Do Not Call Him Your Highness
Kalen Drak's head fell. With a dull thud. So that's the sound a person's head makes when it hits the floor. No—when a demon's head hits the floor. Not that it matters right now.
The great hall of the palace froze in an instant. The elderly noble who had been standing tall before me only moments ago crumpled to his knees, body tilting forward. Blood spilled. Thick, dark blood spread across the black marble. The candles flickered. The demon nobles sealed their lips. The knights swallowed their breath.
And I sat upon the throne. Looking perfectly composed, as if I were the sort of bastard who had just ordered the execution of a living being. A demon. Whatever.
"Next."
The word left my mouth.
Next? What the hell do you mean, next?
My insides were already a disaster.
I just had a head cut off.
I didn't swing the blade myself, but I killed him. Doesn't ordering it count?
By that logic, every gang boss is just a fitness trainer.
Absurd thoughts tumbled through my head. I felt like I was going to vomit. But I couldn't. If I threw up here, it was over. The Demon King, on his first day, executes a noble and then pukes? That would brand me the official glass-hearted Demon King of the castle. So I had to hold it in.
I rested my fingers on the armrest of the throne. Slowly. Deliberately. As if I were bored. Like a true Demon King.
One by one, the nobles in the hall lowered their heads. The first to speak was the elderly minister. A demon with a gray beard that reached his chest. Hermun. A survivor from the previous king's reign—meaning he was a veteran who had kept his head attached through all the bloodbaths in this palace.
Even after watching Kalen Drak's head roll, Hermun did not scream. His face did not twist. He simply bowed slowly.
"Your Majesty."
His voice was low and respectful. So respectful it was terrifying.
"One of the leaders of the rebellion has been dealt with. However, there are still houses within and outside the palace that sided with Prince Belion."
I looked at him in silence. Hermun asked quietly,
"How shall we handle those houses?"
The air in the hall sank once more.
Ah. This is a test.
If I said "Kill them all," I would be a tyrant. If I said "Forgive them all," I would be a pushover. If I said "I will consider it," I would be a puppet. Good grief. The moment I became king, the multiple-choice exam began. Kill them all and the country explodes. Spare them all and I explode. I had to find the middle ground. I always hated math. Pythagoras would probably be running on all fours if he saw this blood-soaked mess.
I drew a slow breath. I had to answer. Briefly. Firmly. And frighteningly.
"The houses will remain."
A few nobles exhaled, almost imperceptibly. Relief on their faces. Good. I'll remember those expressions.
I continued.
"But those who raised their swords will not."
The faces that had begun to relax hardened again.
"Rebellion is washed away with blood. But we will not stain entire houses with it."
My voice came out surprisingly well. Even to my own ears, it sounded plausible. Inside, I was still crying.
"Those who sent troops to Belion. Those who let assassins into the palace. Those involved in the death of the First Prince. Arrest them all."
I looked down at Kalen's corpse.
"Just like Kalen Drak."
Silence fell over the hall. In that silence, Minister Hermun slowly bowed his head.
"Your mercy is boundless."
Mercy, my ass. I don't even know what I'm doing.
Yet the nobles' eyes had changed. Until a moment ago, they had been watching me. Now they were calculating. How far I was willing to kill. How far I could endure. How far I could not retreat.
So this is what demon nobles do—they don't look at people, they measure the length of the blade. A wretched race. And now I was their king.
"Also," I said, leaning slightly forward on the throne, "seal the palace gates."
The knight commander raised her head. A female demon in black armor, a long scar across one cheek. Seradin. I didn't know if she was on my side. In this palace, I had no certain allies. Except for the severed head of Kalen. At least he couldn't betray me anymore.
"Seal the palace," I ordered. "No one leaves tonight."
Seradin asked, "Does that include envoys and messengers?"
"It does."
"Even contact with the Human Envoy's Office will be cut off."
"It must be."
The hall stirred again. At the mention of the human realm, my heart sank once. She was there. Elysia. The princess of the human kingdom. The first person in this world who had looked at me like I was a person. Or so I had thought.
I lifted my chin slightly.
"Anyone trying to leave is no envoy."
Then, slowly, I added,
"They are fugitives."
For the briefest moment, a faint smile crossed Seradin's lips.
"As you command."
The knights moved. The metallic clang of armor echoed out of the hall. The palace gates would close. The first thing to do after a coup? Lock the doors. This wasn't some cheap apartment—it was the royal palace, but securing the place still mattered. Leave the door open and the bugs crawl in. And here, the bugs come armed with swords. Damn it.
***
The duke's mansion was quiet. At the very moment the scent of blood spread through the palace, Evelyn Roadmia, eldest daughter of the western noble house, held a teacup in her hands. The tea had not gone cold. The aroma was pleasant. Yet her hand did not move.
"Say it again," Evelyn said.
The servant bowed, face pale.
"His Highness, the Third Prince Lucion Vergrad, has ascended the throne."
The teacup froze in midair. Evelyn's crimson eyes slowly turned toward the servant.
"Who… did you say ascended?"
"His Majesty Lucion Vergrad."
Your Majesty. The words drifted through the room. Evelyn could not speak for a long while. It made no sense. Lucion. That Lucion. Had become the Demon King?
Memories from a few days ago surfaced. The rain-soaked corridor. Black rain fell outside the window as Lucion brushed back his wet hair and looked at her. His face had been wounded. He had asked with eyes that did not understand. Why? Why was she abandoning him?
