Mutual Assured Destruction
All I really want is garrison rights, railway freight privileges, passage rights, corvée labor, conscription authority, water usage rights, production quotas, import-export controls, military grain requisitions, logistics oversight, tribute obligations, and the like. But striking a deal through negotiation presupposes equality with the other side. In other words, it means being dragged down from my strict superior position in the rigid class system to the level of some lowly merchant, haggling like equals.
But what the hell am I supposed to do?
I have zero interest in treating them as equals.
I'll "negotiate," sure—but I won't offer a damn thing in return. How's that negotiation? Exactly. It's not. It's intimidation disguised as negotiation.
"There are no ulterior motives in my words. I truly wish for a favorable outcome with all of you. So, please—tell me what you desire."
Everyone eyed each other like it was a game of chicken. Some feigned nonchalance by swigging their wine, others stroked their chins thoughtfully.
In short, it was all about who would blink first.
Who would shout "one" first, stuffing their greed into the pot. Naturally, no one here knew how it would play out.
Would their gaping maw get ripped wide open the moment it parted, or would a juicy lump of rice cake drop right in?
"Ahem."
One lord cleared his throat deliberately.
Then he turned to me, forcing an awkward smile.
"Your Grace."
"Yes, speak."
"However, there is one thing I must humbly convey."
Humbly convey, huh. The lords' gazes shot toward him like arrows.
"Our territory of Alupang sought only the Empire's confirmation in truth. Now that Her Highness the Princess has safely arrived at Your Grace's residence, we shall pledge our unwavering loyalty to you without the slightest hesitation. That is all, Your Grace."
"……."
"……."
He downed his wine with feigned composure, but even I couldn't shield him from the surrounding "What the fuck is this idiot babbling about?" stares.
Still, that pretense was a strategy in itself.
Sensing an instinctive unease at my personal arrival to open negotiations, he'd gone all-in on the North from the jump.
"Forgive the interruption mid-speech, but Baron Dellein of Alupang territory—isn't that tantamount to ignoring His Grace's words?"
As expected, someone else stepped up to take the lead and pull a high-roll. The way he immediately framed my words as mere negotiation suggested layers of subtext.
"To what do you refer?"
"His Grace has graciously offered you a chance to speak freely. Yet prattling on about loyalty? It looks no different from brazenly deceiving His Grace's benevolence right to his face."
"Ah, please don't misunderstand. I too am merely proposing a certain transaction to His Grace."
He addressed not just the lord who'd called him out, but everyone at the table.
"The countless knights and soldiers of the Northern Frontline, the Total Commander and his subordinates, and above all, Your Grace the leader himself. If that sacred toil simply protects Alupang and its people, that suffices."
"So the baron desires nothing in return?"
"More bluntly put, yes. If loyalty counts as a transaction of the heart, then it's the devotion of a vassal for the North—and the Empire beyond. That's my aim: to quell Alupang's anxieties thereby."
"That's precisely the deception of His Grace's benevolence, Baron Dellein."
The mood turned to mudslinging in an instant. Everyone clutched their foreheads or tapped the table with their fingers, watching the chaos unfold.
Of course, I was watching too.
Some prodded at Baron Dellein's facade, others gauged my reaction and clammed up. They all wanted their cut, so they'd publicly target Dellein first.
But if opinions clashed this sharply, their views would soon converge on one path.
So what's that bastard duke's real angle?
"Your Grace."
Amid the rising chatter, a lord seated near the table's center cautiously addressed me.
"Might I presume to ask what Your Grace desires?"
The clamor died instantly.
A swarm of eyes fixed on me like rats.
"H-how rude! His Grace has graciously offered us a chance, and you dare probe his intentions?!"
"Your Grace, you needn't answer! If that fool's words have offended you, allow me to apologize on his behalf!"
No.
No need. Actually, it's fine. Better than fine—perfect.
They'd been dancing around it, subtly hoping I'd set the benchmark. Some fretted that I'd use Dellein as the example, sure, but at least it wasn't that. Or the other extreme.
"Very well. I told you to show your cards, so I can't very well keep mine hidden. Everyone, calm down."
Not superior to subordinate. This was a negotiation table. Borrowing the metaphor of a vulgar gambling den, I aligned my gaze with theirs as equals.
All held their breath, awaiting my words.
"Like anyone, I seek utmost sincerity in this meeting. Because that's what I bring as well."
I decided to speak more candidly.
"What I want is something you all already know. As the Northern emissaries conveyed: your cooperation with the North. The reason…."
Propping my chin on one hand, I drummed the table with the fingers of the other, sweeping my gaze over them all. The silence was so thick I could almost hear them swallowing.
