If You're Going to Kill Me, Then Kill Me
The first hill outside the castle. Barkan stopped there. I was the one who made him stop. The Black Armor Guards halted with him, their dark armor lined up low beneath the hill. They were silent.
"Your Majesty," Barkan said in a low voice. "From here on, you are truly on your own."
"As it should be." I looked toward the Eastern Military Camp. A column of dust was visible. The kind of dust kicked up when an army moves. A sickeningly honest trace left behind when countless feet trample the earth in the same direction.
If I had intended to go with an escort, I would have sent another minister instead. So, the least I could do was show the bravado of going alone. I chuckled. "For the most part, I've never quite taken a liking to playing king."
Barkan's expression stiffened. It was a joke, but I guess it didn't land. Then again, what I was about to do was no laughing matter.
I adjusted my black cloak. I didn't carry a sword. I didn't wear armor. Just the Demon King's ceremonial robes, the black signet ring, and empty hands. In this world, those who entered enemy territory empty-handed usually fell into one of two categories: a madman, or someone pretending to be mad so the enemy wouldn't draw their blades first. I hoped I was the latter. I wasn't confident, though.
"Your Majesty," Barkan called out again. I didn't look back. "Please do not die." It was a short sentence, but it caught strangely in my throat. "I'll try," I replied. And then, I walked down the hill. Alone.
The air in front of the Eastern Military Camp was different. If the air at Black King Castle felt like a compressed stone, the air here felt like a taut bowstring. Air that felt as if it would snap at the slightest touch.
The first to spot me was a scout. He raised his bow. The string was drawn. Then three more. Five. Ten. Spear tips pointed at me. I didn't stop walking. No one shot.
It wasn't because I was strong. It was because the political weight I carried as I walked was far too troublesome. The Demon King had come alone. Killing him might end the war. At the same time, it might escalate the conflict.
There was a high probability that a grueling civil war would erupt from the infighting among the nobles who had sided with me. At the very least, a mere common soldier couldn't make that call. So, the soldiers did nothing but aim at me.
Armies were fascinating things. Even with thousands of men holding blades, there were moments when absolutely no one could make the first move. I walked right through that hesitation.
"It's the Demon King," someone muttered in a low voice. "He came alone." "Where are his guards?" "He has none." "Is he insane?"
Honestly, I was wondering the same thing. Was this madness, or was it kingly? The difference between the two was smaller than one might think. The real problem was that if you succeeded, it was kingly; if you failed, you were just a lunatic. History is a consequentialist. A highly insolent one at that. Perhaps that was why every past Demon King possessed at least one absurd anecdote like this.
As I passed through the soldiers, low whispers began to spread. Someone recognized my face. Someone else saw my signet ring. Some simply bowed their heads. One of them muttered in a tiny voice, "The one who fed Radin..." The soldier next to him grabbed his arm. "Shut your mouth."
Good. Even the story about the food was circulating. I had doubted our propaganda department's capabilities, but it seemed they had actually delivered.
Deep within the Eastern Military Camp, the path parted. The soldiers stepped aside to the left and right. And at the end of that path stood Belion Vergrad.
Clad in armor. A worn scabbard. Deep fatigue etched beneath his eyes. Yet, his back remained unbent. He stood in the dead center of a starving army, and that army still held its lines, their eyes fixed on him. As expected. This man was not someone who would break easily. That was precisely why I had come all this way.
Belion looked at me. For a long while, he said nothing. The silence was heavier than any mockery. Finally, he spoke. "You came without an escort."
"I figured if I brought one, you wouldn't show your face."
"Do you wish to die?"
"It certainly is a place where I could."
Belion's eyes narrowed. The air within the camp grew even tighter. I stood face-to-face with him. He took a step closer. He was taller than me, clad in armor, and carrying a sword. Meanwhile, my hands were empty. It was a highly unfair encounter. But that was usually how the throne worked. You had to pretend to be fair in the most unfair of situations.
