Daemon's chamber was cold stone and silence—hidden beneath the east wing.
Daemon stood barefoot in the dark, the air thick with dust and old magic. His hand hovered above his chest, where the faint thrum of aura pulsed beneath his ribs.
Five years ago, he couldn't even gather mana.
Now?
He had formed an Astral core—a swirling center of force born from breath, discipline, and raw will. The first gate unlocked.
The Second Star.
More than he'd ever reached in his last life when he was five.
Thank you, he thought, not to the gods, but to that unknown being who'd pressed a clawed finger to his infant brow.
Whatever you are, your gift will be blood-well spent.
He breathed in—and shadows stirred.
Then he saw it.
Across the chamber, cast in the warped iron mirror leaning against the wall—a reflection that wasn't his own.
Taller. Scarred. Armor torn and caked with ash. A crimson cape shredded by war.
The man he used to be.
The hero or should I say EX hero.
Daemon stepped closer. The reflection did not mimic him. Instead, it stared down at him with haunted eyes.
"You let him die," the reflection said—voice hollow.
Daemon's throat tightened.
"Little Lord Tomas . The Baroness's son. You knew he was being used. You knew his mother would throw him into the fire. And you watched."
Daemon looked away.
"I remember," Daemon whispered.
"You used to save people."
"I used to believe people could be saved," he replied, eyes sharpening. "That's dead now. Buried under graves of fools who lied, and smiled, and killed me for breathing."
The reflection stepped closer—its lips curled in something like disgust.
"And now you threaten his mother. Cut off her fingers. Use her as your spy."
Daemon looked up, crimson eyes narrowed. "You're damn right I do."
The mirror man blinked.
"But not because it was cruel," Daemon said. "Because it means I've stopped hesitating."
His gaze dropped to his small hands—clean but not innocent.
"I miss the man I was. But hatred eats memory first. Then mercy. Then hope."
He placed a hand on the mirror.
"I'm not him anymore."
The reflection's mouth opened—to say what, he didn't care.
"I remember him choking on his own blood," Daemon said. "And I remember how quiet his mother was while it happened. Like she'd planned it all."
His hand trembled—but not from fear.
"I regret not saving him. But I regret more that I waited. That I gave these people mercy when they'd already buried me in my past life."
He pulled away.
"I don't need to be a hero again," Daemon said. "I just need to be the last one standing."
The reflection faded, leaving only Daemon—young, pale, cold-eyed.
And then—
The door creaked open.
"Daemon?" came a honeyed voice.
Queen Bianca stepped into the chamber, wrapped in silver and silk. The candlelight made her look angelic—if angels dripped with venom.
"Mother..."
"My little one," she said sweetly. "I apologize for not visiting sooner. That dreadful mess in the royal nursery's must have shaken you."
Daemon smiled like a proper little boy. "It's alright, Mother. I know you've been very busy with Gabriel."
She glided across the room and knelt, embracing him. Her arms were soft, but her nails were cold as needles.
"You know I love you, don't you?" she whispered near his ear. "Truly."
"I know," he said.
She pulled back with a smile. But when she thought he wasn't looking, she brushed off her gown like she'd touched filth.
"I'll be staying with Gabriel tonight," she said. "He gets so scared without me."
"Of course," Daemon nodded. "Tell him I said goodnight."
Bianca's smile froze for a second—something about the way he said it. Too calm. Too polite. Too... wrong.
Then she turned and left without another word.
Daemon stood there, alone again.
The mirror was still dark.
***
(The next day )
The abandoned training ground behind the eastern greenhouse had become Daemon's private sanctuary.
The place had been left to rot after the royal swordmaster "accidentally" died from poisoned wine. No one came here now—except Daemon. And the shadows that stalked him.
He yawned, flopped onto the grass, and rolled over with a childish grunt.
To any observer, he looked like a bored noble brat playing in dirt.
Because three assassins were watching from the trees. Hidden. Breathing slow. Waiting for proof.
Daemon gave them none.
