Royal Bastard’s Bloodstained Regression Chapter 51 51: The Perfect City’s Ugly Corner

The morning sun washed over Aurelian's polished streets like gold over glass. Daemon moved slowly through the city, his cloak drawn tight, concealing the sword at his side.

It wasn't fear that made him hide it — it was strategy. The sword's shape was too distinct, too dangerous-looking for a place like this, where everyone walked with rehearsed smiles and stiff backs like they'd been trained from birth to play roles in soone else's fairytale.

The deeper Daemon wandered, the more unnatural it felt.

Market stalls were perfectly arranged, goods stacked in pristine rows. rchants never raised their voices. No haggling, no shouting, no fights over spoiled fruit.

Even the air was clean.

It was suffocating.

Daemon passed guards who barely spared him a glance, their expressions carved from stone. Even the children skipped by in strange, synchronized patterns. Not one beggar. Not one drunk.

"This place is dressed up like heaven," Daemon muttered under his breath, "but it slls like a grave."

Hours passed. He walked past noble manors, through the upper plazas, and down toward the rchant ring asking casually, quietly, about the gambling house the drunkards had called The Whispering Veil.

But every question t the sa answer:

Silence. Or worse polite, empty smiles and a slow shaking of heads, like the na had never existed.

The perfect city had perfect secrets.

Frustrated, Daemon stopped near an old iron lamppost at a quiet crossroad. Just as he was about to move on, he caught sight of a boy small, scrappy, and out of place among the polished faces. The kid had the eyes of soone who'd learned to survive, not obey.

Daemon approached slowly, crouching to the boy's level.

"Hey, kid. Looking for a place called The Whispering Veil. You know it?"

The boy flinched, glancing around, shaking his head at first.

"N-No, I don't know nothin'."

But Daemon wasn't fooled. That twitch — that shift in his pupils — told him otherwise.

"Don't lie."

The boy's voice lowered to a whisper. "You shouldn't be asking about that. That place's cursed. People who walk in... sotis don't walk back out."

He darted his eyes toward a narrow alley.

"Co with ."

Daemon followed him, the boy weaving between crates and broken walls until they were deep enough the streets' perfect order felt like another world.

The kid's voice dropped, sharp and scared.

"The Veil's not a normal casino. The king himself goes there. So do the nobles. If you're smart, you'll stay away. You don't belong there."

Daemon's eyes sharpened. So the king himself was involved. That explained the city's perfect little performance.

"Take there," Daemon ordered flatly.

But the kid hesitated shaking his head, lips tight.

"Not unless you pay . Information like that's worth gold."

Daemon stared at him for a long mont. Pathetic. Even here, greed could grow like weeds in a concrete city.

Without another word, Daemon reached out, grabbed the boy by the collar, and slamd him against the alley wall.

The kid gasped, his feet dangling off the ground.

"Listen carefully," Daemon's voice dropped to a cold, dead whisper.

"Gold's useless to a corpse. So unless you want this alley to be your grave show ."

Tears welled in the kid's eyes as he nodded frantically. Daemon let him go, watching him stumble and fall to the ground. The boy scrambled to his feet and without another word, turned and started walking.

"Follow ," the kid mumbled, voice shaky.

And Daemon did.

His pace was calm, his mind sharp.

If the king and nobles spent their nights at The Whispering Veil, then this city wasn't just perfect. It was rotten.

And Daemon had just found the first crack.

The boy's shaky steps finally ca to a stop in front of the building.

Daemon stood still, head tilted slightly, studying the place.

It was no gambling den. The stonework was too fine, the windows trimd with gold lattice. Tall marble columns stretched skyward, like the casino was more a temple than a house of vice. n dressed in velvet and silk ca and went, their laughter soft, their pockets heavy with coin and secrets.

So this was the place.

The boy's voice cracked as he tugged at Daemon's cloak.

"Th-there. That's it. I've shown you... so can I go now?"

Daemon's crimson eyes shifted lazily toward him, quiet and sharp.

"Letting you walk away," he murmured, "that's a risk. You've seen my face, and you know I'm going inside. One word to the wrong ear, and it's trouble for ."

The kid's face drained of color. His knees buckled slightly, panic pooling in his throat.

"I swear! I won't say anything. I won't even rember you. I see too many faces in this city every day — yours won't stick, I promise!"

For a long mont, Daemon didn't speak. The boy was trembling so hard his small fra looked like it might snap under the weight of silence.

"Alright," Daemon said finally, voice soft — almost kind.

"You can go."

Relief flashed through the boy's eyes as he stumbled backward, then turned and bolted, never daring to look back.

But Daemon's expression stayed the sa. Cold. Calculating.

"Nyxtriel," he murmured.

A soft hum echoed from the sword at his side, her voice clear as crystal.

"Yes, father?"

"Follow him. If his tongue wags where it shouldn't... deal with it."

Her voice was sweet — too sweet for what she ant.

"As you wish, father."

The blade shimred, and her form vanished from his side, soaring off after the boy like a silent shadow.

Daemon remained where he was, staring up at the grand facade of the so-called casino. The sun still hung high over the city, aning the nobles — and the king himself — wouldn't show their faces until nightfall. For now, it was just common gamblers and rchants playing at power.

But the real ga? The one that mattered?

That didn't start until dark.

And he'd need more than a sharp sword for that. This wasn't a place for brute force — not yet.

His eyes traced the guards at the door, their stiff uniforms, the asured nods to guests who whispered the right words, wore the right silk. The dress code. The etiquette. The social passwords.

A place like this, violence was a last resort. Information was the first.

Daemon turned away, pulling his cloak tighter as he slipped back into the crowd.

The night would co.

And with it, so would his chance to tear this perfect little city apart — one secret at a ti.