The Fallen Hero Reincarnates as the Demon King's Son
Chapter 98 - 97 - Day One

Chapter 98: Chapter 97 - Day One

They were just like father and son. There wasn’t a single doubt about it. The two of them were basically a copy of one another. And the other thing that was clear as day was that his father was also a Siglius. There was no doubt about it based on his appearance and behavior.

"So, my son took on a protégé like you, huh?" His father, Daimon, muttered with a slight frown on his face, looking at my body from top to bottom. "I wonder why he took on a little sissy like you. There better be some good explanations apart from the fact that this was charity work."

Caliste raised an eyebrow at those words. He already knew that he wasn’t particularly liked by Daimon, but to call him charity work? Come on now, it wasn’t actually that bad.

"An old friend of mine asked for my help on this matter. I couldn’t refuse," Albert explained, to which Daimon nodded his head, respecting his choice.

"Whatever. It’s not like it matters; what has happened, happened."

Caliste looked at the two of them as he was still wandering deep down about where they were going with this whole thing. It was clear that there was a reason why he had been brought before Daimon. Albert clearly had an idea inside his mind. However, Caliste wasn’t really happy about it, as he had a feeling that he would hurt a lot more here than back in the private training grounds.

"You wanted me to take care of him for the week, right?" Daimon said as he gave another "light" slap on Caliste’s back, almost making him fall to the ground.

"Yeah. Do your usual, just like you did with me."

Caliste wasn’t sure why, but that didn’t reassure him in the least. After all, Barbarians were naturally very strong. There was little chance that Caliste would be able to handle the same stuff as Albert. In fact, there was zero chance of it.

"Whatever. You can leave and come get him once you’re bored," Daimon said as his son only nodded, listening to him.

Caliste almost wanted to beg for Albert to stay, but he managed to control himself as he watched him leave, leaving Caliste with someone who was potentially even crazier than Albert.

"Alright, sissy boy, now that we’re alone, let’s get started with this training of yours. You’ve been drinking the concoction for two days, right?"

Caliste nodded as the man’s whole personality became a lot more serious and cold. He seemed to have changed into training mode, which was scary.

"I have, yeah."

"Ah. That’s good. Really good, eh? You’re still able to stand. I think you’re the first human I’ve seen capable of resisting it."

"What is that potion or concoction, anyway?" Caliste asked, as he had been wondering about it ever since he took a sip.

The man shook his head. "He didn’t explain it to you?!"

He started laughing while praising his son.

"What you drank is a personal recipe that has been passed down from my ancestors. It’s known to be something that only people from our bloodline can drink. Surprisingly, you were also able to do it, which is impressive. You have the potential of not being a sissy, which is better than most."

Caliste formed a small smile at those words. His way of speaking was definitely... charming in its own way.

However, now that Albert had mentioned his ancestors, it gave Caliste the perfect opportunity to ask about such things. He knew that back then, most of the Siglius had been eradicated and killed, but for some reason, they were still alive, which was strange.

"Ancestors? Do you have any books left behind about them?" Caliste asked.

"Why do you want to know? Those things are personal. I can’t give them to sissy boys. If you get strong, I might let you look at them, but that’s a big ’if’."

Caliste nodded, as he already expected things to be much harder than this.

"Alright then. Enough talking," Daimon said, cracking his knuckles as he walked toward a rusted iron gate hidden behind a stack of hay bales. "Time for the warm-up."

Caliste blinked. Warm-up? That didn’t sound so bad.

The gate creaked open, revealing a long, narrow corridor carved into solid stone. The walls were scorched black, and scorch marks crisscrossed the ground like lightning strikes. Caliste could feel heat wafting from within.

"Go in. I call it the Dragon’s Throat," Daimon said with a smirk. "Just run to the end and back. Simple enough, right?"

"...Why is it called that?" Caliste asked, eyeing the corridor with suspicion.

Daimon didn’t respond. Instead, he grabbed a rusted lever and pulled it down.