"…is to prevent the North from self-destructing."
The air turned icy as a Northern gale in that instant. Everything felt blanketed in frost.
In the actual North, head to the polar wastes and even your breath freezes solid in that extreme cold. This was exactly that.
Ron Manir's banquet hall was usually mild and cozy. Not the mood, though. I continued.
"In particular, the North well recognizes your value. From Ron Manir onward, across these territories. We know full well that over seventy percent of the goods flowing in and out of the Capital bore the fruit of your productivity."
In other words: without your cooperation, the North is fucked—it's only a matter of time. If the North falls? The Frontline crumbles.
They couldn't hope to stop the magic beasts pouring from the North, let alone any devils or monsters advancing from the south.
And those 20,000 starving knights under Northern command? They'd turn rebel, carving out their own warlord fiefdoms.
Post-apocalypse, marauder bands stronger than militaries aren't just cliché. Especially when these knights outmatch devils.
Tank-riding Catalan mercenaries gone mad, basically.
Yet the North's Frontline was offering to handle and corral all that? No. Impossible.
Everyone here should be on their knees begging already.
"The entire Empire mourns the horrific tragedy of mere days ago—no faulting that. But leaders can't afford such lapses. That's why you and I are gathered here for a thorough discussion."
And I laid it out with zero lies, utterly sincere.
"Even I genuinely fear what happens if my troops starve and slip my control."
Calmly, I added,
"That's why I ask: in this worst, most tragic situation, what complementary deal can we strike?"
Simple.
I'll shoulder averting that worst tragedy, you fucks.
So hand over full governing rights.
"…Ah."
"……."
I deliberately let the sticky, web-like silence settle for a while.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
There's this thing called mutual assured destruction. Simply put: "You fuck me over? Fine, you're fucked too."
This was much the same.
Of course, I figured the lords hadn't overlooked that basic logic. If they still pushed back, it meant they saw the Northern Frontline as utterly fucked.
No matter how much they dismissed the princess's arrival as propaganda or exile, there was reason to doubt.
In that sense, my words equated to: the North isn't fucked anymore, so quit dicking around and fall in line.
Unease spreads like wildfire. The mood thickened with black smoke.
"…You're right."
After an eternity of silence, the first to speak was Viscount Demoire, lord of Ron Alman.
"Your Grace's words ring true a hundredfold."
He was the one who'd greeted me first then silently watched the table. Saying that, he subtly elbowed the lord beside him.
The wary fellow quickly chimed in.
"Y-yes, Your Grace! What I fear most isn't anything else—it's the Empire's shield, the North, falling absent. That's truly terrifying…."
The game of chicken hadn't changed, but the tide had turned in a flash. Their buy-in led the charge.
Those agonizing over what card to play now choked back groans, scrambling for excuses to flip their words.
Especially Baron Dellein.
"Your Grace, ah, indeed… that was precisely my point! Surely Her Highness recognizes Your Grace's steadfast resolve. I sincerely pray your profound wisdom reaches all us 'leaders,' Your Grace."
He said it, then calmly sipped his wine. "This fucking idiot for real" glances flashed among the lords again, but no one dared rebut.
Yeah. Quick on the uptake and riding the right line? Time to claim your winnings.
I kept drumming the table steadily, then straightened up to drive in another nail.
Until now, I'd been just another gambler like them. But now?
Not anymore.
I was the Grand Duke of the North. A solitary sovereign truly serving the Empire, truly bearing their grave responsibilities.
"Your fears are the North's burden to bear alone."
What petty trades? For the Empire and its flower, sincerity demands we unite all.
Why? Because that's what the Grand Duke of the North does.
"As long as I rule the North, I cannot presume to burden you—equals as the Empire's vassals—with such weight. That's why I asked what you desire: to ensure the North doesn't self-destruct and harm you."
"Y-Your Grace."
"Grand Duke…."
"What more would you have the North do?"
Sighs of awed admiration bubbled up throughout the hall. Not genuine, of course.
I'd just handed them the perfect excuse.
Quit scheming bullshit and flip your words already.
"In the urgency, I failed to consider, Your Grace! Please forgive my shortsightedness!"
"Th-the same for me! Your Grace, pardon my ignorant misjudgment…!"
They groveled for forgiveness like actors in some high drama, propping me up. I watched it all impassively.
Yeah, now we're getting somewhere. When did I ever say I'd seize your lands and tyrannize? Or covet unearned conquests?
It's pure, innocent truth—no room for lies. I simply cannot stand by and watch the North self-destruct.