Royal Bastard’s Bloodstained Regression Chapter 71 71: The Harvest of Innocence

Nyxtriel landed soundlessly on a crumbling rooftop near the heart of the city's poorest district.

Below them, the streets were different from yesterday—more guards. Patrols doubled, eyes sharp.

The city was tightening like a noose.

Daemon jumped down with a quiet thud, adjusting the black cloak.

The abandoned house Nyxtriel ntioned stood crooked at the edge of the street, half-buried in the creeping shadows of taller buildings. Broken windows. A sagging door.

Daemon slipped inside.

The mont he entered, a dozen frightened faces turned to him.

Fifteen children—ragged, filthy, hollow-eyed—and five won huddled together near a broken fireplace.

At first, their eyes lit up.

A noble. A savior, maybe.

The children ran toward him, hope breaking across their starved faces.

"Sir, please help us!" one boy cried.

"Save us!" a girl sobbed, clutching his leg.

Daemon didn't move.

He didn't smile.

Then Nyxtriel stepped in behind him, her pale form like a wraith in the doorway.

The won recoiled instantly, dragging the children back, their voices rising in panic.

"Stay away!"

"Don't touch my daughter!"

"Soone help! Please!"

Daemon glanced over his shoulder.

"Nyxtriel," he said, calm as the morning mist, "wait outside. I'll handle this."

Without a word, Nyxtriel bowed and lted back into the shadows.

The door shut behind her with a final, heavy thud.

Daemon turned to the trembling group.

Fifteen children. Five won.

Not enough. But it would suffice for now.

He walked toward them slowly, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

"You misunderstand," Daemon said softly, voice almost kind.

"I'm not your savior."

The children shrank against the wall. A few of the younger ones began to cry.

One of the older won stepped forward, shielding the others. "Please, take instead. Let them go—"

Daemon tilted his head, studying her like a butcher examining livestock.

"You'll all serve a purpose."

He summoned a small dagger from his belt. The tal glead faintly under the broken ceiling light.

The won scread. So tried to run—but the house was already sealed. Daemon had woven a simple aura barrier before they arrived.

The first scream ended in a wet gurgle.

Daemon moved quickly, precisely. Not wasting ti, not offering comfort.

Each soul he tore free fed his core.

Each drop of terror made him stronger.

The children, too young to fight back, fell silent one by one. Their fear burned bright, fueling the dark growth within him.

Daemon didn't flinch.

This was necessary.

When the last heartbeat faded, Daemon stood alone amid the carnage.

His aura pulsed—thick, black, hungry.

He felt it the mont the last breath faded—the flood of raw, stolen vitality crashing into him.

Daemon staggered slightly, the air around him trembling.

His aura core, hidden deep in his gut, swelled like a damd river snapping loose.

Fresh life-force—wild, burning, chaotic—poured into his veins.

He dropped to the ground, legs folding beneath him, and slamd his palms into the blood-slick floor.

Circulate. Control. Contain.

He closed his eyes, forcing the foreign energy to move through his ridians, taming it before it tore him apart.

Pain lanced through his body—sharp, electric, violent.

It wasn't like natural cultivation.This was sothing else.

Daemon gritted his teeth as every muscle fiber twisted, his bones creaking under the pressure.

Black mist rose off his skin, the byproduct of burning through corrupted soul fragnts.

His heart hamred against his ribs. His aura core pulsed, buckled—then, with a sickening crack inside his chest, expanded outward.

Seventh Star shattered.

Eighth Star ignited.

The shift was imdiate.

Power surged into his limbs, heavier, denser. His senses sharpened to a razor edge. He could hear the cockroach skittering in the corner. Feel the heartbeat of the rat gnawing in the basent below.

Slowly, Daemon stood.

He flexed his fingers.

Strength.

More than before.

Enough to crush a man's spine with one hand if he wanted.

He blinked once, and the whole house seed slower.

The world had slowed to match him.

Daemon tested it:

He moved—faster than a thrown dagger.

His foot cracked the stone floor beneath him with a single step.

His reflexes snapped sharper than a drawn bow.

And his aura?

It no longer flickered weakly.

It coiled around him like a living beast, invisible but felt—dense and predatory.

Daemon wiped the blood off his face with a torn scrap of cloth.

His hands didn't shake. His heart didn't race.

It was just another step.Another sacrifice.

He pushed open the door.

Nyxtriel waited outside, her eyes calm, as if she hadn't heard the slaughter.

"It's done," Daemon said.

"You've grown stronger, my lord," she murmured, bowing her head in quiet reverence.

"We don't have ti to waste, Nyxtriel. Move to the next phase," Daemon ordered, his crimson eyes glinting.

"Yes, my lord."

Nyxtriel imdiately shifted into her sword form.

Daemon stepped onto the broad blade. In a flash, they shot skyward, cutting through the dusk like a black arrow.

From the air, Daemon scanned the city below—the streets were crawling with soldiers, desperate to fortify the capital.

Among the clustered rooftops and alleys, he spotted them: a moving formation slipping through the outer wards.

"I see the duke's forces," Daemon muttered.

"Shall we greet them, my lord?" Nyxtriel asked, her voice carried on the wind.

A dark smile touched Daemon's lips. "Yes."