The Fallen Hero Reincarnates as the Demon King's Son
Chapter 101 - 100 - Day Three

Chapter 101: Chapter 100 - Day Three

The first thought that passed through Caliste’s head when he woke up was simple.

I’m still alive?

Barely. His body felt like it had been borrowed, dragged through war, and returned a decade older. Every inch ached. There was a numb spot on his left shoulder, and his tongue still tasted like burnt dirt and regret.

The second thought was far worse.

He heard whistling.

A cheerful, off-tune, completely deranged sort of melody—somewhere between a marching song and tavern shanty, sung by a man who hadn’t seen sanity in decades.

Daimon.

"Good morning, sunshine!" The old barbarian’s voice exploded over the hillside. "You awake, or do I need to bring Kevin and the torch again?"

Caliste groaned into the grass. "No torch, please."

"Great. You’ve got thirty seconds to eat this mystery stew before we start the real training."

He didn’t have time to argue. A bowl was dropped next to him. Thick, bubbling brown mush steamed within, flecked with green lumps.

"What is this?"

"Breakfast. Maybe soup. Maybe alchemy."

Caliste grimaced and shoveled it down.

Trial One: The Crag Hound Taming Pit

Ten minutes later, he stood at the edge of a cratered pit, staring down at what could only be described as a creature born from nightmares and geological instability.

A massive quadruped, nearly ten feet long, its spine armored in jagged slate plates. Thick limbs like pillars. Eyes glowing faintly green. Its jaws looked like they could snap a tree in half.

"A Crag Hound?" Caliste said in disbelief. "You’re letting me fight that?"

"Not fight. Tame," Daimon said. "You want to tap into Siglius blood? Then learn to control monsters."

The iron gate clanged open. The Crag Hound sniffed the air. Snorted.

Then charged.

Caliste moved on instinct, diving to the side just in time. The impact left a crater where he’d stood, spraying shards of rock in every direction.

He barely dodged a second charge, rolling behind a boulder. The beast clawed at the rock, slamming into it again and again, until it cracked like an egg.

"This is insane!" Caliste yelled up to Daimon.

"Yup!"

"I don’t know how to tame!"

"Use your presence! Your will! Your Siglius blood will do the rest!"

Caliste had no clue what that meant. But he had no time to think. The beast lunged again.

This time, he didn’t dodge. He stepped forward.

The beast froze mid-charge.

Caliste didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He stared straight into its glowing eyes and focused on his heartbeat. On the heat in his chest—subtle but present, the same energy that had whispered to him yesterday during the meditation trial.

He felt a thrum of something deeper. An instinct not entirely human. He opened his mouth—

—and roared.

It wasn’t a shout. It was something primal. Resonant.

The Crag Hound stopped. Lowered its head.

Then kneeled.

Caliste fell to his knees in response, panting and sweating through his clothes.

Daimon whistled. "Huh. I was kidding when I said ’tame it.’ I just wanted to watch you run."

"YOU WHAT?!"

"But this is better!"

Trial Two: Blood-Forging and the Silent Edge

Daimon led him into a forge that made yesterday’s look like a kitchen oven.

Blackened stone. Runes carved into every anvil. The heat was intense enough to make his vision shimmer. Pools of silver-white liquid metal bubbled in massive vats.

"This is a Siglius Forge," Daimon said, reverently. "Our ancestors didn’t just fight—they crafted weapons tied to the soul. You’re going to forge one today. But not with regular fire."

He gestured to a stone bowl filled with what looked like crushed crimson gems. "That’s Ember Crystal. When lit, it creates soul flame. It burns your body, your spirit, your memories—then shapes the result."

Caliste stared. "This sounds more like a curse than a weapon."

"Same thing, if you do it right."

They lit the crystals. The flame was colorless—but the heat cut deeper than any burn. As Caliste stepped toward the anvil, he felt his heartbeat quicken, then warp.

He began to hammer.

Each strike echoed with something more than sound. With every clang, visions flashed behind his eyes—battles he hadn’t fought, enemies he hadn’t known, allies dying in foreign lands. His arms trembled as he poured those images into the metal, guided by instinct more than technique.

The blade that emerged was not perfect. It was small, curved, with a jagged edge and bone hilt.

But when he picked it up, the pain in his chest stopped.

The blade hummed.