Back then, Evelyn had said,
"It is not because I dislike Your Highness."
It had been true. It was not dislike. If anything, it had been closer to the opposite. Lucion had been kind. Too kind. In the demon palace, kindness was not an advantage—it was a death flag. Evelyn had no intention of becoming the tragic heroine from the romance novels she read. So she had spoken more coldly.
"Because Your Highness will not survive."
That had been a judgment. A political one. A choice made for the survival of her house could not be wrong. Lucion Vergrad was not a man who could become king.
Yet now—
"He survived," Evelyn murmured.
The servant could not answer.
"He… survived."
Survived. And at the very top. Evelyn's fingertips scratched the rim of the teacup. A thin crack formed.
"That cannot be."
She spoke softly.
"He was not that kind of man."
It was denial. And at the same time, a confession. The Lucion she had known was not someone who would become king. Not someone who would trample others to rise. A man who reached for letters before swords, who offered requests before threats, who feared tears more than blood.
That man had become the Demon King.
Evelyn set the teacup down. Tea spilled over, but she did not notice.
***
The report that returned to the palace was worse.
"Your Majesty."
A soldier in bloodstained armor rushed into the hall and dropped to one knee.
"Speak," I said. Please let it be good news. Please. Something like 'All the rebels have surrendered.'
"His Highness, the Second Prince Belion, has fled to the Eastern Military Camp."
Damn it. The final boss had escaped. For a moment, my vision blurred. The Eastern Military Camp. I didn't know the details, but the name alone told me enough. Military camp meant troops. Belion meant traitor. A traitor with troops had run away. This wasn't just a cockroach with a knife leaving the palace. This was a breeding cockroach. We were screwed.
The nobles stirred. Their murmuring was fear—and anticipation. Belion was alive. That meant some of them still had insurance. They could weigh whether to side with Lucion or with Belion.
...No. If I lose ground here, it's over.
I opened my mouth slowly.
"What did you just say?"
The soldier stiffened.
"Pardon?"
"I asked what you just called that man."
The color drained from the soldier's face. He realized his mistake.
"I-I misspoke…"
I looked down at him. My heart pounded. Please. Don't let my voice shake.
"Do not attach 'Highness' to a traitor."
The hall fell silent. I spoke again.
"Belion is no longer a prince."
In that moment, the air in the hall shifted. All because of a single title. But that single title was power. Call him a prince and he remained royal blood. Call him a traitor and he became a beast whose head could be taken. I had just stripped Belion of his royal status—with words. So from now on, I would have to prove it with blood.
We're fucked. I just dug my own grave with great care.
"Send a messenger to the Eastern Military Camp," I ordered. "Anyone who joins Belion will be punished the same. But those who lay down their arms immediately will not have their families held accountable."
Minister Hermun looked at me. I ignored his gaze.
"And inform the nobles near the Eastern Military Camp as well."
I gripped the armrest of the throne.
"Tell them to choose who their Demon King is—by the end of today."
The hall held its breath again. Who their Demon King is. Even as I said it, a chill ran down my spine. Was this right? No—it had to be. From now on, being wrong meant death. This wasn't a multiple-choice test anymore. It was a class where the professor graded with a sword in hand. An F didn't mean retaking the course. It meant execution.
"Also," I paused for a moment, "has the First Prince's body been recovered?"
Minister Hermun's expression shifted slightly. For the first time. Just a little.
"Not yet. In the chaos of the rebellion…"
"Recover it," I said. "Prepare the finest coffin and hold the funeral according to royal rites."
One noble spoke carefully.
"Your Majesty, the First Prince never ascended the throne. The rites of a king are…"
"Bury him as the heir."
I looked at the noble.
"Record him as the rightful heir who fell to rebellion."
The man immediately closed his mouth. I continued.
"That way, Belion will not be remembered as a prince who killed his brother, but as a traitor who tore apart the throne."
At those words, the elderly nobles exchanged glances. Yes—this wasn't something I had thought of alone. It was something Lucion's memories had told me. The First Prince, Arkel. He had not cherished me. He had not been warm. Sometimes he sighed when he looked at me, and on some days he passed me by as if I did not exist. But unlike the Second Prince Belion, he had never openly trampled me. He had acted like someone who would become king. Always. Without fail. To the point of irritation.
So even in death, I had to use him.
Corpse politics. I hated it. But in this world, even the dead had votes. I had to establish the legitimacy of my dead brother so the living brother's throne could stand. The palace was a place that recycled everything except humanity. Eco-friendly, my ass.
"It shall be done," Minister Hermun said, bowing his head. But this time it was different. Before, it had been the bow of someone testing me. Now it was the bow of someone who had finished calculating. I didn't know which side he had landed on. But at least he hadn't chosen to cut off my head right this moment. That was progress.
Goal for the Demon King's first day: keep my head attached. So far, success. Congratulations. Achievement unlocked: Didn't Die Today.
I don't even know if this is right…
…The moment I thought that, footsteps echoed from outside the hall again. This time, not a soldier's. Lighter. More cautious. More ominous. Hermun raised his head.
"Your Majesty," the old minister said quietly. "The Human Envoy's Office has requested contact."
The human realm. At that single word, I thought of Elysia's face.
Ah. Seriously. Why are you doing this to me? I thought I made it through the day without dying. But the day isn't even over yet.