Royal Bastard’s Bloodstained Regression Chapter 20 20: The Ride to the Forgotten Truth

Daemon woke into silence.

Not the kind of silence that ca with sleep or solitude—but sothing heavier.

Black. Infinite. Cold.

He stood in what could only be described as an abyss—a space with no sky, no ground, no weight. His breath echoed like it didn't belong.

And then, he felt it.

A ripple.

Like the air itself bowed.

Sothing was coming.

From the void ahead, a figure erged. Not walking—forming.

A cloak of shadows, its face obscured by swirling darkness. Where a face should be, stars blinked, as if the void itself were wearing a crown of dying galaxies.

Daemon smiled.

"It's you."

The Entity didn't answer.

Daemon stepped forward, his voice low.

"You brought back. You gave this second chance."

Still, no reply.

"So this isn't a dream?" Daemon asked, scanning the endless dark. "All this... pain. mory. The death I rember. This life I'm living. It's real?"

Finally, the Entity spoke.

Its voice was layered—like dozens of voices whispering at once, speaking through a broken cathedral bell.

"This is reality, Daemon. And your return was no accident."

Daemon narrowed his eyes. He folded his arms.

"There's no such thing as a free gift."

The Entity tilted its head.

"Good. You're smarter than the last ti."

Daemon nodded. "So tell . Why bring back?

The void pulsed again.

"Because you were once a king. A sovereign of night. The last ruler of the demon realm. And now you walk in a world that has forgotten you."

Daemon's breath caught for a mont.

"You an the Demon King," he said quietly.

The Entity said nothing.

Daemon's lips curled upward.

"So... what? You want to wear the crown again?"

"I want you to rember who wore it first."

Daemon laughed—a cold, echoing sound.

"And here I thought I was rewriting my story," he said. "Not reenacting it."

He paused.

Then his eyes narrowed. "You... you were the voice in my soul. The one Lilac tried to seal in my past life. Weren't you?"

The Entity tilted its head slightly.

"I was once more. I will be more again. But now? I am your tether. Your truth. Your shadow."

Daemon's fists clenched.

"What do you want from ?"

The voice deepened.

"Nothing... yet. But if you wish to rember the truth of what you were—and what you're ant to beco—you must reclaim what was stolen."

"Stolen?"

"The Book of the demon king. Written by your forr self. Sealed away by the church. Hidden beneath the holy temple five thousand years ago."

The words cut through Daemon like steel.

The Entity stepped closer.

"Find it. Read it. And you will rember the power that bent worlds and silenced gods."

Daemon's pulse slowed."And if I do?"

"Then you will not beco a king again."

"You will beco a god."

•••

Daemon gasped as his eyes snapped open, sweat trailing down his temple.

He was back in his room. The floor cold. His fingers trembling from fear.

He exhaled slowly and whispered to himself:

"The book... it's ti to get it back."

Deamon walk out of his chamber.

The palace halls were unusually quiet.

Daemon stood near the threshold of the main corridor, tugging on the dark cloak he'd draped over his shoulders. His aura had finally stabilized after the fight with Gabriel, but sothing inside him still pulsed—restless, like a second heartbeat.

His personal maid approached, bowing low.

"Your Highness, shall I prepare your bath now that the training session is done?"

Daemon turned his gaze to her, feigning fatigue.

"I'm heading to the temple," he said. "The battle earlier... stirred sothing in my chest. I want to pray."

The maid blinked in surprise but nodded quickly. "Of course. Shall I inform Her Majesty?"

Daemon shook his head. "No. Just say I needed fresh air."

"Yes, Your Highness."

She stepped away, and Daemon walked briskly toward the lower wing of the palace.

He didn't need to pray.

He needed to dig up a buried war.

The stable still slled like warm hay and oiled leather.

He selected a dark stallion—Caldrin, if mory served—and ran his fingers gently down its flank.

"I trained you," Daemon murmured. "Let's see if you rember ."

Climbing up was awkward. His body, only twelve, didn't carry the sa weight or strength. But he was lean, and light, and the muscle mory still echoed in his limbs.

He gritted his teeth and urged the reins.

The horse whinnied once and took off, galloping out the side path and down the old forest trail behind the castle walls.

The trees blurred as Daemon rode hard, wind biting at his face.

He rembered this route—the smuggler's trail, one he'd used during secret missions in his past life. It circled behind the lower district, leading toward a crumbling stone road that pointed straight to the outskirts of the holy capital.

There, at its center, stood the Temple of Elyria.

A white spire piercing the sky. Pure. Untouched.

Daemon pulled his cloak tighter, the deep hood shadowing his face.

He slowed the horse once the city ca into view, easing into the scattered fields and rchant roads. The peasants passed by him without a second glance—just another cloaked traveler headed to pray.

He was coming to take back what belonged to him.

And from the distance, as the sun dipped behind the clouds, the silhouette of the temple began to rise—glimring like a wound in the sky.

Daemon smirked beneath his hood.

"Let's see if they've kept my book warm."