Make Elium Great Again
“Make the Elium Kingdom great again!”
A secret rumor had recently spread across the entire kingdom.
The Story of the Man Locked in the Dungeon
At first, it spread slowly. But with each passing day, the rumor gathered momentum, until it took only a few days for the news to sweep across the entire kingdom.
Time marched on, and the date of the execution drew near. Normally, such an event would have passed without drawing much attention. But this time was different. As the scheduled hour of two in the afternoon approached, the citizens did not head out to till their fields.
The crowd gathering in Elium Square swelled by the minute, until finally, there was not a single inch of open ground left to stand on.
Two o'clock. From a narrow side alley bordering the square, three figures emerged.
Two soldiers, and one hooded man.
Even with the hood obscuring his face, there was no way the people could fail to recognize the man being dragged along by the soldiers' iron grip. The only difference was that his attire was far more wretched than it had been a few days ago.
Stains of blood marred his clothes here and there, bearing silent witness to severe torture and punishment. Not a single shred of his garments remained intact. Where his bare skin peeked through the tears, it was covered in dark bruises and layers of grime.
He had been beaten so mercilessly that his face and body were swollen, almost as if he had suddenly gained weight.
The moment they arrived, a heavy silence fell over the square. Sensing the gravity of the atmosphere, the soldiers swallowed hard and climbed onto the wooden gallows.
They carefully slipped the noose around his neck.
The executioner stepped forward and asked, “Do you have... any last words?”
The man said nothing. He simply stood there for a long moment, his head bowed.
The square was dead silent. Everyone waited for his response. A stillness so profound settled over the crowd that no one dared to draw a deep breath.
Slowly—he raised his head. His gaze swept downward, looking out over the sea of people filling the square. Then, he opened his mouth.
“Our kingdom has run out of time. The enemy is closing in, and the nobles have abandoned us—they have abandoned this country.”
It was quiet. Yet those words fell upon the square like a massive iron weight. Solid and deep. They carried a gravity that was far more than mere speech—an undeniable, crushing weight.
“Do you still hesitate?”
His voice grew warmer, burning with a quiet intensity. Yet he did not raise his voice. A wildfire, after all, always begins with a silent spark.
“Other kingdoms look down on us, mocking us for our weakness.”
“They laugh at our starving people, sneer at our tattered flag, and refuse to even call us human.”
“Do you still hesitate?”
With each repetition of those words, the emotions buried deep within the people began to stir. Suppressed rage, forgotten shame, and unhealed wounds reared their heads.
“We have always endured. We kept our mouths shut, bowed our heads, and simply bore it. But what did we get in return?”
“Nothing but trampled lands, burning homes, and forgotten names.”
“Do you still hesitate?”
At some point, a burning heat flared in the eyes of the crowd. It was a madness that had undoubtedly begun with a single man, but it had now caught like wildfire among the masses.
“Where is your anger? Where is your pride? If your children, your parents, your friends die tomorrow, will you simply endure it yet again?”
He asked one final time. “I ask you once more. Do you still... hesitate?”
The moment those words dropped into the square, the air froze with a tension like stepping on cracked ice. Some closed their eyes tight; others gritted their teeth.
In the distance, a child's cry rang out. Somewhere, someone swallowed a trembling breath, while another silently clenched their fists.
Emotions locked away deep in their chests for far too long had swelled to the absolute breaking point. It was quiet, but it was the silence right before an explosion.
As his speech concluded, the heat in the square began to glow crimson like burning coals. The look in the people's eyes changed. The tide of their emotions was flowing in an increasingly unpredictable direction.
Amidst the crowd, there were those who moved in secret. The revolutionaries. They were the first to sense that something was amiss—that this atmosphere was spiraling out of control.
The way the people looked at the man was no longer out of simple anger or anticipation. It was faith. It was absolute conviction.
The 'fuse of rage' the revolutionaries had intended to light was now birthing an entirely new flame, with this man at its center.
They had leaked the initial rumors as part of a thoroughly calculated plan. A scenario to use a single condemned man as a scapegoat, transforming the public's outrage into momentum for their organization.
But now—that man was shattering their entire script. The eyes of the masses were fixed not on the revolution, but on a single individual.
This... was not how things were supposed to go.
Only then did one of the panicked revolutionaries shout from among the crowd, his voice laced with an anxiety he couldn't hide. “This is a scam!”
