Ragmunt
It wasn't just the wind that made the banners of the Eastern Military Camp flutter. The people were shaking, too.
The spearmen holding their weapons. The wagon drivers standing by their carts. The officers stationed nearby in case of an emergency.
Even the common soldiers who, until moments ago, hadn't known whether they were rebels, the Demon King's army, or just a pack of starving beasts marching in lockstep. Their bodies remained frozen, only their eyes moving.
Belion Vergrad dropped to one knee. Before everyone's eyes.
Everyone heard his declaration of surrender to the Demon Throne, along with the entirety of the Eastern Military Camp.
I stood before him. Like a Demon King. Doing my absolute best to look the part.
Internally, I was barely holding myself up, my legs on the verge of giving out. To be completely honest, I still couldn't feel anything below my ankles. They were my legs, but ownership of them had felt highly debatable for the last few minutes.
But whatever. Royal authority, justification, none of that crap mattered. If you survived, you'd already won half the battle. If you died? If you died, it was game over. No throne, no revenge, and I wouldn't even get to see the faces of those women—who thought they'd get along just fine without me—crumple in despair.
Now that would be a tragedy. I hadn't come all this way just to play background music for someone else's happy funeral. I couldn't die yet. At least, not today.
Of course, I kept these thoughts strictly to myself. If a Demon King showed a face that said 'Actually, I really want to live' in the middle of enemy territory, his authority would instantly melt away.
The crown wouldn't look like it was resting on his head; it would look like a piece of wet toilet paper stuck to his forehead. So, I feigned composure. To the absolute limit.
The back of my neck, where the tip of Belion's sword had grazed me earlier, stung. It wasn't just a shaving nick. It was a bit deeper than that. Much cleaner, and above all, it hurt like absolute hell.
But the moment I complained about the pain, wouldn't this epic, life-or-death struggle for the throne suddenly turn into a pathetic wait in line at the clinic? So, I endured. A Demon King's dignity, as it turned out, was maintained largely through blood and silence.
Belion remained on his knee. The entire Eastern Military Camp watched his posture. When he finally raised his head, I knew. This wasn't an answer meant for me alone. It was a performance for his army. The throne had changed hands.
The commander-in-chief had changed. And Belion Vergrad was proving that fact first and foremost with his own knees.
"I will prepare the men to march immediately," he said curtly.
But the moment those words left his mouth, the collective breath of the Eastern Military Camp shifted. He hadn't surrendered in mere words. An army always watches who gives the orders and who executes them.
Belion stood. His sword was still planted in the dirt. Before sheathing it, he surveyed the camp.
"Messenger."
"Yes, Your Highness!" an officer replied reflexively.
In that instant, the air turned ice-cold. Your Highness. It was an old title, ingrained by habit. Belion's gaze locked onto the officer. He didn't even look for long, but the officer's face drained of all color.
"Again," Belion said.
The officer swallowed hard. "Yes, General."
Only then did Belion sheath his sword. Watching this, I thought to myself: Good. He's broken. Starting with the title.
As if it were now time to break the rest of the army, Belion turned to face the entire camp. "Prepare to march south by the end of the day."
No one moved immediately. It was too sudden. Until moments ago, their spears had been pointed at the Black King Castle. They had been aimed at the Demon King. Lowering those spears wasn't just a physical act; it was the abandonment of their rebellion. And it had happened in the blink of an eye.
Belion's voice dropped, heavy and cold. "Did you not hear me?"
This time, they moved. Starting from the front rank. Slowly.
"Reorganize the lines!" Steel scraped against steel. "Secure the supply wagons in the center!" One by one, the spear tips pointed toward the earth. "Leave no wounded behind! Group them to the left of the wagons!"
I listened to the rising clamor. Belion didn't stop. The officers began shouting, driving the men into motion.
"Fatigued cavalry, to the right!" "Move! Do not mix the private soldiers of the Great Houses! They are still our troops, but they are also the eyes and ears of their respective families!"