"Lucion," Belion called my name. Not 'Your Majesty.' Not 'Demon King.' Just my name. I smiled. "You still call me that." "Because today, you might die with that name." "Then you should speak it even more comfortably."
Belion's hand went to his hilt. The soldiers held their breath. A sharp ring echoed as the sword was drawn. It was an old blade. A sword with far more nicks and scratches than ornaments. A sword that had cut down men. A sword that had weathered battlefields. Its tip rose to point directly at my throat.
The cold metal stopped just shy of my skin. A fraction of an inch closer, and I would bleed. Just a tiny bit more.
"Have you come to kneel?" Belion asked.
"No." I didn't look at the tip of his sword. I looked into his eyes. "I have come to receive your surrender."
A stir rippled through the soldiers outside the tents. Belion's expression didn't change, but the tip of his sword trembled imperceptibly. "You?"
"Yes."
"By coming alone?"
"Because I had to come alone."
I took a breath. The sword tip at my throat shifted. My skin stung slightly. I might have been nicked. It didn't hurt. No, actually, it did. I was just holding it in because crying out in pain right now would look incredibly pathetic.
"If you're going to kill me, then kill me, Belion," I said. The entire camp fell dead silent. "If you can kill me, seize the throne, stabilize the Demon Realm, and even defeat the Northern Archduke..." I didn't take a single step back. "...then that must be your answer."
Belion's gaze darkened. "Did you come here to give me permission?"
"Of course not," I said.
"I came to ask if that answer is truly your best option."
The tip of his sword drew closer to my throat. "You came to play word games."
"I wish it were just a game."
I didn't smile.
"The Northern Archduke has made his move."
All warmth vanished from Belion's face. That name dropped like a heavy stone in the middle of the camp once more. The Northern Archduke. Several soldiers raised their heads. Some gritted their teeth. Others clenched their fists. It was a name that required no explanation, even here.
"I know," Belion said.
"Then you must understand even better. After all, you are the Shield of Noxbain." I spoke past the tip of his sword. "Do you really want to be the Demon King that badly? I've tried it, and there's absolutely nothing good about it. Belion, if my head rolls by your blade today..." Belion's brow twitched ever so slightly. "...you will become the Demon King wearing a crown placed on your head by the Northern Archduke."
In that instant, the air fractured. An invisible blade pierced straight through the center of Belion's pride. I pressed on. "You will not be a Demon King who rose by the strength of Belion Vergrad."
Like me, whom you despise. Like me, who was treated as a fellow prince despite being nothing. Like me, who inherited the throne simply because I was the son of the former Demon King. A beat. "Instead, a Demon King approved by the Northern Archduke will be born."
The tip of the sword trembled. It was minuscule, but I saw it. Belion knew it too. He knew exactly where those words had struck. If not for the Northern Archduke, Belion's defeat would have already been a certainty. I staked everything on that single fact.
"Shut your mouth."
"No."
"Lucion."
"I know you hate me," I said.
"And I know exactly why."
A prince who had never even held a sword properly. A third son without a single callus on his hands. Loved, used, abandoned, and a name that was never once recognized as a king. That was me. Because that was who this damn Lucion was.
"In your eyes, I must not have looked like a king," I said. "I felt the same way at first." Belion remained silent. "I thought I had become the Demon King by some fluke." As I spoke, a strange sense of relief washed over me. No, it wasn't relief—it was just that I could no longer hide it.
"But after sitting on the Demon Throne, I realized something." I looked around the camp. The spear tips pointed at me. The starving soldiers. The exhausted horses. The fluttering banners. And Belion. "There can be no such thing as 'by chance' when it comes to becoming the Demon King."
My voice was quiet, but it did not waver. Instead, I poured strength into my words, piece by piece. "My ascension to the throne must be an inevitability."
"It must be justified."
"And it must be sublime."
"Only then will the Demon Throne remain unshaken."
