The Royal Decree Before the Blade
The Demon King’s Royal Decree was sealed with black wax. Yet, the place where it was received was nothing more than a single, rickety folding desk.
On the outskirts of the Eastern Military Camp, beneath a collapsed watchtower, the black flag of the Black King Castle had been planted. The flag itself looked quite impressive. The problem was what lay beneath it: a creaking desk, a single ink bottle, a weapon surrender ledger, one scribe, six royal guards, and a wooden stake stamped with the black seal. The reality of a grand Royal Decree was, more or less, this.
At the end of royal authority, there is always paperwork. Even if you build a nation with a sword, in the end, someone has to write names down in a ledger. The scribe sent from the Black King Castle knew this fact all too well. That was why he was sweating so profusely.
“Next,” he said. He kept his voice as calm as possible, but his fingertips had already dipped into the ink three times.
Three soldiers stood before the desk. They were soldiers from the Eastern Military Camp. All three were wearing armor, but their swords were tied to their backs with cloth, still in their scabbards, so they couldn't be drawn. They hadn't come carrying weapons, nor had they thrown them away. They were in the middle. To be precise, they were the image of men who had not yet decided to which side they should entrust their lives.
The soldier standing in the middle opened his mouth. “We didn't come here because we ran away.”
The scribe picked up his pen. “Name.”
“Ladin.”
“Affiliation.”
“Eastern Military Camp, Supply Route Escort.”
The scribe’s pen stopped. He had seen that name in a report before. The soldier Belion had spared instead of killing. The man whose length of life was measured by the legs he still stood on.
Ladin licked his dry lips. “We didn't come here to betray His Highness Belion.”
One of the royal guards twitched an eyebrow. The scribe did not look up. “You would do well to be careful with that title.”
Ladin shut his mouth. Then he spoke again. “We... came here so we wouldn't become traitors.”
Those words hung beneath the watchtower. There was no wind, yet the tip of the flag fluttered ever so slightly. From the distance, small shouts could be heard, as if they were training. Occasionally, the sound of horses neighing drifted over.
The scribe opened the ledger. “Soldiers who lay down their weapons in accordance with the Royal Decree will not be held accountable for their crimes. Write down your name and affiliation, return your weapons, and wait.”
“Is that really true?” asked the soldier next to Ladin. The scribe looked at him. He was a young soldier. A face that still wanted to believe in the Royal Decree, and at the same time, a face terrified that he might die if he did.
“Whether it is true or not,” the scribe said slowly, “is not for me to decide.” He pointed to the stake stamped with the black seal. “The Royal Decree decides.”
That was the moment. From far away, the sound of hoofbeats was heard. It was drawing closer. It wasn't fast. If anything, it was too steady. It wasn't the sound of someone running in fear. It was the sound of someone approaching as if to say, kill me if you can.
The royal guards leveled their spears simultaneously. The faces of the three soldiers stiffened. The scribe, pen in hand, took his eyes off the documents.
Beyond the dust, a woman in black armor appeared. Kardia Noxbell. She did not dismount. First, she looked at the watchtower. Then, she looked at the black flag. Finally, she looked at the desk. That gaze was the most insulting of all.
“Is this the Royal Decree?” Kardia said. “Setting up a single desk to pull away an army?”
The scribe rose from his seat. “I am an executor of the Royal Decree from the Black King Castle.”
“Name.”
“...Taren.”
“Taren.” Kardia urged her horse forward until she was right in front of the desk. The royal guards aimed their spears at her, but no one could bring themselves to strike. It was because Kardia hadn't even looked at them. She looked down at Ladin.
“The Royal Decree moved your feet, did it?” Ladin’s throat tightened. “Then let’s see if that Royal Decree can protect your neck, too.”
Kardia dismounted. She didn't draw her sword, yet the air beneath the watchtower felt crushed. She looked at the ledger on the desk. Weapon surrender. Affiliation. Name. Pardon recipient. Kardia laughed softly.
“Paper is truly wonderful,” she said. The scribe did not answer. “Without spilling blood, without drawing a sword, you can split an army.” Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword. “Taren.”
“Yes.”
“Do you guarantee the pardon of these soldiers?”
The scribe’s face turned pale. “I am merely processing them in accordance with the Royal Decree.”
“Do not hide behind the Royal Decree,” Kardia’s voice dropped. “Write it with your own name.”
The tip of the scribe’s pen stopped on the ledger. That these soldiers are allowed to live.
