oak. The sun had long since bled out behind the hills, leaving only silver moonlight to light the path.
Daemon sat calmly beside the flames, one knee pulled up, sharpening the worn, short sword he'd carried since childhood — the same blade that once fit perfectly into his small, trembling hands. Now it felt light, almost fragile in his grip.
"It's been four years," he murmured to the blade, turning it toward the moonlight.
"Since I've fed you blood."
A sharp smile crept across his lips.
"But tonight's your lucky day."
The air shifted. The wind carried more than cold. It carried bloodlust.
He didn't bother turning his head — he could feel them. Eleven signatures. Flickers of life force cloaked in ill-trained restraint, scattered in the dark like wolves circling wounded prey. Their breathing was shallow, controlled — but not enough.
His crimson eyes gleamed under the firelight as he slowly stood, brushing dirt from his coat.
"Assassins," he muttered, as if the word itself bored him.
"Mother must've sent the leftovers this time."
The branches creaked under the soft weight of hidden bodies. Steel glinted from one shadow to another, subtle, almost imperceptible — but Daemon felt them like thorns under his skin. He didn't even raise the sword yet.
A lone bird shrieked into the cold night — and the first blade came flying. A curved dagger, meant for his throat.
Daemon didn't flinch. His body tilted barely an inch to the left, the blade slicing past his cheek, drawing a single bead of blood.
"One," he whispered.
The forest erupted.
The assassins lunged from every angle — blades drawn, Aura barely contained, their strikes precise and merciless. But Daemon moved like a shadow cutting through fog. His sword met the first throat before the attacker even registered the motion.
A spatter of hot blood hit the dirt.
The second assassin aimed for his blind side — Daemon let the blade graze his shoulder, spinning into the strike to drive his own sword straight into the man's chest.
Two.
The others hesitated. His blood was dripping, but his smile only widened.
"You waited too long," he whispered.
The night smelled of copper and smoke. By the time the fifth assassin fell, Daemon wasn't even winded — the blade that once felt like a training sword now dripped steadily, cutting through them like meat sacks. Their moves were polished, but compared to him?
Predictable.
A faint tremble spread across the soil as the last four hesitated, circling him like jackals, unsure whether to run or risk dying as poorly as their comrades.
Daemon's fingers loosened on the sword hilt.
"No more warm-ups," he whispered.
His shadow stretched unnaturally across the dirt, twisting, unfurling like a beast waking from hibernation. The faint light from the dying campfire flickered — and from the void of his shadow, long, jagged talons bloomed. Three meters of pulsing darkness, sharp enough to tear not just flesh, but the soul trapped inside.
"Eclipse Claw."
The assassins didn't even have time to scream.
The claws lashed out, severing arms from shoulders, heads from necks, slicing torsos clean in half. The ground soaked red as the whispers of dying thoughts echoed back to Daemon, like soft murmurs in his ears.
Their last emotions flooded him — panic, regret, disbelief.
He tilted his head slightly, listening, savoring every word.
And then it was silent.
Except for one.
A slow clap broke the quiet.
From the treeline, a lone figure stepped out, boots sinking into the blood-slicked earth. The man lowered his hood, revealing sharp features, pale skin, and eyes Daemon had memorized in his childhood.
Noah.
The so-called tutor. The man who'd once stood before him, teaching him how to control Aura like a humble mentor. Now here, blade drawn, eyes sharp with hatred.
Daemon blinked — pretending for just a second to be surprised.
"Noah," he breathed. "I never thought you'd be the one crawling out from under the rock tonight."
Noah's jaw tightened.
"You demon... I should have killed you when I had the chance — when you were still pretending to be human."
Daemon's expression fell, eyes wide, feigning deep betrayal.
"...You wound me, Professor. After all the lessons, all that fatherly advice... I even thought you cared."
A long pause.
Then Daemon's lips curled into a sharp, humorless grin.
"You were so easy to fool."
Noah stepped forward, blade raised, voice steady and full of loathing.
"This ends here. You won't leave this forest."
Daemon's crimson eyes glinted with manic joy. He tilted his head, almost mockingly, the blood from his previous victims still warm on his face.
"Ends?" Daemon echoed, stretching his arms lazily.
"No, old man,this is where the real dance starts."
He flexed his fingers and the dark, talon-like shadows sharpened around him once more.
"Let's dance, Noah."
His voice dropped to a cold, sharp whisper.
"Bring it on."