As the stream of orders continued, the camp regained its natural rhythm. Confusion lingered, as did distrust, but their bodies were moving faster than their minds could process. It was proof once again of how deeply ingrained Belion Vergrad's authority was in the Eastern Military Camp. And right now, that ingrained obedience was carrying out my will.
It was a strange feeling. I wasn't the one directly moving the army. I had moved Belion, and Belion was moving the army. It seemed the throne of the Demon King wasn't a seat for someone who swung the sword himself. It was about directing the one holding the sword, guiding them to look in the direction you wanted.
Belion delivered his final command. "We head for the southern border immediately."
A low murmur rippled through the depths of the camp. The south. The region where the human Northern Archduke's army was advancing. The place where human boots had dared to tread upon the soil of the Demon Realm.
Belion's voice boomed, silencing the murmurs. "I have surrendered."
Everyone froze at his words.
"But I will not abandon you."
The soldiers' eyes wavered.
"We have merely turned our spears toward the foreign invaders who seek to annihilate us. Our purpose has not changed. We still fight for the Demon Realm, and we still fight to protect it."
Only then did the banners shift. The fabric that had been tilted toward the Black King Castle slowly turned in the opposite direction. Wagons creaked. Horses snorted in discontent. Officers re-established the lines. An army of rebels was, very slowly, transforming back into the army of the Demon King.
"Your Majesty," Barkan's voice sounded from behind.
At some point, he had made his way up from the bottom of the hill to stand near me. Of course, he wouldn't have crossed the crest of the first hill. He had kept to the boundary I set. The man was incredibly diligent about things like that. I turned my head slightly. Barkan's gaze locked onto my neck, and his face instantly hardened.
"Your wound..."
"A mere scratch."
"Your Majesty."
"It's a shaving nick."
"I was under the impression that the royal family of the Demon Realm does not shave."
Ah. Right. I shut my mouth. This world made it incredibly difficult to crack a joke. The cultural barrier completely ruined the humor. I cleared my throat. "Then it's a sword nick."
Barkan didn't laugh. Good vassals rarely understood jokes. Or perhaps they simply pretended not to, sparing the king's dignity from further damage.
Hermoon followed close behind. He didn't react much upon seeing my neck. Instead, he immediately sought out the camp's administrative officers. What a magnificent old man. To remain so cold and analytical when his king had nearly died—he was the absolute epitome of a bureaucrat.
"Hermoon."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"How will today's events be recorded?"
Hermoon immediately pulled a document from his robes. The tip of his pen paused for a brief moment, then began to glide.
"Belion Vergrad, along with the Eastern Military Camp, surrendered to the Demon Throne."
Scratch.
"Your Majesty accepted the surrender."
Scratch.
"And as your first military decree, you redirected the Eastern Military Camp to the southern border."
It was dry. No blood, no neck wounds, and certainly no mention of the fact that my knees had tried to clock out early without my permission. Records were incredibly convenient. No matter how much of a mess a person was on the inside, once put on paper, it looked perfectly dignified. I nodded. "Good."
I wasn't sure if it was actually good, but at least on paper, I had just been a rather impressive Demon King. Demon King Lucion Vergrad. Rode alone into the heart of the rebel camp. Accepted the surrender of Belion Vergrad. Redirected the military to the southern border.
It sounded grand. Of course, omitting the TMI that this grand figure's knees had almost buckled. Fortunately, my cloak was long enough to hide my trembling legs. Half of royal authority truly came from a fancy piece of cloth.
"Your Majesty must rest for a moment," Barkan said.
"I cannot rest," I replied, watching the army turn south. "The moment I rest, everything I just did becomes nothing but a bluff."
Belion approached. He looked at the wound on my neck but said nothing. If he had asked something like, "Are you alright?" right now, it would have been incredibly awkward. We didn't have that kind of relationship. At least, not yet.
"Please take responsibility for our supplies," Belion said, laying his cards on the table. "We have very little food left."
"Three days' worth?"
His eyes flickered slightly. "You knew?"
"From the reports." I shrugged. "To be precise, I knew you were marching on empty stomachs, and I knew you couldn't keep it up for long."
