The sound of hoofbeats echoed over cobblestone as Daemon pulled the hood of his cloak lower, his face lost beneath the shadows. His horse clopped quietly along the narrow edge of the merchant quarter—just far enough from the main patrol routes, where royal soldiers in white-plated armor marched in formation.
He couldn't risk being seen.
Not yet.
The streets were bustling. Bakers shouting prices. Street performers juggling. Peasants bowing to passing knights. He rode through them like a ghost—silent, unnoticed.
Then he took a left at a crooked alley and let the reins slacken.
Because there it was.
The forge.
Still standing. Still ugly.
Rurik's Iron Pit—an old blacksmith shop wedged between a spice stall and a candle maker. Its roof was uneven, chimney coughing black smoke into the sky. The sign hanging above the door was barely legible from years of rust and ash.
Daemon dismounted and tied the reins to the post.
He pushed the door open and stepped into a furnace of heat and noise.
The clang of hammer on steel. Sparks flying.
And there he was.
Old Man Rurik.
Muscles like stone. Hair gray and wild. Covered in soot, shirtless even in the cold. Still cursing to himself like the forge owed him money.
Daemon almost smiled.
You were the first to hand me a weapon in that life, he thought. And the first to call me a fool for using it.
Rurik didn't look up. "Shop's closed to brats."
Daemon stepped forward. "I'm not here for kindness."
That made the old man pause.
He looked up, squinting through the smoke. "You got coin?"
Daemon tossed him a small pouch. The weight hit the anvil with a clink.
"I need a blade. Not fancy. Not fragile. Something that's useful for my size."
Rurik grunted. "You don't sound like your age brat."
Daemon smirked under the hood. "Maybe it's puberty."
Rurik studied him for a moment, then spat into the corner.
He turned, rummaged through the clutter, and pulled a short steel sword off the rack—no jewels, no polish, just honest metal and edge.
"Used this one myself. Still holds. It'll cut through lies better than bone."
He offered the sword like he was handing over a burden.
Daemon reached out and gripped the hilt.
It was heavier than he expected. Familiar. Like shaking hands with an old version of himself.
"You sure you know how to swing it, boy?" Rurik asked.
"I was born swinging," Daemon replied.
The blacksmith snorted. "Then get out of my forge and don't die like a noble."
Daemon nodded once.
As he stepped out into the light again, the sword now sheathed beneath his cloak, he whispered to himself.
"First piece claimed. Now for the rest."
*****
[Lilac's POV]
"Your Grace... the prince is asking for you."
The words stopped Lilac in her tracks.
She was halfway through morning scripture when the maid whispered it in her ear, trembling. Not because the prince had come unannounced.
But because they all remembered.
The room seemed colder now. The air, thinner.
Lilac turned slowly. "Daemon?"
The maid nodded. "He's waiting in the outer garden. He said it was... urgent."
Lilac's hand trembled slightly over the page. She folded the scripture shut and exhaled softly.
He survived the ritual. He bit my ear off. He crushed my will. And now... he wants tea?
She composed herself quickly.
No fear. Not in front of the staff.
"Bring the good set," she said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear—the missing one. "And excuse all the others from the garden. This conversation is for my ears alone."
.....
The Temple's inner garden was just as he remembered—a lie dressed in lilies.
Vines crawled over white pillars. Sunlight spilled in from the open ceiling above. Birds sang somewhere distant, but their song felt muted.
Daemon sat beneath the marble gazebo, the shadows of the stone goddess above him casting a delicate halo over his head.
Irony.
He sipped the tea—fragrant jasmine, poured in porcelain too dainty for someone like him.
And then she entered.
Saintess Lilac.
Hair braided in gold thread. Gown pure white. Expression carefully serene.
He watched her closely.
She wasn't breathing quite right.
"Your Highness," she greeted with a small curtsy. "This is... unexpected."
Daemon smiled faintly. "I thought I'd pay a visit. I was in the area. The breeze reminded me of our last meeting."
Her spine straightened slightly.
"I remember it well," she said, pouring herself tea.
"You bled more than I expected," he added casually.
She didn't flinch—but her fingers clenched slightly around the teacup.
Daemon sipped his again, then leaned back. "So, how's life treating our blessed saintess? Still dreaming of paradise?"
