Royal Bastard’s Bloodstained Regression Chapter 115 115: The Echo of Good Deeds

The morning air in Varyndor was crisp, carrying the scent of dew and distant forge smoke. The palace grounds were quiet. The usual training sounds were absent, replaced by low whispers and nervous glances.

At the edge of the training field, Sir Veyne stood with arms crossed, eyes scanning the open area. Soldiers milled about in small groups, throwing occasional glances toward the gates.

"Is he really coming back?" one murmured.

"After what happened yesterday? I'd stay in bed," another replied.

Veyne didn't respond. His mind was divided—half worried for Daon's ntal state, half wondering if he should have handled yesterday differently. The boy had changed. That much was clear. But how deep did that change run?

Just then, the gates creaked open.

Footsteps.

Steady. Calm.

Daon entered the field, cloak trailing lightly behind him, hair white as snow beneath the morning sun. His eyes were unreadable, calm but intense—like a storm hiding behind glass.

The murmurs stopped. Everyone watched.

Veyne stepped forward, raising a hand. "Your Highness. I wasn't expecting you to return so soon."

Daon stopped a few paces from him. "I said I would."

Veyne hesitated. "About yesterday..."

"You don't have to say it," Daon cut in. "I lost control. That's on ."

The honesty took Veyne aback.

So soldiers fidgeted with their blades. Others avoided Daon's gaze. One rookie had his hand half on his sword hilt, just in case.

Daon noticed. He noticed everything.

"I'm not here to hurt anyone," he said, voice firm, clear enough for every man to hear. "I'm here to train. Just like any other knight would."

A heavy silence followed.

Then Veyne nodded. "Very well. I'll hold you to that. And for what it's worth... we all lose ourselves sotis. It's what we do next that matters."

Daon gave a faint smile. "Then let's begin again."

Veyne called the soldiers back to their drills. Slowly, the tension began to ease. But not fully.

As Daon stepped into position with his wooden blade, every eye on the field watched his movents—not with respect, not with admiration.

But with caution.

Daemon started running laps alongside the regular soldiers. His boots struck the dirt in rhythm, matching the pace of those who'd just hours ago feared him.

Behind him, he could hear their murmurs.

"Is he serious?"

"Why's the prince running with us?"

"Shouldn't he be training privately?"

Sir Veyne folded his arms and watched from a distance.

"Prince, you don't have to..." Veyne began.

"It's part of my training," Daemon said without looking back. "Besides... if they don't see as one of them, they'll never trust ."

The tension didn't vanish, but sothing shifted. A few soldiers mostly from the Silver Blades glanced at each other, uncertain.

"Keep running!" barked Veyne.

And so they did. All of them. Even the prince.

Behind them, murmurs grew.

From the Nightwind scouts to the Iron Halberds, dozens of eyes watched. So wary. So uncertain. The aura he'd unleashed yesterday still lingered in their minds—like shadow trailing fla.

Nyxtriel watched from the shade near the edge of the field. She said nothing, but the way her gaze locked on Daemon made her thoughts clear: He's doing this for them.

After an hour, sweat rolled down his back. Dirt clung to his boots. And still, he didn't stop.

Veyne finally raised a hand. "All units—fall in. Let's not let our prince outwork us!"

The soldiers joined.

One by one, by tens, then dozens. The field that once grew cold with suspicion now filled with footsteps, sweat, and shared breath.

Veyne stood tall, wooden sword resting on his shoulder.

"Ti for sparring. Pair up with the soldier next to you. Train hard, and train smart."

The soldiers moved, murmuring, shifting into pairs. Wooden swords clacked into position.

The man beside Daemon hesitated. His hands twitched nervously. "M-my prince, if you'd rather not spar—"

"Who says I don't?" Daemon said coolly.

The soldier swallowed. It wasn't about rank—it was fear. The mory of Veyne nearly collapsing yesterday, the way Daemon blanked out... that fear was still fresh. And Daemon could see it written all over his face.

He lifted his wooden sword, resting it lightly on his shoulder. "Don't hold back. Or I'll break your fingers."

The soldier froze. "Wh-what?"

"You heard . Unless you're scared. Maybe that's why you'll lose."

Gasps fluttered across the field.

"He's provoking him?"

"Isn't that—Captain Idran's nephew?"

"This won't end well..."

The soldier's grip tightened. His pride stung. He couldn't talk back—not to a prince. But sothing in him snapped.

"Fine," he muttered. "Don't bla if you get hurt."

They stepped into position. Stances low, eyes locked.

Clack—!