Immediately, another voice piped up from the opposite side. “You're going to lead us? What makes you any different! How will it be different! How are you going to prove it!”
A brief murmur rippled through the crowd. Even the citizens could not hide their confusion.
The hecklers had certainly spoken out against the man, but strangely, their voices sounded faint and insignificant. The crowd's gaze was already directed elsewhere.
As if a natural center of gravity had been established, all attention gravitated toward the man.
The man turned his head to look at them. He did not raise his voice, but his gaze alone was more than enough to pierce the chests of those who had just shouted.
“To prove it...” He tilted his head back slightly. A faint smile played at the corners of his lips. It was neither a sneer nor a smirk. Rather... it was the expression of someone who had already pondered the question. “Then I shall show you, right here and now.”
In that instant, someone whispered softly. No way.
At those words, the air froze. The entire square held its breath.
“If I die today—” He continued slowly, his tone incredibly calm. “It means this country... did not possess even that shred of hope.”
Silence. Even after he finished speaking, not a single soul dared to take a deep breath.
The man was equating himself to the 'nation' itself. Yet no one scoffed or questioned his words. On the contrary, his statement felt entirely natural to accept.
He took a slow breath. And left them with his final words.
“But if I return alive, it means this country is not yet finished.”
With that, he stepped forward. There was no hesitation. His foot dropped straight down.
Crash! The sound of the trapdoor giving way echoed. The man's body plummeted through the air.
In that instant—James felt his frozen body unlock. Something snapped. His mind went completely blank.
Before he could even think, his body moved.
One step. It was heavy. His heart screamed, and his legs felt like lead.
A second step. It was slightly better.
A third step. It was lighter than he expected. It felt as if someone were gently pushing him from behind.
Perhaps that was... the emotion called 'courage' that the man had spoken of.
But it was already too late. In executions like this, death rarely came from suffocation; the drop broke the neck instantly.
Without luck, it was over. Instantly.
James thought to himself, I'm too late. I can't be faster than the trapdoor.
Yet his body did not stop. He couldn't comprehend his own actions. Reason screamed at him that it was pointless, utterly futile. But somewhere deep in his heart, there was something far more profound. It refused to stop, and he didn't want it to stop either.
Tung— A clear, deep resonance echoed.
In that moment, everything unfolded in slow motion before James's eyes.
The screams of the people, the shouts, the gut-wrenching cries. The distorted face of his neighbor, William, who was always so cold and composed. Everything stretched out like a single, frozen frame.
The man's neck slowly caught in the rope. Just before gravity could snap it, the rope wrapped around his neck suddenly unraveled on its own and fell to the floor.
To James, it was like the intervention of some transcendent being. As if the heavens themselves refused to take this man's life.
A story he had heard long ago flashed through James's mind like lightning. When was it? As a child, his grandfather had looked up at the night sky and spoken of a savior on a white horse. A legendary figure who would appear out of nowhere in a moment of crisis to change the world—a myth whose very existence was doubted.
Time snapped back to its normal pace.
Thud— The man's body hit the ground. It did not carry the dead weight of a corpse. His shoulders were still those of a living man.
People rushed forward. Someone hastily pulled off his hood, while another untied the ropes binding his wrists. Their movements were hurried yet incredibly gentle, as if even touching him might be an affront.
And then—his face was revealed.
Black hair. And eyes even darker, harboring a mysterious, otherworldly aura.
Even in the face of death, there was no fear on his face. Having just stared demise in the eye, he was neither startled nor afraid. He didn't gasp for air, nor did he frantically check his body.
Rather... he looked as if he had known all along, completely certain that he could never die.
He looked at the man standing right in front of him, James, and asked, “Why did you run forward?”
His tone was different from before, but strangely, no one questioned the change.
“I thought you... were going to die... so...”
“Is that so? But tell me, does that 'you' refer to me?”
Just as James was about to answer, the man's voice rang out again. Each word struck his ears like thunder. His very presence felt as massive as a mountain.
“Or does it refer to yourself?”
He looked straight at James. “To my eyes, the one who looks like they are about to die right now is not me, who is perfectly fine, but you.”
Then, he smiled softly, warmly. It was a smile that brought an uncanny sense of peace.
He turned his head and asked another person, “Why did you run out?”
“...I just... couldn't stand to sit still.”
“Is that so? And you?”
“...Somehow, it felt like I had to...”
“...Is that so.”
