The Fallen Hero Reincarnates as the Demon King's Son
Chapter 102 - 101 - Kingblood

Chapter 102: Chapter 101 - Kingblood

The pain was constant now. Not the sharp, stabbing kind that demanded attention, but the deep, throbbing ache that lingered in his bones like cold iron. When Caliste opened his eyes on the third morning, he didn’t move right away. He just breathed. Each inhale reminded him he was still alive. Each exhale was a quiet promise to keep going.

The embers of last night’s fire still glowed faintly in the pit. Beside them sat Daimon—silent, unusually so. There was no gleeful insult, no boot to the ribs, no declaration of a new training deathtrap. He just sat there, arms crossed, eyes locked on the flames like he was waiting for them to show him something.

Caliste struggled upright with a grunt, his body protesting every motion.

"You’re not yelling," he said, his voice thick with sleep and soreness. "Should I be worried?"

Daimon didn’t look up. "I had a dream," he said quietly. "Haven’t had one in years."

Caliste blinked. That wasn’t what he expected.

"What was it about?"

"A girl. She had golden eyes. A Siglius warrior. One of the last. She died in the capital, alone, surrounded. But she smiled before she went."

Silence stretched. The flames popped softly between them.

"She looked like you."

Caliste frowned. "I thought you said I wasn’t one of you."

"You’re not," Daimon said, finally turning to face him. "And that’s the part I can’t explain."

He stood slowly, cracked his neck, then motioned for Caliste to follow.

"No warm-up?"

"You’ve already survived two days of my worst," Daimon said. "Now it’s time for the part I never got to pass on."

They walked through the outer ring of the grounds. Past the burnt remains of old sparring dummies, through a corridor of statues—cracked, moss-covered relics of warriors who came before. Caliste recognized none of them. No names. No plaques. Just the weight of history hanging from stone shoulders.

At the end of the path was a gate Caliste hadn’t seen before. Carved from blackstone, nearly fused shut by age, it was marked with a symbol he had only glimpsed in the etchings behind the Siglius medallion he’d recovered yesterday—three claws raking through a sunburst.

Daimon placed his palm to the stone.

The runes pulsed faintly, then shifted.

The gate groaned as it opened inward, revealing a chamber swallowed in shadows. The walls were bare. The air was colder than outside. In the center stood a single, slanted altar—and resting upon it, a shallow bowl of ashen powder that glowed faintly with lightless fire.

Caliste felt something the moment he stepped inside. Not pain, but pressure. Like the room itself recognized him, and didn’t approve.

"This is what remains of the Anima Spark," Daimon said, walking forward with reverence. "It’s all that’s left of our connection to the Siglius Way."

Caliste approached slowly, every footstep sounding too loud on the stone. "This is where the Echo Memory thing happened?"

Daimon nodded. "What you did yesterday, that was a shadow of this. The ancestors let you glimpse them. But this—this is the true Ash Recollection. It doesn’t just show you the past. It tries to make you wear it."

Caliste looked down at the bowl. The ashes shimmered like ground pearl, but the fire beneath was dark. A slow, pulsing black flame danced at the center of the powder—no heat, but a hunger.

"I thought I wasn’t Siglius."

"You aren’t," Daimon said. "And that’s what makes this so godsdamned strange. The Ash only reacts to blood. And yet... it called to you yesterday. It welcomed you."

Caliste swallowed. "Maybe I’m just unlucky."

"Or maybe," Daimon said, stepping back, "you’re the first person meant to carry the legacy without carrying the curse."

He reached into his satchel and drew a stone knife with runes engraved in its edge. "You want to try it?"

Caliste didn’t hesitate.

He took the knife, pricked his palm, and let three drops fall into the ashes.

The black flame flared.

The world shattered.

It wasn’t like falling. It was like being torn apart, cell by cell, and scattered across the ages.

He felt his limbs stretch beyond himself—become heavier, faster, trained. His back straightened without thinking. His stance widened. His breath slowed.

Then the visions began.

He was not one man.

He was many.

A warrior, shirtless and painted in ash, roaring as he leapt from a burning rooftop into a battalion of knights. A child, barely ten, slipping through alley shadows with a knife hidden in her sleeve. A weathered old man who bowed before an altar made of bones before placing a crown upon another’s head.

