The Price of a Bowl of Porridge

The meal records were, surprisingly, quite tidy.

Complete. Complete. Complete. It must have been easy to write. It doesn't record whether the people were actually full. I looked down at the ledger and asked, "What was this porridge boiled with?"

Hermun immediately looked at the administrator standing right next to him. The administrator answered with a tense face, "Black barley and oats. Some are supplies recovered from the eastern outer supply depot, and the rest are leftovers from the lower warehouses of Black King Castle."

"And the meat?"

"It is a portion of the dried meat confirmed to have been seized from the Harben Blood Family carriages."

"The salt?"

"We diverted a portion of the supplies temporarily sealed in the Merk Blood Family warehouse for distribution."

Good. No, it wasn't good. Harben, Merk. To have the names of Blood Families attached to a single bowl of breakfast—do the citizens of the Demon Kingdom stir-fry politics into their rice?

"What about the pickled vegetables?"

"We purchased them formally from a civilian merchant guild."

"Write that down separately."

The administrator hesitated. "Pardon?"

"Seized supplies, sealed supplies, purchased supplies, donated supplies. Distinguish all of them." I folded the ledger. "Don't lump it all together as 'Family Support.' The moment you write 'support,' those bastards will eventually come to claim the price of their grace."

Hermun’s pen moved. Scratch. Scratch.

"Support never ends as support. It returns as an invoice."

"I shall obey your command."

"Where is the kitchen?"

The administrator’s face stiffened further. "Would you like to see it yourself?"

"The record says 'complete.'" I stood up. "I need to see what kind of mess that 'complete' actually is."

The kitchen was in the lower level of the outer palace. As I opened the door, hot steam slapped my face. Three large cauldrons were hanging, and thin porridge was boiling inside them. It was a substance that felt insulting to even call porridge. The grains were soaked but not fully softened, and the dried meat was so tough that there were only traces of it having been shredded into small bits. They had skimped on the salt. They hadn't just skimped; they had treated it like it was something to run away from.

I stared into the cauldron and remained silent for a moment.

"Is this the regulated amount?"

The cook lowered his head. "It is the wartime distribution standard."

"Everywhere is the same; as soon as a war breaks out, the food turns to garbage."

Saying it out loud left a bitter taste in my mouth. I never expected to be complaining about military rations after coming all the way to the Demon Kingdom. One of the cooks was slicing dried meat. There were bloodstains and dirt left on his hands. I looked at those hands.

"Did you wash your hands?"

The cook stopped. "Pardon?"

"Your hands. I asked if you washed them."

"The meat is going to be boiled anyway, so..."

"Boiling it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and washing your hands are different matters." I scanned the surroundings. There were water barrels, but there was no distinction between drinking water, cooking water, and hand-washing water. Damn it. I thought the country was only failing on paper, but it was failing quite diligently in practice.

"Set aside some boiled water," I said. "Use that to wash your hands. Separate the knife used for the meat and the serving ladle. Don't touch the ladle with blood-stained hands."

The cooks looked at each other. Hermun asked in a low voice, "Your Majesty, are you even looking at the hygiene?"

"If the soldiers get sick, they can't even listen to military orders." I looked at the wet firewood next to the cauldron. "An epidemic will spread faster than a traitor."

Hermun was speechless for a moment. He wrote again. Scratch. Scratch.

I swallowed a sigh as I listened to that sound. In just a few days since becoming the Demon King, I had already handled execution orders, proclamations, accounting audits, and now, cafeteria hygiene. At this point, shouldn't they give me an apron instead of a crown?

"Attach the source of the ingredients to the meal records, too."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"And the cooking process."

The administrator’s eyes widened. "The cooking process, you say?"

"Yes. The time the grains were soaked, the meat preparation, the amount of salt added, the time distribution started." I looked at the cauldron again. "If the person eating it gets an upset stomach, I’ll be looking at the cauldron before the ledger."

I’ll really... seriously. If you put anything weird in there, you’re dead. The cooks’ shoulders stiffened simultaneously. Good. Be afraid. Even if it’s just words for now, a Royal Decree will hurt less than a stomachache.

The camp smelled of porridge. It wasn't a rich scent. Thin grain porridge. A few pieces of dried meat in it. A little bit of pickled vegetables. It wasn't a meal for nobles. It was just slightly better than what the soldiers ate on the front lines. Yet, the eastern soldiers sitting in front of it couldn't bring themselves to lift their spoons.

Radin was the same. He stared down at his wooden bowl. Black King Castle Temporary Protected Soldier Camp. The name itself was strange. If it’s a camp, it’s a camp. If it’s a POW camp, it’s a POW camp. Protected Soldier. It sounded like a sword with a flower stuck in its scabbard.

"Is it safe to eat?" a soldier sitting next to him asked in a low voice.

It was the administrator who answered. "It was put there to be eaten."

"Why..."

"Your names have been added to the supply list."

At those words, the soldiers looked at their bowls again. The supply list. When their names were written down, it usually meant deployment. Or it meant death. It was the same for Radin. Belion Vergrad knew his name. Radin. Half-blood of the Horned Demon tribe. Capable of night supply route escort. History of returning after injury. A soldier who can be used to maintain the Noxvine defense line.