The first exchange ca fast. The soldier struck with a clean horizontal slash. Daemon parried with a lazy grace, barely moving.

Clack! Clack!

Steel t wood. Daemon flowed like water, countering each blow but never striking back.

The soldier grunted, swinging harder now. He wanted to prove sothing—to himself, to the others, to Daemon.

But Daemon didn't budge. Every move he made felt like he was leading the dance, letting the soldier get close—but never too close.

Nyxtriel, from the sideline, crossed her arms. "He's holding back," she muttered.

Veyne nodded beside her. "No. He's testing him."

Another swing.

Daemon stepped aside, letting the soldier stumble forward slightly, off balance.

And then—Thwack!

A clean tap to the soldier's back with the flat of the sword. Not hard. But loud enough for everyone to hear.

"You're too tense," Daemon said calmly. "Relax. Read your opponent. Not your fear."

The soldier froze... then bowed his head. "Y-yes, Prince Daemon."

The surrounding soldiers watched in silence. So whispered. So nodded.

Daemon stepped back, lowering his sword. "Next."

For the first ti since his return... they didn't just fear him.

They respected him.

Daemon stood at the center of the field, sword in hand—not fighting, but instructing. His voice was calm, firm, and precise.

"Your stance is too rigid," he told one soldier, tapping the man's elbow. "Loosen your grip—if you swing too stiffly, your montum dies before the blade lands."

Another soldier ca forward, trying a downward strike. Daemon blocked, spun behind him, and gently nudged his shoulder. "You expose your back when you overcommit. Reset your posture."

One by one, they ca. He corrected, adjusted, demonstrated. With each word, the soldiers—once wary—listened more closely. They weren't just learning from a prince. They were learning from a leader.

From the sidelines, Veyne watched with folded arms, a quiet smile forming on his face.

"This prince... he never stops surprising ," he muttered. "It's like watching a commander who's been drilling troops for years."

Beside him, Nyxtriel replied, "you're right he surprises too sotis he's unpredictable."

Veyne chuckled. "I almost wish he'd join the army. He'd beco one of the greatest commanders we've ever had. I've seen plenty of officers. None with instincts like his."

"But would the soldiers follow him?" Nyxtriel asked, her voice sharper now. "You know who he is... what he is. The reincarnation of the Demon King. They haven't forgotten. Even you haven't."

Veyne turned to her slowly, surprised. "How do you know that?"

Nyxtriel didn't flinch. "Because I've known it longer than you have. He's my lord."

There was a silence. The clang of sparring blades filled the space between them.

Veyne shook his head. "I don't care what story people whisper. Reincarnation or not, that boy out there—he hasn't hurt anyone. He helps. Even when they don't deserve it."

Nyxtriel blinked.

"I still rember the day he helped his brother break through a bottleneck in training," Veyne said, smiling at the mory. "They were twelve. Most nobles would've gloated. But not him. He didn't hesitate. That day, I saw who Daemon really was."

Nyxtriel looked away.

So that's it, she thought. That's the kindness her lord had shown in the past,the part of him that still lived on, even after betrayal. That small ember others still rembered, even if he'd tried to bury it under hatred.

But she wouldn't tell him.

He didn't need distractions. He didn't need sympathy.

He needed revenge.

And she would make sure nothing stood in the way of that even if she has to hide that fact Veyne didn't see him as a bad person.

Veyne's voice softened as he watched Daemon move across the training field with the soldiers.

"You should take care of him, miss," he said quietly. "I've never seen the prince act so… free. Like he can breathe around you."

Nyxtriel's expression shifted. She hadn't expected the conversation to turn this way. "What do you an?"

"I an…" Veyne hesitated, then continued, "I don't know what you two are to each other. Friends? Partners? Sothing more? It's only been a few days since I t you—but anyone with eyes can see he's different around you. Lighter."

Nyxtriel stayed silent, unsure of how to respond.

Veyne folded his arms and looked away. "His childhood… wasn't sothing any child should live through. I won't speak ill of the royal family—I serve them, after all—but I've seen the way he was treated. Overlooked. Mistrusted. He never had soone in his corner."

Nyxtriel looked down, her fingers tightening slightly.

"That's why," Veyne said, glancing at her, "I'm telling you this as soone who's watched him grow up from a distance—don't betray that boy."

His tone wasn't threatening, but there was weight in it. A soldier's sincerity. A commander's plea.

Nyxtriel t his eyes, surprised by how those words—coming from a stranger—cut so deep. She didn't respond imdiately.

But in her mind, she already had an answer.

"I won't."

Even if Daemon lost himself…

Even if the whole world turned on him again…

She would remain