The Demon Prince Wakes

Five years had passed since Daemon was dragged screaming back into this cursed life.

Five years since he watched his mother die, reborn in blood and betrayal.

At the royal nursery's sunlit window, Daemon sat perfectly still, his small hands folded neatly in his lap. His posture was flawless, the picture of royal discipline. His eyes, however those cold, crimson things never stopped moving.

Across the room, his twin brother Gabriel played with a wooden sword with his friend Tomas a noble, laughing as knights and servants clapped and praised his every swing.

"Prince Gabriel! Such strength!"

"A future king, no doubt!"

"The gods shine through you, my prince!"

Daemon said nothing.

He just watched. And thought. And remembered.

In his first life, Daemon had never climbed far on the Astral Ladder.

His mana had been erratic. His will fractured. His bloodline... suppressed. He had barely scratched the edge of the Flicker Star, the lowest tier of the Mortal Core Realm, when death claimed him.

But this second life?

It changed everything.

There was a pulse inside him now—a gravitational pull toward power. Astral Force wasn't just flowing to him... it was being drawn, like breath into starving lungs. Mana obeyed him. His will was iron. And that cursed bloodline he once feared?

It sang.

At three years old, when noble children still played with toys and wet themselves, Daemon formed his Core in silence—alone, and screaming. It nearly killed him.

The Mortal Core Realm began with the Flicker Star, but by the time he was five, he had already pushed into the Burning Star, the second star.

Where most trained until fifteen to form even a basic core, Daemon had broken into technique-level territory—and Aura Techniques began to form around his body like echoes of a forgotten war.

But Daemon's aura wasn't just aura.

It was Demonic.

His power didn't come from blessings.

It came from obsession. Pain. And rage sharpened over lifetimes.

It didn't shimmer like the knight's golden aura. It writhed—like smoke trapped in bone. It pulsed with hunger. And it was stronger than anything he had in his past life. Stronger than the Seventh Star knight who killed him.

That thing—the being who'd sent him back—had blessed him.

He sighed quietly.

Poison in his morning milk. Again.

The maid thought she was clever—hiding it in honey this time. Too bad she didn't know Daemon had been poisoned seventeen times already. He drank nothing without testing it through aura. He didn't sleep without binding a trigger spell to his sheets. And every maid who tried to kill him vanished within days.

He never left evidence.

That was the trick. He wasn't some wild beast. Revenge wasn't just blood—it was control.

So he played the part. The silent, strange twin. The cursed one. The one who never cried. He smiled when spoken to. He bowed lower than expected. He answered questions with "Yes, Your Grace," and "Thank you, my lady."

And all the while, he trained.

He glanced again at Gabriel, who was now being fed grapes by two handmaids, grinning like a godling.

Daemon watched, his expression calm.

(Smile, little brother. Smile while you can.)

Because one day, i would take everything back and destroy it.

Little Lord Tomas, age six and hopelessly eager to please, giggled as he snatched a honeycake from the silver platter. "For Prince Gabriel!"

He turned—beaming—offering the treat like a holy relic.

Baroness Vexen's jeweled hand "slipped."

A faint puff of white powder dusted the cake's crust. Quick. Precise. Elegant, even.

Daemon saw it. All of it.

His fingers twitched in his lap, but he didn't move.

In my last life, I'd have leapt up. Screamed. Played the noble little brother. Called the physicians, demanded justice.

And what had that ever earned him?

Suspicion. Isolation. Pain.

So now?

He watched.

Tomas made it halfway across the nursery before he staggered, blinking in confusion. Then his knees buckled.

The cake hit the floor.

Tomas's face flushed a violent red, his tiny fingers clawing at his throat. He made a choking, wheezing sound—then collapsed, twitching.

Chaos exploded around them.

"A seizure!"

"His heart!"

"Get the royal physician!"

"Protect the prince!"

Gabriel burst into tears. Loud, wailing, innocent. All the adults rushed to shield him, scooping him into silken arms like he was the last child left in the world.

Daemon didn't move.

He just counted.

One... two... three...

The physician barged in at twenty-seven seconds—just long enough for Tomas's brain to flirt with permanent damage.

He turned his head, slowly, locking eyes with Baroness Vexen from across the room.

Her lips twitched.

Daemon smiled.

Just barely.

She knew.

He knew.

No one else did.

Now you owe me, he thought. A favor. A secret. A leash around your noble throat.

He didn't need to make a scene. Didn't need to kill her. Not yet.

No—he'd rather own her.

And one day, when her debt came due, he'd make sure she knew exactly why her hands were shaking.

***

Later that night...

Baroness Vexen moved like a ghost through the servants' halls, her silks muted under a dark cloak. She didn't hear footsteps behind her.

She felt them.

And when she turned the corner into her private parlor—

Daemon was already there.

Sitting calmly in one of her velvet chairs, legs swinging. A single candle lit the space, casting shadows that danced across his pale face and crimson eyes.

She froze. "How—?"

"You tried to poison the wrong twin," he said, voice smooth and clear. Too clear for a child.

Her heart skipped. "You... don't understand what you saw."

"Oh, I do," Daemon said, sliding off the chair. He held something small in his hand.

A paring knife. Dull. Common.

He didn't need it to be sharp.

"You aimed for Gabriel," he said. "But you could've just as easily aimed for me. Mistakes like that make me... nervous."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're just a boy."

"And yet I'm the one holding the knife."

She laughed, but it didn't reach her eyes. "This is a game you don't want to play."

He moved.

Too fast.

A flicker of motion, and pain bloomed in her hand.

She screamed—pulling back to see two of her fingers severed clean at the joint, blood pulsing down her wrist.

She collapsed against the wall, panting. "You... demon..."

Daemon stood where he had been, knife now clean. Not a drop of blood on him. Calm. Detached.

His voice didn't rise. "Next time it'll be your throat. And no one will suspect me. Just a weak, quiet little prince, grieving the tragic death of a family friend."

Vexen clutched her ruined hand, eyes wide.

"You'll spy for me," he said. "You'll feed me the secrets you hear. Who plots. Who lies. Who hungers for the throne."

"Why would I help you?" she spat.

"Because I didn't kill you," Daemon replied. "And because I'm not Gabriel."

Silence.

Then slowly, her expression shifted—fear twisting into something darker. Understanding.

She bowed her head.

"...Yes, my prince."

Daemon smiled—just a small curl of the lips. No joy. Just control.

"Good. We'll start tomorrow."

He stepped out of the parlor, leaving her bleeding, breathless, and absolutely certain of one thing:

Gabriel may be the golden heir...

But Daemon was the monster this kingdom should fear.