Flames erupted from hidden vents in the walls, roaring to life like awakened beasts. Fire blasted at random intervals, filling the passage with rolling waves of heat.

Caliste’s mouth dropped open. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

"Nope," Daimon said. "This is the beginner version too. We’re skipping the expert run because you’d probably just melt. Now run, boy. If I don’t see you move in the next three seconds, I’ll kick you through it myself."

Caliste didn’t need any more motivation.

He charged forward into the inferno, eyes squinting against the blinding heat. Each step was a gamble—duck under one fire jet, leap over another, sprint past a wall of flame that flared just inches from his back.

The heat burned the air out of his lungs. Sweat instantly evaporated. The soles of his boots started to melt, and a part of him swore he could smell his own eyebrows frying.

By the time he made it to the end, he was on his hands and knees, coughing up air that felt like boiling syrup. Then he heard Daimon’s voice echo down the corridor.

"Don’t you dare stop! I said there and back!"

You’ve got to be kidding me.

With a groan that turned into a scream, Caliste forced himself up. His legs trembled, but he ran. Somehow, he made it back, collapsing the moment he stumbled out into the cool air.

"Huh. Eighty seconds," Daimon said, scribbling on a clipboard that appeared out of nowhere. "Terrible. But you didn’t die, so I’ll give you a sticker."

Caliste glared at him, still sprawled on the floor.

"Oh, don’t look at me like that. This is just the start." Daimon grabbed him by the back of the shirt and yanked him up like he weighed nothing. "Time for strength training."

Please no, Caliste thought, but his mouth only wheezed air.

They moved to an open field where a set of training apparatuses stood—or, more accurately, loomed. One looked like a gallows mixed with a pull-up bar. Another was just a pile of rocks larger than cows.

Daimon pointed to a rope tied between two trees, suspended a good ten meters above the ground.

"Climb across. Using only your pinkies."

"...What?"

"You heard me."

"That’s not physically poss—"

Daimon jumped up, grabbed the rope with two fingers, and zipped across like it was nothing. "I’m seventy-two. No excuses."

Caliste bit back a curse and reached up. The rope was rough. His pinkies screamed as he tried to hold his weight.

One second passed.

Two seconds.

Pop.

He fell.

Daimon sighed. "Okay, new goal. You hang there for ten seconds without crying. You do that, and we’ll try something less insulting to my ancestors."

The next hour was agony. Caliste’s arms turned numb, his fingers bled, and Daimon’s training only grew more absurd. He made Caliste carry buckets of molten iron—molten—wearing gloves soaked in freezing water to prevent immediate burns. He had to balance on a tightrope with ankle weights while dodging swinging logs. He even had to spar against a wooden puppet rigged with spring-loaded hammers that hit like battering rams.

By the time they hit midday, Caliste was lying flat on his back, chest heaving, body bruised in colors he didn’t know existed.

"Are you... trying to kill me?" he gasped.

Daimon chuckled. "If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be six feet under, kid. No, this is character building."

"It feels more like bone breaking..."

"Same thing when you’re training with me."

Caliste closed his eyes. He felt like he was falling apart. Every joint ached. His muscles were jelly. But—just beneath all the pain—there was a strange flicker of something else.

Pride?

He hadn’t quit.

He hadn’t run away.

Maybe that counted for something.

Daimon stood over him with two mugs in hand. "Drink."

Caliste groaned. "If it’s another one of those potions—"

"It’s water, you idiot."

"...Thank the gods."

They drank in silence, and for a few brief moments, Caliste felt peace.

Then Daimon spoke again.

"You want to see those ancestral texts, don’t you?"

Caliste turned his head slowly. "More than anything."

Daimon squinted at him. "You’re a weakling. But I’ll admit, you’ve got a stubborn streak. That might be enough to keep you alive."

"That sounds... almost like a compliment."

"It wasn’t."

Daimon stood, stretching. "You survive another week with me, and maybe I’ll show you the cover of one of those books."

"A whole week of this?"

"Oh no. Today was the easy part. Tomorrow’s real training starts."

Caliste whimpered.

And Daimon grinned.