The pain shot through him like a spear of molten iron. Daemon's fingers trembled around the hilt, clutching the blade embedded deep in his abdomen. The sword wasn't content just to wound him — it pulsed, pressing deeper, like it had a mind of its own.
"Damn it..." he hissed, blood trailing from the corner of his lips. "Are you angry because I called you trash?"
Across the room, the Skeleton King watched with eerie stillness, the hollow sockets of his skull fixed on Daemon's struggling body. Then the king scoffed, turning his armored back.
"Tch. I warned you," his voice rattled through the chamber. "That blade chooses no master. I've seen it devour men stronger than you. It'll finish you off before I even lift a finger."
The old monarch stepped away slowly, the weight of centuries of disappointment hanging heavy in his tone. "No need for me to dirty my hands."
Daemon's body sagged against the stone wall, his vision swimming with pain. Was this really the end? After all that planning, all that fury — brought down not by Gabriel, not by the king, not even by a monster — but by the very weapon he came to claim.
But then... something changed.
A cold sensation washed through him, like ice spreading through his veins. The sword wasn't just embedded in him — it was drinking. He felt it, siphoning his blood, drawing out his strength like a starving creature at its first feast.
"You damn leech..." he growled, clenching his fists even tighter.
And then, in the silence of the cavern, something spoke.
A voice. Small. Soft. Childlike.
"It's nice... meeting you, Father."
Daemon's breath hitched, his eyes flying wide.
"What?" he rasped, frozen in place. His mind raced — hallucination? A final cruel joke before death? But the voice hadn't come from his own head.
The sword trembled in his gut, then pulled itself free. Without any effort from him, it floated — hovering in front of him like a beast awaiting his command. Slowly, the hilt lowered toward his outstretched palm. His fingers closed around it, instinctively.
The moment his skin met the grip — the wound vanished. As if the sword had never struck him at all.
He stared, stunned, at the flawless skin where his injury had been.
"You... healed me?" His voice was barely a whisper.
The sword pulsed once more, a quiet thrum of dark power spiraling up his arm. His fatigue drained away. The pain vanished. What remained was an overwhelming surge of energy — wild, heavy, unfiltered. The power wasn't his, but it was offering itself to him freely.
The King turned, his bony hand tightening around his own rusted blade when he saw the impossible.
The boy was standing.
The boy was smiling.
Daemon's lips curled upward as the sword pulsed again in his hand.
"So, you finally recognized me... huh? Took you long enough."
The king froze mid-step, the cracks of his ancient armor groaning under the pressure of his rising aura. His hollow eye sockets locked onto the boy gripping the sword — his sword — the one that for five thousand years hadn't bowed to any soul.
But now, in the hands of this boy, it pulsed. It lived. It chose.
His voice shook, not from fear, but from the sheer, brutal realization.
"No... it finally recognized you?"
Daemon raised the blade, letting the dark steel glint under the faint light of the torches. His lips curled into a smirk — the kind of smile that didn't belong on a human face.
"Yeah," Daemon said quietly. "The sword remembers me, old man. After all, it was mine from the beginning."
The King staggered back a step, his bony fingers twitching at the hilt of his own weapon as the pieces fell into place.
"Don't tell me..." the King muttered, the weight of the truth clawing at his voice. "No way..."
Daemon tilted his head, amused at how long it was taking. "Took you long enough to figure it out."
The king's voice shattered the heavy air like a cracked bell.
"You bastard... you're the Demon King!"
The revelation sent a violent pulse through the cave, shaking the walls as the king's aura exploded in raw fury. The once-quiet skeleton's rage was now the roar of a forgotten king cheated of his glory.
Daemon lifted the sword, its energy surging through him like blood pumping through a new heart. The force of the king's aura clashed against him like a storm against a cliff, but the blade hummed, shielding him with a black, whispering veil of power.
And then, a voice. Clearer this time. Younger. Closer.
"My... name..."
Daemon blinked, the sword vibrating in his grip like a living thing.
"Name?" His brow furrowed. Of all times for it to ask — why now?
But then the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "Heh. If you help me kill that bastard, I'll give you a new name."
The sword pulsed — its black aura igniting like hellfire, wrapping around Daemon's arm and shoulder as if eager to answer the call. His wounds were gone, his exhaustion erased — but more than that, he felt whole. Like the missing piece of himself had returned.
Daemon's stance sharpened, the cold edge of his new power anchoring him like a blade waiting to be unsheathed.
"Alright, old man," he exhaled, his voice low and steady.
"Round two."
The king raised his rusted blade, aura swelling into a storm.
This wasn't just a fight anymore.
This was history repeating itself.
BOOM!
The cave trembled under the weight of their clash.
Steel met steel, bone met flesh, and shadow met fire as Daemon and the Skeleton King collided — again and again, neither yielding an inch. Daemon's sword carved through the air, faster and sharper than before, while his shadow twisted behind him like a living beast.
The king's blade howled through the darkness, but Daemon's grin only widened. His strength wasn't fading — it was growing.
The sword pulsed in his hand, almost like it was drinking in the battle itself, feeding him a strength that wasn't his alone.
Daemon leapt forward, slashing downward — and just before the King's blade could block, his shadow peeled off the ground like liquid night.
"Eclipse Claw."
The talons lashed out, slicing through the king's armored ribs, ripping deep — not just into bone, but into the very core of his undead existence. The king stumbled back, clutching the open wound, dark mist spilling from the cracks.
Daemon landed lightly, spinning the sword once in his grip. His crimson eyes gleamed, sharp and unyielding. "What's the matter, old man? Where's all that strength gone?"
The king roared, fury echoing off the cavern walls.
"Silence, bastard!" His aura flared once more, desperate and wild.
With shaking hands, he raised his sword skyward and bellowed:
"I shall lock you up! You and that cursed sword — back into the dark where you belong!"
The cave shuddered as ancient magic stirred.
The walls split, and from the black stone, thousands of pale, shriveled hands clawed their way into the air. Twisting. Grasping. Endless.
"Thousand Hands of my people!" the king commanded. "Seal the demon and his blade! Let them never see the light of day again!"
The hands reached for Daemon, cold and crawling, eager to pull him under.
He stared at them, face contorting with pure disgust.
"Eugh... gross," Daemon muttered, flicking his sword free of blood.
"Is this how your people ended? Clinging to you like flies to a corpse?"
As the first of the hands wrapped around his ankle, Daemon raised his blade — the steel flaring with deep black-red light.
"Shadow Ember."
The edge seared clean through the hands, burning the twisted flesh as it cut. The smell of charred bone and rotted cloth filled the air as the hands withdrew, twitching, unable to regenerate.
"You think these things can hold me?" Daemon scoffed, stepping forward, sword at the ready.
"Try harder, old man."