Daimon nodded slowly. "That’s the Silent Edge. Assassin’s relic. I’ve only seen it once before."

"How do I know it’s mine?"

"You bled for it. You burned for it. That’s enough."

Trial Three: Mirror Runes and Magic Resistance

Later, Daimon walked him to a long corridor lined with mirrors—each etched with glowing symbols. The hallway pulsed with arcane energy.

"This is the Rune Gauntlet," Daimon said. "Mages used it to temper resistance through pain. These runes don’t just cast illusions. They force your worst fears into reality. You can’t fight it. You endure it."

Caliste stepped forward.

Instantly, the corridor shifted.

He was no longer in a hallway—but standing on a battlefield littered with corpses. People he knew. Albert. Daimon. The Crag Hound. All torn apart.

Smoke filled his lungs. Blood coated his hands.

"You weren’t enough," a voice whispered. "You’ll never be enough."

He turned—and saw himself.

But older. Hollow-eyed. Broken. Surrounded by the bodies of those he’d tried to protect.

"You’re weak," the reflection said. "You keep surviving by luck."

Caliste clenched his fists.

"I’m still here," he said. "And I will become more."

He stepped forward.

The illusion cracked.

The hallway returned.

The mirrors dimmed.

Daimon exhaled. "That trial breaks most men. You walked through it."

Caliste collapsed—but smiling.

Trial Four: Pillars of Ancients

The stone circle was bigger than he remembered. Ten pillars, each bearing a creature etched in black ink—Wolf, Bear, Hawk, Snake, Boar, and more.

"Each pillar is tied to an ancient Siglius totem," Daimon explained. "Each trial tests a different part of you."

Caliste didn’t hesitate. He began with Wolf—the trial of speed and survival.

The forest opened behind the pillar. He was told to run. That was all.

He ran.

Through vines. Over rivers. Across collapsing branches. Behind him, spectral wolves chased—snarling, white-eyed, tireless. One nipped at his heel. He dove forward and rolled, sprinting the last few feet as the trees opened to light.

Next was Bear. A strength trial.

He was placed in a chamber filled with stone slabs. "Stack ten before sunset," Daimon said. "Oh, and they weigh 200 kilos each."

Caliste nearly broke his spine lifting the first one. But he didn’t stop. His arms bled. His vision swam. The last slab was stacked with a scream.

Hawk tested balance and precision. He was blindfolded, made to cross a narrow beam between two cliffs with a single dagger to deflect swinging pendulums.

He lost his balance twice. Bloodied his palm. Cut his cheek. But crossed.

The trials didn’t just test his strength. They tested identity. They peeled him down to bone, to will, to breath. And when he stood before the final pillar—Lion—he was no longer the same.

A medallion awaited him inside. When he touched it, it glowed—and the words burned in his ears:

One Siglius rises. The blood remembers. The curse stirs.

He collapsed.

But he smiled.

Final Trial: The Duel of the Self

"You’ve faced beast and blade," Daimon said, leading him to a stone circle. "Now you face yourself."

From the shadows emerged a clone.

Not just a reflection—a dark version of him. Same weapon. Same stance. But grinning with cruelty.

"You don’t belong here," the mirror whispered. "Albert doesn’t care about you. Daimon pities you."

They clashed.

Blade to blade.

Strike for strike.

The Mirror Caliste moved perfectly—anticipating every move. The duel lasted minutes. Then hours.

Caliste was losing.

He bled. He staggered.

But then... he smiled.

"You’re not me," he said.

The mirror hesitated.

"You’re the me who gave up. I’m the one who keeps going."

And then—he let go.

Let go of doubt.

Of hesitation.

Of trying to prove he was enough.

He fought for himself.

His final strike severed the mirror’s blade—and the copy shattered into light.

As Daimon helped him sit, the sun dipped low. Caliste’s entire body was bruised, cut, and caked with blood and dust.

"You survived everything," Daimon said. "And you earned everything. From this day forward—you’re a Siglius in truth."

Caliste barely managed a nod.

But he meant it.

And tomorrow?

He would train again.

Because this was only the beginning.

Caliste would become closer and closer to becoming a Siglius like the rest of them, day after day. He could feel himself becoming much stronger by the day. The butler had clearly been right back then, learning from this crazy family was the way.

The only question was how long would Caliste endure it.

’I can feel myself growing much stronger. Just wait Alek, I’m coming for you.’