That wasn't a bad memory. Belion was a prince who memorized the names of his soldiers. That was why the soldiers followed him. Belion must have known that and used it. He must have known which path to guard to keep the eastern gate alive, and which supply route would cause Noxvine to collapse if cut. Even knowing that, there were times he had to push soldiers into the jaws of death.

I wonder who killed his brother. He closed his eyes and thought of the front lines for a moment. Kardia Noxbell came to mind. Which hand she held her shield with. Which knee she collapsed on. What kind of breath a scared guy took right before dropping his sword. She knew the bodies of her soldiers. That must be why all the soldiers stood behind her back.

"Why are you just sitting there?"

However.

"Have you eaten?"

My eyes snapped open at the familiar voice. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Radin didn't know at first that the words were directed at him. He lifted his head. Standing at the entrance of the camp was me. Behind me were Hermun and Barkan. And two scribes were following. The scribes already had their pens ready.

Ah. Is this what it feels like? The image of a modern politician visiting a barracks, eating a meal, and taking a picture. I can't take a picture, but the record will remain.

Bullshit. I didn't come here to raise morale; I came to see why the porridge was so thin. But that sentence will probably be written down for real. Politics was, in the end, the process of recording the bullshit of a dog and putting a uniform on that dog.

The soldiers tried to stand up.

"Sit," I said. "The food is getting cold."

The soldiers, who had stopped awkwardly, sat back down. I looked at Radin.

"Radin."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"I'll ask again. Have you eaten?"

Radin couldn't answer immediately, as if the question were strange. "I... have not eaten yet."

"Why?"

"I didn't know if it was safe to eat."

I looked at the bowl. It was thin. It was tough. It was bland. Still, it wasn't food given to make them die.

"It's food given to be eaten, so you should eat it," I said. "I didn't put poison in it."

The faces of several administrators stiffened. It was a joke. Halfway.

Radin slowly lifted his spoon. His hand was trembling. A spoonful of porridge went into his mouth. There was no way it was delicious. But it went down his throat. Radin grabbed the bowl with both hands.

"Your Majesty."

"Speak."

"His Highness Belion also knew my name."

The camp went quiet. He lowered his head. "General Kardia also knew which hand I held my shield with."

I didn't say anything.

"I do not resent them," Radin’s voice was low. "But when my name was written down, it usually meant deployment next."

That was the utility of the name he possessed. "Or it was the casualty list."

Maybe Belion and Kardia were desperately memorizing the soldiers' names for that very reason. The surface of the porridge rippled slightly. He looked at me. "The food... this is the first time."

I was speechless for a moment. Ah. Damn it. This is a bit of a foul. I didn't come down here to play the role of a holy king. Food is cheaper than torture, lasts longer than execution, and is more certain than the bullshit of the Blood Families, so I came to check on it. Of course, I had to feed them. Asking if someone had eaten after they had barely survived was almost a reflex. There was no great kingly way or philosophy in it. Yet, this guy was accepting it as grace. Human hearts are harder to calculate than ledgers. This is seriously damn difficult.

"Hermun."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Don't just look at the meal records for the protected soldiers separately." I scanned the camp. Torn military boots. Cracked horns. Thin blankets. Bandages not properly wrapped around wounds. "Upload the lower palace distribution, firewood costs, salt costs, medicine, boots, and blankets together."

Hermun looked at me. "Are you attaching that many detailed items?"

"If this country is all like this," I looked at the porridge bowl, "we’ll go bankrupt because of food costs before we do because of war."

The scribe’s pen moved. Scratch. Scratch.

"And," I pointed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠toward the kitchen, "keep the hand-washing water separate."

Radin blinked. Hermun also paused, just a little. "Hand-washing water, you say?"

"Yes," I said. "What kind of nonsense is it if I feed them and they get a stomachache?"

The air in the camp loosened strangely. A few soldiers let out very small breaths. I continued, "Those who lay down their weapons will be fed."

The soldiers swallowed their breath. "Those who lie will be recorded separately." And I added, "If you run away, the protection order will be revoked from that day on."

I sighed quietly and said, "Still, you have to feed them properly."

Relief and fear passed through them at the same time. That was enough. I am not a saint. I have no intention of giving them a ticket to heaven just because I feed them. As I was about to leave the camp, the scribe asked cautiously, "Your Majesty. How should ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I leave the record of today's inspection?"

I looked at him. "Write it exactly as it is."

"'The Demon King personally visited the barracks to comfort the soldiers and...'"

"Don't write it like that."

The scribe’s pen stopped. I said, "Write that the porridge was thin, the salt was lacking, and there was no hand-washing water."

The camp went quiet.

"Your Majesty."

"Why?"

"If you write it like that, the management responsibility remains."

"That’s why I’m telling you to write it." I walked toward the door. "Records aren't written to be praised."

One beat.

"They are written so we fail less next time."

That afternoon. The meal line at the eastern military camp was quieter than usual. Since the outer supply depot had been raided, the porridge had become even thinner, and the dried meat had been cut in half. The soldiers couldn't easily eat even after receiving their bowls. Someone said in a low voice, "I heard Radin ate food at Black King Castle."

Who started that rumor? No one answered. But several soldiers stared down at their bowls for a long time. That rumor was quieter than the tip of a spear. And slower than a proclamation. But once it entered, it didn't easily leave. The scariest thing in the eastern military camp that day wasn't the black flag. It was the smell of food.