I glared at him, forcing him to look directly at my bloodshot eyes reflected in his pupils. "Only then will the House of Vergrad not collapse. Only then will the Demon Realm not be dragged onto the chopping block of foreign powers."
Fuck. I knew it too. These words didn't really suit me. On the inside, I was still cursing up a storm. I wanted painkillers more than a crown, and I missed my bed more than the throne. But I still had to do it. Because I was the Demon King.
"That is why I am here," I said. "If you still believe you are more suited for the throne, then kill me." I took a breath beneath the tip of his sword. "But if you cannot bring yourself to kill me..." I lifted my chin, looking down at him. "...then surrender, Belion."
The entire camp froze. "Submit to the Demon Throne, along with the Eastern Military Camp."
Belion did not laugh. Nor did he rage. Instead, his face grew incredibly serene. They say that when you reach the eye of a storm, the wind dies down. That was exactly the kind of face he made.
"If I surrender," Belion said, "what will you do with the Eastern Military Camp?" Finally. He was asking about his army, not the throne.
I answered, "They must be dealt with." The soldiers' shoulders tensed. "But I will not abandon the soldiers." This time, several gasps rippled through the ranks. "The noble houses will be held accountable. Those who raised private armies, those who hoarded supplies, and..." I looked at Belion. "...especially those who weighed the throne in their hands. Their sins are particularly heavy. Is that not so?"
He did not answer. "But the Shield of the Demon Realm will be rebuilt. For that is the only way to protect this nation."
Belion's eyes darkened. "What of Cardia?" At the mention of that name, a small ripple went through the inner camp. Cardia Noxvel. General of the East. Belion's sword. A prisoner in Black King Castle.
I gave a brief reply. "She is a prisoner." A beat. "I will not execute her, but she will not escape her status." After all, she had harbored a sliver of murderous intent toward me when she came to the Demon King's castle.
Belion's sword tip lowered slightly. "You expect me to believe that?"
"Don't believe it," I said. "Record it. No, I shall personally write a covenant for you." Belion's eyes locked onto mine. "The Demon King does not break covenants. Especially when sworn on the name of Vergrad."
Silence. It was an agonizingly long silence. I could have died in that silence. Belion could have killed me. Even now. Still. A single thrust. A single step. That was all it would take to end it. To end all the words I had spoken. To end the Demon Throne. No, perhaps it would have been a new beginning—a throne belonging to Belion Vergrad.
But that throne would always be shadowed by the Northern Archduke. And that was something Belion could never endure. I believed in that. That was the gamble I had placed.
Belion slowly exhaled. The tip of his sword lowered. The sound of steel cutting through the air echoed strangely loud. He did not sheathe his sword. Instead, keeping the blade planted in the ground, he slowly sank to one knee. The entire Eastern Military Camp lost its breath.
"Belion Vergrad," he said. His voice was low and clear. "I surrender to the Demon Throne, along with the Eastern Military Camp."
I looked down at him. My throat stung. The spot where the sword tip had touched earlier was smarting. My legs felt like they were about to give out. I absolutely could not show it. If I stumbled here, the genre would immediately flip back to comedy. I spoke as briefly as possible. "I accept your surrender, Belion Vergrad."
At those words, the camp trembled. Some bowed their heads, some lowered their spears, and others stared blankly at Belion. I immediately spoke. "And now, I issue my first command." Belion raised his head. I looked toward the south—the direction from which the human army was marching up. "Turn the army around." A beat. "To the southern border."
Belion's eyes flared back to life. There was no trace of a defeated man in them. They were the eyes of a general who had found his battlefield. Yes. That was what I needed. I didn't need a rebel to claim the throne; I needed the Shield of the Demon Realm.
"The civil war of the Demon Realm is over," I declared. "Now, we strike the foreign invaders." It was time for revenge. A long, grueling revenge. Belion slowly bowed his head. "I shall obey your command." As those words fell, the banners of the Eastern Military Camp fluttered in the wind.