The space beneath the watchtower went quiet. The scribe realized it only then. The Royal Decree was not a word descending from the heavens. The moment it touched the earth, it had to become someone’s hand. It had to become someone’s name. It had to become someone’s responsibility. And that hand was his own.
Damn it. Of course, he didn't say it out loud. If he had, he probably would have died at Kardia’s hands before the Demon King’s.
The scribe gripped his pen tighter. His hand trembled. Still, he wrote.
[Ladin. Eastern Military Camp, Supply Route Escort. Weapon surrendered per Royal Decree. Pardon accepted.]
Kardia looked down at the letters. “Good.” Then she looked at Ladin. “I will ask you one last time.”
Ladin swallowed his breath. “If you say you are returning to His Highness Belion, I will let you live for now.”
At those words, the two soldiers behind him wavered. Kardia didn't miss it. “If you say you are a soldier of Vergrad,” her hand pressed against her sword hilt, “your life will end up on that desk.”
Ladin looked at the desk. The ink. The ledger. The scribe’s trembling hand. And the black seal. Could those things really save him? Could the word called ‘Royal Decree’ really stand before a sword? He didn't know. But he knew one thing. If he went back, he would never be able to hold a sword like he used to. Because he had already come this far.
Ladin slowly opened his mouth. “I am...” His voice cracked. He said it again. “I am a soldier of Vergrad.”
Kardia’s hand stopped. The royal guards around them also held their breath. That statement didn't mean he was Lucion’s soldier. It didn't mean he wouldn't be Belion’s soldier, either. It was a worse statement. A more dangerous one. The soldier was detaching his loyalty from the name of a single person. Kardia realized that. That was why she didn't draw her sword.
She could have killed him. If she cut Ladin’s throat here, this shabby reception center would be finished. The scribe would run away, the royal guards would become corpses, and the Black King Castle’s Royal Decree would be torn to shreds before the blade. But then, it would look like she had killed a soldier who had responded to the Royal Decree. It would add one more piece of blood-stained evidence to the name of Belion’s traitor. And Lucion’s words would gain even better bait.
Kardia gritted her teeth. “Fine,” she said. “If this Royal Decree is real.” Kardia pointed to Ladin and the two soldiers. “His Majesty should receive them personally.”
The scribe’s face stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“I am taking them with me.”
“To the Black King Castle?”
“Yes.” Kardia’s eyes sank coldly. “To see if that Royal Decree truly saves people.” She took her hand off the sword hilt. “I will see it before the King.”
* * *
“The soldiers from the Eastern Military Camp have arrived at the Royal Decree reception center.”
The report came in the afternoon. I put down my pen after hearing that. “Isn't that good news?”
It should have been good news. I issued the Royal Decree. I promised a pardon. And the soldiers actually came. By common sense, it was a success story. If it were a business email, it would be a task you could slap a ‘Processing Complete’ sticker on.
Of course, this world didn't have such a kind UI. Hermun bowed his head. “Kardia Noxbell is escorting them to the Black King Castle.”
Ah. Finally, the reply had returned not as a letter, but as a sword. I looked at the ceiling for a moment. The ceiling of the Black King Castle was unnecessarily high. I suppose it was built that way so it would be easy to look up at when one was in despair.
“Why?”
“She is insisting that His Majesty must personally receive the soldiers who responded to the Royal Decree.”
“And if I refuse?”
“The Royal Decree becomes a lie.”
“If I accept?”
“Kardia Noxbell will stand before the Black King Castle.”
“What if I only receive the soldiers and send Kardia back?”
“The likelihood of her returning willingly is low.”
Great. The minefield has been updated again. If I avoid it, I’m a Royal Decree fraud. If I accept, I get the core combat power of the rebel army and a sword-wielding ex-girlfriend at the same time. If I abandon the soldiers, no one will believe the next Royal Decree. What is this? I didn't become a King; I feel like I’m trapped in a boss room where every choice is an instant-death trap.
Hermun said in a low voice, “Your Majesty. You must decide carefully.”
I know. I know all too well. Words are easy. Soldiers who lay down their weapons will not be held accountable. The problem is that people actually come, believing those words. Words are not free. A word once sent out brings people back with it. And when that person stands before a sword, my words must still be alive.
I pressed my fingertips. They trembled a little. I hated it. But I could hide it. “Let them in.”
Hermun’s pen stopped. “Kardia Noxbell as well?”
I shook my head. “No.” Outside the window, I could see the black flag of the Black King Castle. I said, “The soldiers who came believing in my Royal Decree.”
The room went quiet for a moment. Words call people. Damn it. The one who called them now had to take responsibility for them.