The king stared, his hollow sockets locked on Daemon.
There was a pause — the way Daemon had spoken, it wasn't casual. It was as if he knew Michael.
The king's voice sharpened.
"You speak of Michael... as if you've met him."
Daemon didn't answer. His expression stayed flat, his mind already working faster than his tongue.
There was no point explaining — the king didn't deserve to know the truth. That sword lying in the distance was the only thing that mattered now.
His hands clenched.
"Inverse Divinity."
A faint red glow pulsed from beneath his skin, sealing the worst of his wounds. His breathing steadied, but his body was barely hanging on. One wrong move, and the next swing would split him in two.
It was a gamble. But Daemon had always bet high when the odds were against him.
The king raised his sword once more, voice low with growing suspicion.
"Trying another trick, boy? You think I haven't seen through your games?"
The massive blade came down — a cut meant to finish it.
And Daemon, instead of dodging, stayed rooted in place.
His hands were raised, empty — the broken sword clattered to the stone at his feet.
The king paused mid-swing, the force of the halted blow sending a gust through the chamber, rattling bones and dust. His hollow voice cracked through the air:
"What are you doing, human? Why aren't you defending yourself?"
Daemon stood there, chest heaving, blood still dripping from the earlier wounds. He met the hollow sockets of the undead king's skull with a weary but calm stare.
"The truth?"
His voice was steady, but every word was a calculated step in the trap he was setting.
"I've always wanted this battle to be memorable. Something worth remembering... before I die."
The king's grip tightened, gauntleted fingers groaning against the hilt.
"Spare me the sentiment. What are you planning, human?"
Daemon gave the smallest smile, wiping a trickle of blood from his chin.
"That sword — your sword — it's not just steel to me. I grew up hearing the tale of this place. A story meant to scare children. But I never believed in it."
He paused, letting the words hang just long enough.
"Until I met you."
The skeleton king tilted his head slightly, unmoving, his sword still hovering near Daemon's throat.
"You speak as if you pity me."
"No." Daemon shook his head.
"I respect you."
His voice lowered, like a secret slipping from his lips.
"The world called you a monster. I know what that feels like."
The king's sword wavered, if only slightly.
"So what is it you want, boy?"
Daemon's eyes glinted, sharp beneath his blood-matted hair.
"A wish."
His tone softened, feigning sincerity.
"If I'm going to die here, let me die knowing that someone at least granted me one wish before the end."
The king paused, the weight of those words sinking into the hollowness where a heart once beat. After all, wasn't that what he'd wanted too — someone, anyone, to remember his sacrifice?
A long silence. Then the king lowered his blade slightly.
"I shall allow it. Speak."
Daemon's heart thumped once — slow, measured.
The gamble had worked.
And behind his calm expression, a devil's smirk was already forming.
"Bingo."
Daemon's voice came low, steady — like he'd thought this through a hundred times already.
"Can we fight on equal terms? You're holding a good sword... but I'm stuck with scraps. Let me touch the Demon King's blade — just once."
The skeleton king's grip tightened on his sword, the sharp creak of old metal echoing in the hollow chamber.
"That's an impossible request," the king replied coldly.
"I don't know what trick you're scheming, but I'm not stupid."
Daemon tilted his head, the faintest smirk flickering across his bruised face.
"Do you think I'm going to attack you?" His voice dropped, soft but cutting.
"Or are you... scared?"
The room seemed to tense.
The king's jaw clenched beneath the helmet, a hollow growl rattling his bones.
"Watch your tongue, boy. Your life is hanging by the edge of my blade don't tempt me to cut the thread."
Daemon shrugged, wiping a smear of blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
"Oh, I'm not tempting fate. Just observing. You look more afraid of that sword than you are of me."
That word — afraid — sank deep into the old king's pride.
A long silence followed.
Finally, the king's armored boots echoed across the stone floor. He stepped toward the altar, standing before the sword like a man facing an old rival. His skeletal hand hovered near the blade, fingers twitching slightly, as if even after five thousand years... it still unsettled him.
"This sword," the king muttered, voice lower, heavier.
"It doesn't obey. It never did. And the hands of those I sacrificed are the only thing that kept it from slipping free all these centuries."
The king glanced back at Daemon — hollow sockets locking onto his crimson eyes.
"Touch it if you want. But if the blade turns on you... don't expect me to mourn."
Daemon nodded once, silent and sharp, and stepped toward the altar.
The thousand dead hands gripping the sword pulsed, twitching, as if sensing his presence. But when the king placed his skeletal palm against the hilt, the hands began to loosen — one by one, their bony fingers peeling away, obedient to the king's long-forgotten command.
The sword was finally free.
Daemon reached out, fingers brushing against the cold, blackened steel.
No pulse.
No voice in his head.
No whisper of forgotten power.
Nothing.
His brow furrowed. He'd expected... something. Anything. The blade felt dead. Just a hunk of metal, dull and heavy in his palm.
The king tilted his head, watching.
"Strange," the king muttered.
"That blade should've torn your soul apart the moment you touched it. Yet — nothing. Not even a tremble."
Daemon let out a dry chuckle, the disappointment souring in his chest.
"So that's it?" He held the sword up, turning it slowly.
"I risked my life for a trash sword?"
The moment the word trash left his mouth — the room pulsed.
A low, violent hum rippled through the air.
The sword's black metal flickered, as if offended by the insult. The red lines along its edge ignited like molten veins, and the blade shot from Daemon's hands — floating midair, vibrating with murderous intent.
"That energy..." The king's voice dropped, brittle and uneasy.
"That's no ordinary aura. That's the Demon King's will."
Before Daemon could even blink, the blade shot forward, spearing straight through his abdomen.
The force sent him flying, slamming hard against the stone wall.
He coughed, warm blood spilling from his lips as he looked down at the sword embedded in his stomach. His vision blurred, the sharp edges of the world turning dim — but his mind was clear enough for one last thought:
"So you were awake after all..."
The blade quivered, as if it was listening.
And Daemon's smile — bloodstained, tired, and faint — curled at the corner.