They were not memories—they were experiences. His arms twitched with movements he didn’t understand. His eyes saw things that weren’t there—enemy formations, fatal openings, spiritual pathways hidden beneath flesh and stone.

But beneath all that, there was pain.

So much pain.

Each memory ended in death.

One by poison.

Another by drowning.

Another—by betrayal.

He felt it all. The cold. The despair. The confusion. The rage.

He screamed. Or maybe they screamed through him.

And then—silence.

When he came to, his face was buried in the dirt. He was shaking. A shallow puddle of blood leaked from his nose and ears.

Daimon was crouched beside him, expression unreadable.

"You lasted longer than anyone else who wasn’t born into it," he said. "That’s a first."

Caliste sat up slowly, eyes unfocused. The fire in his limbs hadn’t faded. His muscles twitched with reflexes that hadn’t been there yesterday. His grip on the earth felt... anchored.

"I saw them all," he whispered. "I think I was them."

"That’s the point," Daimon said. "The Anima burns your ego down to the root. If there’s anything left when it’s done, you’re stronger for it."

Caliste reached into the earth and stood.

"I want to try it."

Daimon raised an eyebrow. "Try what?"

Caliste closed his eyes. Took a deep breath.

Then moved.

It wasn’t perfect. His stance was too wide, and his shoulder roll was late—but the movements were clean. Efficient. A sword form he had never studied emerged from his muscles like instinct, and he danced through a dozen strikes in a blur of precision.

Daimon’s jaw tightened. "You just copied the Twelve Ash Movements."

Caliste opened his eyes. "Is that what they’re called?"

"No one’s used those in two generations."

"Guess someone should."

Daimon barked a laugh. "You arrogant little bastard."

Caliste smirked. "You trained me."

"You’re damn right I did." Daimon grabbed a practice blade and tossed another to Caliste. "Let’s see if the spirits made you cocky or capable."

They clashed in the chamber, no words between them, only motion. Blade to blade. Step for step. Daimon fought like a boulder falling through a forest—unstoppable, brutal, rooted in experience. Caliste fought like fire across dry grass—quick, unpredictable, and increasingly hard to contain.

For the first time, Daimon had to work for his hits.

When they finally broke apart, both panting, Daimon stared at Caliste like he was something summoned—not born.

"You’re not Siglius," he said. "But maybe you’re what we should’ve been."

Caliste wiped the sweat from his brow, then gave a half-grin. "Does this mean we’re done for the day?"

Daimon slapped him on the back so hard his lungs nearly collapsed. "Hell no. This was just your initiation. Tomorrow, we talk about the Kingblood Theory."

"What’s that?"

"You’ll see."

And as the two of them stepped out of the dark chamber into the dimming light, Caliste knew that whatever came next—blood or no blood—he was going to shape a legacy all his own.

He wasn’t Siglius by name.

But the dead had chosen him anyway.

And now, he would carry them forward.

***

Caliste awoke before the fire this time.

He didn’t need Daimon’s threats or cold water or Kevin hurling walnuts at his face. His body, sore and stiff as it was, moved on its own. The training from the last three days had stripped something from him—softness, perhaps—but it had given something back.

He felt ready.

Daimon was already waiting, arms crossed, leaning against a post like he’d been standing there since nightfall.

"You’re early," he said.

Caliste rolled his shoulders, wincing at the satisfying cracks. "You told me yesterday we’d talk about the Kingblood Theory. I couldn’t sleep."

Daimon chuckled without humor. "That’s dangerous curiosity."

"I’ve survived three days of you. I can survive dangerous."

There was a long silence. Then Daimon motioned for him to follow.

They walked deep into the canyon trails, away from the forge and the training fields. The path narrowed, winding through cliffs carved by wind and time. A dry riverbed whispered beneath their feet.

At the end of the path stood an altar built from obsidian slabs. Its surface was cracked, half-swallowed by the land—but its edges were still sharp, still defiant.

"This is where the first theory was spoken," Daimon said, voice low. "By a mad Siglius who died three hours later."

Caliste didn’t speak. He could feel the weight in the air. This wasn’t just history. This was sacred.