Instead, he rested his cheek on his arm and slowly, almost lazily... slipped into meditation.
Deep beneath his skin, something stirred.
Not just mana—Astral Core.
In this world, mana was everywhere. Mages channeled it to cast. But swordmasters walked a harder path. They forged it into something greater: Aura.
The Path of Power was never simple. Thirteen stars. Four realms. A ladder few ever climbed far.
Realm I: Mortal Core (1–5 Stars)
The beginning. Most never leave it.
1. Flicker Star – The first spark. A newborn Core.
2. Kindled Star – Aura flows beyond the body. Weapons strengthen.
3. Burning Star – Techniques take shape. Reflexes sharpen.
4. Radiant Star – Signatures form.
5. Flare Star – Peak mortal state. Aura projection. Near-superhuman.
Realm II: Celestial Core (6–9 Stars)
Where the supernatural begins. Nobles dream of it.
6. Nova Star – Aura affects the world. Gravity bends. Time wavers.
7. Eclipse Star – The Core opens Astral Gates.
8. Comet Star – Energy absorbed passively. Short-range movement.
9. Black Star – Aura dominion. Other Cores shatter under its weight.
Realm III: Sovereign Core (10–12 Stars)
Legends live here.
10. Void Star – Aura gains will. Sentient. Obedient.
11. Solar Star – Mass bends. Time stalls.
12. Astral Star – Laws fracture. Realms open.
Realm IV: Final Ascension (13th Star)
Myth itself.
13. Myth Star – A god made flesh. Only one per era.
The Demon king was one. So was the Hero.
Most people never even reached Flicker.
Most nobles didn't awaken their Core before ten.
After all
Daemon was five —and already in the 2nd kindled Star.
His Core pulsed—black-red, jagged crystal buried in his abdomen—like a second heart. Not just alive, but wired into every nerve.
Each breath drew in mana. But that wasn't what made him different.
He didn't just absorb energy. He fed his Core suffering. Resentment. Blood.
Most built their Astral Core slowly—gathering mana like rain in a cracked jar. Meditate. Absorb. Wait. Weeks to stir even a flicker.
Daemon didn't have that kind of time.
His Core—fused with demonic essence—devoured what others feared. Pain. Death. Rage. That's why the maids had to die.
Not for revenge.
For fuel.
He'd learned in his first life what fear and agony could become if funneled right. Negative emotion wasn't a side effect. It was currency.
Each kill compressed his Core further, feeding its hunger. Making it tighter. Denser. Hungrier.
His aura hissed beneath his skin like coiled flame, pressure whispering through bone and muscle.
The Burning Star wasn't just power. It was awareness. Aura that stared back.
So this is what it feels like, he thought—to burn through stages like paper while the rest of the world crawls.
To grow faster than fate ever let me before.
Then—
a memory.
Steel crashing against stone.
Blood washing down a mountainside.
His own voice hoarse from shouting commands as the final line broke.
"Pull back! HOLD THE WALL!"
He'd been surrounded. Bleeding. Barely clinging to the Fifth Star.
And behind him... stood his master.
A man in ragged robes with silver hair and ruined hands.
He never gave his name. Just called himself "Ash."
Ash had been the only one who taught Daemon how to control the madness in his veins—the only one who didn't flinch from the cursed child's power.
"You don't train aura by wishing you were good," Ash had once said. "You train it by becoming something even evil fears."
Daemon blinked back to the present.
Ash...
Where are you now?
If I find you again... will you remember me?
The thought stung. But he couldn't afford to dwell. Not now.
He flexed his core. Let the energy flood him again,he was absorbing the mana around his Astra core again.
In his past life, he'd clawed his way to the Fifth Star.
Now, with his rebirth...his progress was going faster than he imagined.
His demonic aura was more refined now—less of a curse, more of a blade.
And he would sharpen it until it could carve the world in two.
High in the trees, the assassins whispered.
"Looks like he's just napping again."
"The queen says he's harmless."
"That's what she said about the dog who bit her too."