Lilac nodded politely. "The temple is peaceful. The days are full. Sometimes too quiet."
Daemon hummed. "Sounds dull."
"You came all this way just to ask about my schedule?"
He tilted his head. "Why not? Maybe I missed you."
That earned a twitch in her eye. "And the guards? Your escort?"
"I left them behind. I don't need them when I'm among friends."
Lilac laughed once—short, dry.
"I'm sure you have many of those now."
Daemon didn't respond.
For a moment, the silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of birdsong and the rustle of wind through leaves.
Lilac finally spoke. "You said this was urgent?"
Daemon smiled.
And set the empty teacup down.
"Let's talk about a book. A very old one. With a cover made of ash and chains."
Lilac blinked, her fingers frozen mid-sip.
"The... book?" she repeated softly, voice unsure.
Daemon leaned forward, eyes glowing faintly under his hood.
"Yes," he said calmly. "The Book of the Demon King. I'm done playing nice."
Lilac's brow furrowed. "I... I don't know what you're talking abou—"
Steel scraped wood.
Daemon drew the short sword Rurik had given him and pointed it straight at her neck.
"Wrong answer."
Her eyes widened, but she didn't scream. Didn't run.
Daemon's voice dropped an octave. "Maybe I should've eaten the other ear. Would that make you remember?"
Lilac's composure cracked—but only for a moment.
She set her teacup down gently, stood, and held up her hands in a calming gesture.
"Put the sword down," she said, voice tight. "Daemon, listen to me. That book does exist. But it's sacred. It's been sealed in the Temple Archives for over five thousand years. Only the Saintess chosen by the goddess may even look at it. And even then, it's protected by—"
"I didn't ask who it belonged to," Daemon interrupted. "I asked where it was."
Dark aura began to hiss off his body—like smoke escaping cracks in glass. The shadows around him warped, the white light of the garden flickering unnaturally.
Lilac backed a step.
"Daemon, stop," she said. "That aura—it's not natural. If you keep pushing, you'll—"
"'Consume me'?" Daemon laughed, but the sound was hollow, bitter. "That's what you said last time, isn't it?"
Lilac hesitated. "...What?"
The teacup between them had gone still. No more words, no more fake warmth.
Only tension.
His grip on the sword tightened.
Then he remember his past life,This temple... this cursed garden...
I used to kneel here—barefoot, blindfolded,
He thought.
trembling—while she sealed the thing growing inside me.
And I thought she was saving me.
Thought the saintess cared.
But it was her.
She told Gabriel about the thing inside me. The instability. The darkness I couldn't always hold back.
He used it against me. Told me to unleash everything on the battlefield—said it would make me a hero.
Instead, it made me a monster. Gave the world a reason to hate me. To fear me.
To execute me.
His eyes narrowed, rage flaring beneath his calm expression.
And she just stood there. Watching it happen.
Lilac took a cautious step forward. "Daemon, don't—"
He moved.
The blade whistled through the air, silver slicing through green.
Lilac twisted back in an instant, her white robes fluttering as she leapt over the bench. Her hand flicked out, summoning a ripple of divine energy into her palm.
"Give me back my book, woman," Daemon growled, voice low and sharp.
Her lips parted in disbelief. "You're not thinking clearly. Don't force me to—"
He stepped closer.
She straightened her back, hands glowing brighter now. "You think I'm bluffing? I was chosen by the goddess herself."
BOOM!
Their energies clashed—black smoke and golden radiance swirling in the garden air like opposing storms.
He just watched her—cold, measured.
She's not bluffing, he thought.
Lilac was never one for empty threats.
She wasn't called the Saintess of Radiant Judgment for nothing in his past life.
He could feel it—the weight in the air, the golden pressure swirling just beneath her skin. Her aura was already flaring, light dancing between her fingertips like heat lightning.
Six-Star. Definitely.
Not as powerful as she was in her prime, but close.
And still two full stars above me.
He rolled his shoulder slowly, loosening the grip on his sword.
This isn't a fight I can win.
And yet, his smirk returned.
Am I a masochist ?
He thought.
But I don't need to win.
I just need to see her move. Feel her patterns again. Confirm if she still fights like she did back in my past life.And if she doesn't—well... I'll adjust.
He raised his sword lazily and tilted his head.
"Then go ahead," he said. "Show me what makes you so divine."