Diplomacy Is Thinner Than a Blade
The official diplomatic missive from the Arten Kingdom could not be burned. That was the most infuriating part. Private letters? You just burn them. A quick end in the fireplace. The memories go up in smoke, the guilt vanishes, and the unofficial bill of emotional grievances from an ex-girlfriend is neatly incinerated. But official diplomatic documents are different. The moment you burn one, it becomes a problem. Ignoring it is a problem. Answering it is a problem. Its very existence was the problem.
I stared at the blue envelope resting on my desk. The crest of the Arten royal family. The handwriting of Elisia Arten. And the words contained within.
The Kingdom of Arten wishes for the stability of Vergrad.
A truly pretty sentence. Pretty sentences usually harbor poison, and even poisonous mushrooms have lovely colors.
The envoy is prepared to serve as a channel for mediation if necessary.
I read that sentence three times. Only after the third reading was I certain. ‘This doesn’t mean they’re here to help.’
Mediation. A fine word. It’s what a teacher says when they walk between two kids fighting: “Now, now, let’s apologize to each other.” The problem was that this wasn’t a classroom; it was the Demon King’s castle. And here, you could lose your head while apologizing.
“Your Majesty.” Hermun spoke in a low voice. I wasn’t alone in the office with him. Several ministers and scribes stood by the wall. Because this was an official diplomatic missive, a single letter from an ex-girlfriend had evolved into an admission ticket to a royal council. Damn it. That’s a truly malicious evolution.
“Interpret it,” I said.
Hermun didn’t answer immediately. He reread the letter, his fingers pressing against the edge of the paper. “On the surface, it is a concern for stability.”
“And underneath?”
“A demand to recognize the civil war.”
One of the scribes in the room gasped. I didn’t look at him. If I did, I’d probably look like I was trembling.
“Civil war?”
“Yes,” Hermun said calmly. “The moment you accept mediation, Your Majesty, you acknowledge Belion not as a traitor, but as one side of a struggle for the throne.”
Ah. I’m screwed. I cursed very quietly to myself. No, actually, I cursed loudly. I just didn’t do it out loud. If I accept, I recognize the civil war. If I refuse, I reject diplomacy. If I ignore it, I’m incapable of ruling. If I strike back hard, it becomes an international war. Every option was a random box of poisonous drinks. Damn it. This is truly dog-shit.
Just then, one of the ministers carefully opened his mouth. “Your Majesty. There is a way to accept Arten’s mediation only in form.”
I looked at him. Hermun looked at him, too. The minister was an old demon. I hadn’t memorized his name yet. My apologies. I’d only been King for a few days. It’s shitty enough to expect a new hire to memorize every executive’s name, but here, if you don’t memorize them, entire noble houses get offended.
“Accept it in form?” I asked.
The minister bowed his head. “We can give the impression that Vergrad does not reject diplomacy. At the same time, we can ensure that no actual authority is transferred—”
“The moment you do that,” Hermun cut him off. He folded the letter. “Arten will write this: ‘The new Demon King has accepted Arten’s mediation.’”
The minister’s mouth snapped shut. Hermun continued, “Whether actual authority was transferred is irrelevant. The side that writes it first in a diplomatic document wins.”
I applauded inwardly. Wow. Diplomacy in this world is just a race to post the first comment. The one who sets the frame first gets the upvotes, and the one who explains later gets hit with a bomb of downvotes.
“Then if I burn it?”
“Arten will proclaim that the new Demon King incinerated an official diplomatic missive.”
“If I ignore it?”
“They will assume you lack the capacity to respond.”
“If I accept it?”
“Belion’s status only rises.”
I looked down at the letter. The sentences on the blue parchment were soft. Soft, but like a noose tightening around my neck. Elisia. You’re good at this. Smiling while pretending to offer a sheath, when in reality, you’re thrusting the blade forward. Between us, there was only a mediation channel prepared. Officially. Politely. And goddamn dangerously.
“Your Majesty,” Hermun said. “This letter was not sent by Princess Elisia.”
I stopped my finger. “It was sent by the Kingdom of Arten.”
“...”
“However, the sentences designed to make Your Majesty waver were likely written by Princess Elisia.”
Great. Stabbed publicly, stabbed privately. International politics and an ex-girlfriend collaboration. It was truly the worst joint performance. The stage is my execution platform, and the VIP seats are probably the Arten palace.
I let out a long breath. “Fine.” My voice sounded steadier than I expected. At this point, my vocal cords seem to have more talent for politics than I do. “Arten spoke of mediation.”
“That is correct.”
“Then the mediator must be clean.”
