Royal Bastard’s Bloodstained Regression Chapter 48 48: Bloodlines and Blades

Daemon stepped out of the dungeon, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The cold night air hit his face like a sharp slap, but he welcod it. His lungs pulled in deep, unfiltered breath — fresh, real, and alive.

He glanced around, and sure enough, Caldrin stood nearby, the dark stallion alert but unhard. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Looks like I wasn't gone long," Daemon muttered, brushing his hand along the horse's neck. "Lucky."

He pulled himself onto the saddle, muscles still adjusting to his new strength, then cast a side glance at the figure floating beside him.

The girl — or rather, the sword in human form — drifted effortlessly alongside, her white hair catching the moonlight like silk, her crimson eyes locked onto him with quiet reverence.

And then she spoke. Soft, but clear.

"Father... Seraphiel. Do you still rember?"

Daemon's hands tightened slightly on the reins. That na. The na from his vision. The na buried so deep inside his bones it sent a shiver up his spine.

Seraphiel. The Demon King.

His voice ca out low, cold but honest.

"No. I don't rember — not yet." His gaze shifted toward the horizon. "But you don't have to worry. Once I find the seven fragnts and absorb them... I will."

A pause. The air hung heavy between them.

He tilted his head, his voice sharpening with a bitter edge.

"But if you're expecting the old — the fool who lost to a hero nad Michael — you'll be disappointed. I'm not here to repeat his mistakes." His smile curved into sothing sharp. "This life... I'll write my own ending. And it starts with torturing and killing him."

The girl nodded calmly, as if that answer had been enough.

"Then what na will you go by, Father?" she asked softly.

He t her crimson gaze.

"Daemon," he said flatly. "Daemon Dominick."

A faint smile curved her lips. "Daemon... Father. That's a nice na."

That word again. Father.

It wasn't the first ti she'd said it. The title sat strangely on his shoulders, like armor that didn't fit, but he didn't correct her.

His curiosity finally got the better of him.

According to her, his past self — the Demon King — had t her in the Demon Realm. Back then, she'd been nothing but another weak creature, neglected and hunted. The Demon Realm wasn't like the mortal world. There were no second chances. If you were weak, you were food. If you couldn't fight, you were broken.

But she'd t him — not as the man he was now, but as Seraphiel. A fallen angel, bitter and soaked in hatred. He hadn't killed her. No, he'd taken her in. Called her useful. Turned her into his sword.

Daemon figured she must've been a fool, or maybe just desperate. Becoming a weapon wasn't rcy, it was survival. Even now, reborn and bound to him again, she still clung to that sa purpose — wanting to be useful. Wanting to serve.

His eyes flicked toward her. Despite calling him Father, she didn't look like so child or lost creature. She looked young, maybe in her early twenties. But the way she floated at his side, the way she stared at him with that calm, quiet loyalty — it wasn't the look of soone bound by age. It was sothing older, deeper.

As the road stretched on, her voice broke the silence.

"Father... where are we going?"

Daemon's grip on the reins tightened slightly.

"Sowhere I need to deal with," he muttered. "This ti, the battle I lost."

She tilted her head. "Did soone beat you?"

His lips twitched at the corner. "No." His voice darkened. "But I ran away."

A pulse of killing intent seeped from him without warning, sharp and suffocating. The horse stiffened beneath him, hooves faltering as if the beast sensed it too.

Daemon exhaled slowly, easing the surge back down. His strength wasn't what it used to be — but this ti, it was enough.

The orcs that had humiliated him before?

He was going back for them.

"Father, you don't have to worry," she whispered, her voice as calm as falling snow, but her hands twitched — barely restrained bloodlust curling in her fingers. "Just say the word... and I'll annihilate their entire race."

Daemon could feel her energy pulse through the air, cold and violent. It wasn't human. It wasn't even close. Her strength must've sat at a rank far beyond his own — closer to Calamity, the kind of power that could wipe out cities, or bend armies into dust.

So that's how he'd survived the Skull King.

Daemon rested his hand lazily on the hilt of his sword, the one she'd beco.

"Alright then. I'll allow it." His voice dropped low, sharp with amusent.

"Let's call it... destruction, for now."

She smiled at the words, her form flickering like mist under moonlight.

"Yes, Father. As you wish."

Then her voice softened, almost shy.

"My na... you may call Nyxtriel."

Daemon raised an eyebrow at the sound of it. Elegant. Sharp. Fitting.

"Nyxtriel," he repeated with a smirk. "A na fit for a Demon."

The wind stirred the treetops as Caldrin's hooves cut through the dirt path, and the dark forest swallowed them whole.

Ahead, the orcs rested — peaceful, unaware.

But fate had already written their end.

A calamity was riding toward them.