Daemon woke into silence.
Not the kind of silence that came with sleep or solitude—but something heavier.
Black. Infinite. Cold.
He stood in what could only be described as an abyss—a space with no sky, no ground, no weight. His breath echoed like it didn't belong.
And then, he felt it.
A ripple.
Like the air itself bowed.
Something was coming.
From the void ahead, a figure emerged. Not walking—forming.
A cloak of shadows, its face obscured by swirling darkness. Where a face should be, stars blinked, as if the void itself were wearing a crown of dying galaxies.
Daemon smiled.
"It's you."
The Entity didn't answer.
Daemon stepped forward, his voice low.
"You brought me back. You gave me this second chance."
Still, no reply.
"So this isn't a dream?" Daemon asked, scanning the endless dark. "All this... pain. Memory. The death I remember. This life I'm living. It's real?"
Finally, the Entity spoke.
Its voice was layered—like dozens of voices whispering at once, speaking through a broken cathedral bell.
"This is reality, Daemon. And your return was no accident."
Daemon narrowed his eyes. He folded his arms.
"There's no such thing as a free gift."
The Entity tilted its head.
"Good. You're smarter than the last time."
Daemon nodded. "So tell me. Why bring me back? Why me?"
The void pulsed again.
"Because you were once a king. A sovereign of night. The last ruler of the demon realm. And now you walk in a world that has forgotten you."
Daemon's breath caught for a moment.
"You mean the Demon King," he said quietly.
The Entity said nothing.
Daemon's lips curled upward.
"So... what? You want me to wear the crown again?"
"I want you to remember who wore it first."
Daemon laughed—a cold, echoing sound.
"And here I thought I was rewriting my story," he said. "Not reenacting it."
He paused.
Then his eyes narrowed. "You... you were the voice in my soul. The one Lilac tried to seal in my past life. Weren't you?"
The Entity tilted its head slightly.
"I was once more. I will be more again. But now? I am your tether. Your truth. Your shadow."
Daemon's fists clenched.
"What do you want from me?"
The voice deepened.
"Nothing... yet. But if you wish to remember the truth of what you were—and what you're meant to become—you must reclaim what was stolen."
"Stolen?"
"The Book of the Abyss. Written by your former self. Sealed away by the church. Hidden beneath the holy temple five thousand years ago."
The words cut through Daemon like steel.
The Entity stepped closer.
"Find it. Read it. And you will remember the power that bent worlds and silenced gods."
Daemon's pulse slowed.
He smiled darkly. "And if I do?"
"Then you will not become a king again."
"You will become a god."
•••
Daemon gasped as his eyes snapped open, sweat trailing down his temple.
He was back in his room. The floor cold. His fingers trembling—not from fear.
From excitement.
He exhaled slowly and whispered to himself:
"The book... it's time to get it back."
Deamon walk out of his chamber.
The palace halls were unusually quiet.
Daemon stood near the threshold of the main corridor, tugging on the dark cloak he'd draped over his shoulders. His aura had finally stabilized after the fight with Gabriel, but something inside him still pulsed—restless, like a second heartbeat.
His personal maid approached, bowing low.
"Your Highness, shall I prepare your bath now that the training session is done?"
Daemon turned his gaze to her, feigning fatigue.
"I'm heading to the temple," he said. "The battle earlier... stirred something in my chest. I want to pray."
The maid blinked in surprise but nodded quickly. "Of course. Shall I inform Her Majesty?"
Daemon shook his head. "No. Just say I needed fresh air."
"Yes, Your Highness."
She stepped away, and Daemon walked briskly toward the lower wing of the palace.
He didn't need to pray.
He needed to dig up a buried war.
The stable still smelled like warm hay and oiled leather.
Daemon paused at the doorway, staring at the rows of saddled horses. For a second, a flicker of memory returned—a younger version of himself, laughing as he raced Gabriel through the eastern woods, the wind tearing through his hair, the guards shouting behind them.
That boy had been foolish.
This time, he wouldn't be caught.
He selected a dark brown stallion—Caldrin, if memory served—and ran his fingers gently down its flank.
"I trained you," Daemon murmured. "Let's see if you remember me."
Climbing up was awkward. His body, only twelve, didn't carry the same weight or strength. But he was lean, and light, and the muscle memory still echoed in his limbs.
He gritted his teeth and urged the reins.
The horse whinnied once and took off, galloping out the side path and down the old forest trail behind the castle walls.
The trees blurred as Daemon rode hard, wind biting at his face.
He remembered this route—the smuggler's trail, one he'd used during secret missions in his past life. It circled behind the lower district, leading toward a crumbling stone road that pointed straight to the outskirts of the holy capital.
There, at its center, stood the Temple of Elyria.
A white spire piercing the sky. Pure. Untouched. A monument of false light.
Daemon pulled his cloak tighter, the deep hood shadowing his face.
He slowed the horse once the city came into view, easing into the scattered fields and merchant roads. The peasants passed by him without a second glance—just another cloaked traveler headed to pray.
But he wasn't coming to kneel.
He was coming to take back what belonged to him.
And from the distance, as the sun dipped behind the clouds, the silhouette of the temple began to rise—glimmering like a wound in the sky.
Daemon smirked beneath his hood.
"Let's see if they've kept my book warm."