The morning sun cracked through the dense ceiling of leaves, streaking pale light across the dirt path as Daemon rode.
His cloak rippled behind him like a shadow stretching free, and Caldrin — the dark stallion — moved without effort, hooves grinding dried leaves and scattered bones underfoot. The forest air was crisp, but Daemon barely noticed.
His mind wasn't on the road. It hadn't been for hours.
The thought circled him like a vulture: his swordsmanship.
In his last life, he'd learned the royal styles of Varyndor — clean, sharp, the kind of blade work that had turned farm boys into knights and knights into war heroes. He'd relied on those drills, those patterns, that muscle memory. But now? Those same movements were chains.
The royal style wasn't just efficient, it was recognizable.
Too recognizable.
Any seasoned warrior, mercenary, or noble scout would spot it the moment his blade sang through the air. One mistake, one witness, and the news would crawl back to the capital faster than a corpse to a grave.
"I've been relying on eclipse claw I need new skills"
Daemon's lips tugged into a dry smile.
It was laughable, in a way. All those years of learning, wasted the moment he outgrew the palace walls. The techniques that once made him proud would now be the rope around his neck.
No. He wouldn't make that mistake.
Just like he'd created Inverse Divinity — twisting healing magic into a weapon — his sword would need the same treatment.
A new language.
A new rhythm.
A style that didn't belong to Varyndor, or to any kingdom at all.
A style that didn't belong to heroes.
A style designed for one thing: silent, efficient slaughter.
No mercy. No glory. No witnesses.
Only then would he be ready to carve through the enemies standing between him and the fragments of the Demon King's power.
Daemon tightened his grip on the reins as Caldrin trotted on.
The forest stretched endlessly, dense and wild, with no roads, no maps, and no signs of civilization. Only the sound of Caldrin's hooves cutting through the underbrush kept Daemon company, and the cold bite of the wind clawing at his cloak. His breath came out in soft puffs, steady and unhurried — a predator at ease in his element.
He wasn't rushing.
A new chapter of his journey had begun, and this time, there was no room for weakness.
Before hunting fragments, before confronting kings or saints — his blade needed to evolve, his body needed to sharpen, and his instincts had to return to their truest, cruelest state.
The world outside the royal walls was built on strength, and only strength. Power was currency here, and Daemon intended to bankrupt every creature he met.
As the sun dipped lower, the scent of wet earth and iron crept into the wind. He tightened Caldrin's reins and narrowed his eyes at the horizon.
Beyond the ridge, shadowed by ancient pines and half-hidden by fog, stood the twisted wooden ramparts of a village.
Not human.
The walls were too tall, reinforced with bones and sharpened stakes — and the towering gates were covered in deep, swirling carvings, almost artistic if not for the brutal meaning behind them. Scenes of hunts, blood rites, and feasts.
Figures knelt under the clawed hands of their conquerors. A single totem of carved ivory, worn smooth by age and rain, stood sentry before the village: the image of an ogress queen.
Daemon pulled Caldrin to a halt at the treeline, the horse pawing at the dirt, sensing the scent of predators on the wind.
The Village of the bloodmaw Ogresses.
In his past life, this place had barely been a whisper, a tale passed around campfires by mercenaries and monster hunters. A tribe that bred warriors through blood and bone, feeding on human flesh to perfect their strength. The were-ogresses — half-human, half-monstrosity — who lived and died by the rule of dominance.
Daemon's lips curled into a slow smile.
Perfect.
"Training partners with meat on their bones," he muttered, swinging off Caldrin's back. The stallion snorted, uneasy, but Daemon patted its neck and whispered, "Easy. I'll be back before the moon's bored."
He walked toward the village, hands resting lazily on the hilt of his worn sword, that old royal steel — a relic of his childhood, soon to be abandoned. But not yet. First, he'd feed it. One last time.
His eyes traced the fading light in the sky as he walked, the carved gates looming taller with every step. Behind those walls, he could already feel the pull of living cores — pulsing, strong, wild. The aura of monsters, ripe and waiting to be harvested.
Daemon's voice was barely a whisper to himself, but the forest seemed to listen.
"Let's see how much I've rotted in four years."