Hermun’s hand stopped. One of the ministers lifted his head slightly. I didn’t look at them as I spoke. “Vergrad welcomes Arten’s concern for stability.”
The scribe picked up his pen. “However, the current situation is not a dispute over the throne.”
Ink dripped onto the paper. “It is the suppression of an internal traitor.”
The room went silent. With this one sentence, I drew the line again. Belion is not a prince. He is not a rival for the throne. He is a traitor. And saying you will mediate for that traitor is like walking into my house and asking to divide my property with a thief. Are they insane? Even as a rookie Demon King, I know at least that much.
“Keep writing,” I said. “If the Kingdom of Arten truly wishes for the stability of Vergrad, guarantee that there has been no unofficial contact with Belion Vergrad and the Eastern Military Command.”
The scratching of the pen stopped. The scribe looked at me. Hermun looked at me, too. No, he didn’t lift his head. But he knew. That old man was calculating furiously in his head right now. ‘His Majesty has picked a fight with the human world.’
No. It wasn’t a fight. It was an inquiry. That’s how you write it in diplomatic documents. The real-world translation is this: Are your hands clean? Prove it, you bastards.
“Your Majesty,” Hermun said. “This sentence is strong.”
“I know.”
“Arten may take it as an insult.”
“Then they shouldn’t have brought up the word ‘mediation’ first.” I pressed my finger against the letter. “Just because someone brought a bucket of water to watch a house burn down doesn’t make them a firefighter.”
One of the scribes almost dropped his pen. Hermun closed his eyes for a brief moment. I felt like I knew what he meant. ‘Please don’t put that crazy metaphor into the official document.’ I won’t. I have enough sense for that. Probably.
“And one more line.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Demand the same guarantee from the Seraphion Order.”
This time, the room truly froze. The scribe held his pen but couldn’t write. A minister opened his lips and closed them. Even the royal guard standing by the wall stiffened ever so slightly. That name was sharper than a blade. The Seraphion Order. The faith of the human world. The ones who sprinkled blessings over the banners of the Holy Army during the Noxvine defense battle. And the name that remained in Lucion’s memory: Saint Ariane Seraphel.
The woman who said she would pray for me. The woman who asked me to do nothing. It’s funny. That sounded like comfort at the time, but looking back now, it was a seal. ‘Please stay still.’ ‘Please don’t move.’ ‘If you do nothing, we can remember you as a good person.’
Damn it. You said a good person couldn’t be King. Then you shouldn’t have tried to bind me as a good person.
Hermun asked very slowly, “Even the Order?”
“Yes.”
“This is a letter from the Kingdom of Arten.”
“The Kingdom spoke of mediation.” I lifted my head. “But it was the Order that sprinkled blessings at Noxvine.”
This time, even Hermun couldn’t answer immediately. That silence was the answer. I knew I had crossed the line. Touching only the Kingdom of Arten and touching the Seraphion Order were different things. The Kingdom fights with politics. The Order borrows the name of God. A guy coming to the political arena with a sword is scary, but a guy coming with a god is even more shitty. Because they believe they aren’t the ones holding the sword.
“Your Majesty,” Hermun said in a low voice. “This reply is not a simple refusal.”
“I know.”
“It is a document asking if the hands of Arten and the Order have touched the rebellion.”
“That’s why it’s a reply.” I picked up the pen. My fingertips trembled. Damn it. They trembled. It was because I was scared. Because I knew what I was touching right now. Yet, I couldn’t stop. If I backed down here, Elisia’s mediation would change the name of the civil war. Belion would become a rival for the throne, not a traitor. The Eastern Military Command would become a negotiating partner, not a rebel force. Then the stripping of titles I’d bled to achieve would dissolve into thin air.
Royal decrees are words. If you back down on your words, you die. I wrote the final sentence myself.
The Kingdom of Arten and the Seraphion Order must guarantee that they have had no contact with the internal rebel forces of Vergrad.
I placed the period. In that moment, I knew. This wasn’t a reply. It was a summons. To Arten. To the Order. And perhaps... the first blade that would reach Saint Ariane Seraphel.
I put down the pen. “Seal it.”
Hermun looked at me for a moment. No, to be precise, he looked at the last sentence I had written. Then he bowed his head. “As you command.”
The black wax melted. The crest of Vergrad was pressed onto the paper. In that moment, before the black wax had even cooled, the scribe’s pen stopped on the paper. The minister’s neck stiffened. Hermun didn’t look surprised this time, either. That was even scarier.
I muttered to myself, ‘Damn it.’
Now, I couldn’t even tell if I had written a diplomatic missive or the first sentence of a war.