The hunger stopped feeling like hunger by the end of the third day.
Daemon's stomach no longer growled. It simply... ached. Quietly. Constantly.
The scent of dried blood still lingered in his nose. The bile had dried on the floor where he'd last vomited, crusting against the white marble like a curse.
The glyphs on the walls kept pulsing—brighter now, more frequent.
Like the room could sense he was weakening.
And then the hallucinations began.
He was back on the battlefield.
Past life.
Steel. Fire. Screams.
The flags of the human armies fluttered behind him—gold and white, the sigil of House Vaelstrom. His cape was torn. His left arm hung limp. His eyes burned with demonic aura, and yet—
He still held the line.
For them. Always for them.
He remembered it now. The look in the eyes of the soldiers who once called him "prince" as they shackled his hands after the war.
He had been their hero. Until he was too powerful.
Until his core mutated from divine flame to abyssal dark.
Until Gabriel smiled as they dragged him away.
Back in the sanctum, Daemon's lips cracked into a crooked grin.
"...Bastards."
The door opened again.
No words this time.
Just pain.
The bishops didn't speak. They didn't need to.
Two of them stepped forward and placed their hands on his chest.
Holy glyphs flared to life.
And they burned him alive.
The divine light poured into him like molten glass, ripping through his Astral Channels, flooding his nerves with unbearable heat.
He arched in the straitjacket, gasping, teeth grinding against each other so hard he thought they might crack.
One of the priests whispered, "The saintess said to test his soul. We're only following orders."
Daemon didn't scream.
But he did break.
Internally.
Something in his core—twisted.
And then... it responded.
He inhaled.
Not air.
The light.
The divine energy flowing into him—he pulled it deeper, dragging it into the pit of his Astral Core like a black hole swallowing a sun.
It stung. It tore.
But it settled.
And then... it healed him.
Tiny. Subtle. Barely noticeable. But his ribs didn't throb as much. The bleeding inside his gut? Slowed.
The priests pulled back, stunned.
Daemon slumped forward. He was trembling. His jaw tight. But he was alive.
One of the bishops whispered, "How the hell... did he survive that?"
Daemon's head tilted, breath ragged.
"...Maybe I like it rough."
They recoiled.
He let them leave.
And when they did—he laughed. Quiet. Real.
"Ha? This feeling a new ability I shall name You Inverse Divinity."
Daemon's Astral Core can now absorb low-to-mid level divine energy and purify it into regenerative fuel.
He sat in silence again.
Alone.
Bleeding. Shaking.
But he wasn't broken.
He was adapting.
"...Five thousand years," he whispered. "And your gods still don't know how to kill me."
*****
(Day five )
He didn't know how long he'd been on the floor.
His face was slick with dried blood. His lips were split, his knees raw, and his tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth.
The sanctum's silence was no longer oppressive.
It was... familiar.
But the pain never left.
His Astral Core pulsed low and slow, like a dying star. Even his new ability—Inverse Divinity—was barely keeping him upright.
The divine energy still burned him.
Just not enough to kill him.
That was the problem.
The door groaned open.
Again.
Saintess Lilac.
She didn't speak this time.
Not at first.
She knelt beside him, eyes sharp, breathing steady. Then she whispered like a mother scolding a child:
"Why?"
"Why does this bastard not give up?"
Her voice cracked.
"You should be dead. You should've rotted by now."
Daemon didn't respond.
Not because he couldn't.
But because she didn't deserve his voice.
Her fury ignited.
"Should I just kill you?" she hissed, standing.
Then—her boot slammed into his face.
His body jerked back. His head hit the floor hard. Blood trickled from his nose, maybe a tooth.
But Daemon only grunted.
And smiled.
Just barely.
That's all it took to unnerve her.
She stared down at him—sweating now, fists clenched—then spun and left without another word.
He was alone again.
****
(Day six)
Something had changed.
Daemon sat still, breathing shallow, the straitjacket soaked through with sweat. The divine glyphs still hummed. The crosses still glowed.
But the fear?
Gone.
So was the guilt.
The pain was still there—but it was background noise now. Just another fire to walk through.
He wasn't human anymore. Not really. Not fully.
Not since he'd begun absorbing divine energy. Not since his soul twisted itself around the one truth he could no longer ignore.
He was the Demon King.
And this time?
He wasn't going to run from it.
"I used to hate this," he murmured into the silence. His voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp.
"Hated what I was. Thought it made me broken. Wrong."
He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes still blindfolded.
"But now? I get it. I get why the world feared me. Why the gods sent armies just to slow me down."
He smiled. Slow. Cold.
"Because I didn't die."
He exhaled, the air rattling in his chest.
"And now that I've accepted it..."
He lifted his chin, like addressing the heavens.
"I'm going to make every single one of them remember what they did."
The nobles.
The priests.
His soldiers.
Especially his former men—the ones who held him down for the execution blade, the ones who cheered Gabriel's coronation with blood on their hands.
They would not die quick.
They would live.
Long enough to beg for death.
But first—he had to get out.
Tomorrow. The seventh day. His escape begins.
****
(Seventh day)
The doors groaned open with ceremonial weight, light spilling into the blinding white cell.
Saintess Lilac entered.
Flanked by no guards this time—just her, confident, robes flowing like holy silk. She stood tall, the symbol of Gaia glinting at her neck.
Her eyes swept over the sanctum.
Daemon sat quietly on the floor.
Unmoving. Silent. A shadow in white.
Her breath caught for just a second.
Still alive.
She relaxed.
"Your core must've sealed," she muttered, more to herself. "Finally."
She stepped forward slowly, her heels clicking softly against the pearl-white tiles. She crouched in front of him, smug.
"You should be grateful," she said sweetly. "You've been cleansed. From now on, once every three months, you'll return here. Just a quick re-sealing. For the good of the empire."
Daemon said nothing.
Just nodded, slowly.
Saintess Lilac smiled.
She unfastened the sacred shirt—the straitjacket that bound him for seven days.
The moment it loosened, Daemon rolled his shoulders.
The bones cracked. His joints ached.
He flexed his hands, slowly, like testing a weapon long sheathed.
His stomach let out a low growl.
Lilac sighed. "We'll get you food soon. You look half-dead."
She turned her back on him.
That was her final mistake.
Daemon moved like a shadow breaking loose from the wall.
His footsteps made no sound.
His hands gripped her shoulders with inhuman calm, fingers digging in like steel hooks.
Before she could scream—
His teeth sank into her ear.
Not a playful bite.
A savage, deliberate rip.
Cartilage tore beneath his canines with a wet, snapping sound, blood spurting across his lips, warm and thick like copper wine.
Lilac screamed.
Not holy. Not divine.
Animal. Raw.
"AAAGHHHHHHHHHH!"
She shrieked so loud it echoed through the sanctum, bouncing off crosses and burning glyphs. Her knees hit the marble, hands scrambling for her face.
But Daemon didn't move.
He stood over her—chewing.
Slowly.
His crimson eyes locked on hers, unblinking.
He bit again, chewing through what was left of the lobe, ripping the soft flesh like it was nothing. Blood dripped down his chin, smeared across his mouth.
And then...
He swallowed.
One long, audible gulp.
Her scream turned into a choked sob.
She looked up at him, pale, shaking, mind slipping from the pain, the horror.
And all Daemon did... was lick the blood from his lips.
"Sweet," he whispered. "Like a liar's prayer."