He quietly raised his head. Looking around at the gathered crowd, he spoke clearly and deliberately. “It is alright. I am not dead. I am alive.”
Those words sounded as if they applied to everyone. There was no subject, no explanation, no emphasis. Yet everyone understood. He spoke as if comforting them, and his words rippled through their hearts.
“How about it? Are you still afraid to find your courage?”
At that moment, pitter—patter— raindrops began to fall from the darkening sky.
Shhhhh— A heavy downpour swept over the square.
The rain grew heavier. The man stood with his head held high. His hair was soaked, and his body was still a battered mess. Yet not a single person looked away. Despite everything.
They could feel an aura radiating from him. Even in the pouring rain, they couldn't tear their eyes away. This was true for William, for Aunt Gray next door who had always scoffed at religion, and for the elderly grandmother next door who had always clung to folk beliefs.
His black eyes gleamed as he asked quietly in the rain, “Do you still lack courage?”
Acting Capable of Deceiving Demons
At this exact moment, my mind was operating in perfect sync with the Mustached Demon King.
I realized that to persuade the masses, it was far more important to 'draw out' what was already built up inside them rather than trying to 'shove something in.'
I could see what bound them. The obsession with survival. The endless famine. The unerasable losses. The blinding despair. All of it was piled high, blocking their hearts.
Honestly, it was a miracle they hadn't exploded already. It was a wonder a rebellion hadn't broken out sooner.
So, instead of pouring something into their ears, I made them open their mouths first.
The words they wanted to say but hid, believing they had neither the right nor the opportunity to speak them. I dragged out that festering resentment from their chests and voiced it for them.
This was the key. If you shove grand concepts like justice or the greater good down the throats of people who can barely afford to feed themselves, their faces will immediately harden.
That was where the revolutionary groups got it wrong. They failed to create a 'crack.' They only babbled about directions and justifications, always trying to 'shove something in.'
But me? I'm the Demon King. I operate differently. With just a few words, I carved a crack in their hearts.
Right now, the expressions of the people standing before me are shifting. Somewhere, someone takes a deep breath. Someone else looks up with wide eyes. Good. I'm getting a reaction.
On top of that, the ability I acquired yesterday has activated. Rain. It's far more powerful to the people of this era than one might think.
They live and die by the rain. Farming, death, disaster, salvation—their entire lives depend on the weather. You only have to look at the history books. There are rituals to pray for rain, but never rituals for political campaigns.
So at a moment like this, a simple shower of rain becomes a 'divine revelation.'
Slowly, bit by bit, emotions began to leak through the cracks. I smiled. Now for the finale. Only the final blow to strike their hearts remained. Alright—let's do this.
◈ Halo [ON]
◈ Presence [ON]
Thousands of people gathered in the square. Barely daring to breathe, every single one of them stared at just one man.
Behind him, beyond the sheets of pouring rain, a faint, ethereal light seemed to emanate from his back.
Just as I was about to open my mouth—the persona of the Mustached Demon King within me spoke. It promised that if I surrendered my body to it, it would create the exact scenario I desired.
Sure, why not? I made a deal with the devil. My body began to be controlled by the dark Demon King.
My right hand slowly rose. This feels familiar. Wait, don't tell me...
By the time I realized what was happening, my body had already moved. My palm was stretched straight toward the sky. The angle was uncannily precise, and horribly familiar.
I froze with my hand raised. A suffocating silence fell. A bizarre tension hung in the air of the square. I could see the bewildered expressions of the crowd, staring at a gesture they had never seen before in their lives.
Just as I was about to quickly lower my hand, someone in the crowd raised theirs. Then, two more arms went up.
Within seconds—through the pouring rain, thousands of arms in the square rose toward the heavens.
The situation was rapidly spiraling out of control. Just then, my eyes caught Chris, who was blended into the crowd. Perfect. He'll understand. I desperately sent him a pleading look.
At my gaze, he gave a subtle, quiet nod. Chris stepped forward. As expected of Chris. He truly deserved the fanatic tag. He opened his mouth.
“Salute Lord Kaimu Doyunes! Glory to the Elium Kingdom! Long live the Ifrit Church!”
……Huh?
“Salute Lord Kaimu Doyunes!”
“Glory to the Elium Kingdom!”
“Long live the Ifrit Church!”
The voices did not fade. The shout, which had started as a small ripple, soon transformed—into the roaring chant of dozens, hundreds, and eventually, thousands of people.