Belion stared at me for a moment. "The Black King Castle cannot be well-stocked either."
"It isn't."
"Then neither of us has the luxury of dragging this out."
As expected. Even after surrendering, this man immediately went back to calculating. A touching, emotional submission? There was no such thing. A war hero looks at the supply charts even while on his knees. Which made him all the more useful.
"That is exactly why I need you," I said.
Belion didn't answer. His silence wasn't a denial; it was more of a reluctance to admit it. Well, that was fine. It wasn't as if I had suddenly started trusting him either.
"I do not know the roads to the southern border."
"I know them."
"I do not know where your army will starve, where they will halt, or where they will break."
"I know that as well."
"In exchange," I said, looking toward Hermoon. The ledger, the documents, the justifications, the seals—the things used to kill people long before a sword is ever drawn. "I know a thing or two about how foreigners try to justify their footsteps when they tread on someone else's land."
Belion's eyes darkened. The Northern Archduke. The name hung silently between us.
"He is a man who will stop at nothing if it means killing demons," Belion said. "He does not rely on swords alone."
"Then I will block those other avenues. So that the battle can be decided purely by steel," I replied.
Belion looked at me with a slightly altered expression. It wasn't a look of complete trust, of course. How could it be? Trust isn't born the day after a surrender. That only happens in fairy tales, not politics. But at the very least, he was listening to me. That was enough.
Just then, a messenger arrived from the south. His horse was foaming at the mouth, and the messenger's face was caked with a mixture of sweat and dust. It seemed he had first ridden to the Black King Castle, only to redirect here upon hearing that the Demon King was at the camp. He practically tumbled off his horse and fell to his knees.
"Your Majesty!" Every eye turned toward him. Belion turned as well. "An urgent report from Ragmunt on the southern border!"
Ragmunt. The name was unfamiliar. It was likely buried somewhere in the ledgers of the Black King Castle—a few lines about taxes, grain yields, and population shifts.
But just because I hadn't memorized its name didn't mean it wasn't my territory. It was a village I had yet to commit to memory, inhabited by subjects whose faces I had yet to see. And now, an urgent report had arrived from there.
"Speak."
The messenger gasped for air. "Ragmunt has been occupied by the human kingdom's Northern Border Army."
The temperature in the camp plummeted. "Continue."
"They have blocked all entrances to the village and gathered the residents in the plaza and warehouse districts. They have since declared the Ragmunt area a Non-Combatant Protection Zone."
Protection Zone. I narrowed my eyes at the term. Occupation, control, and then... protection. What an exquisite sequence of words. It clearly wasn't their first time pulling this trick. Locking people up and claiming it was for their own safety.
They seemed to think that stamping an official seal on kidnapping and unlawful confinement made it legitimate administration.
Belion's face hardened instantly. "Is there no other information?"
The messenger pulled a scroll from his breast pocket. "They posted the same document at the village entrance and on the warehouse walls. We managed to secure a copy."
Hermoon took the scroll and unfurled it. His eyes swept over the text, pausing briefly. Usually, a pause like that meant the contents were foul.
"Read it," I urged.
Hermoon read aloud in a low voice.
Ah. It was just utter bullshit. The Northern Archduke was doing what the Northern Archduke did best. At least a sword looked like a sword; it didn't threaten you with a smiling face.
Hermoon continued reading.
Serapion. Mercy. I paused slightly at those words. Ariane Seraphel. The Pure Saintess. And once, the girl who only ever stumbled over her prayers when she was with me. Dammit. Why was the shadow of her name showing up here?
Hermoon read the next line.
A low murmur rippled through the soldiers. *Protection,* yet they were taking all the food. *Mercy,* yet they were conscripting the people.
I asked, "And if they are excluded from protection?"
The messenger couldn't bring himself to answer. Hermoon read the final line.
Silence. The entire camp fell dead quiet. Even the soldiers who had been rebels just moments ago understood the true meaning of those words. Protection Zone. Protected Status. Exclusion from Protection. Summary Execution.
This wasn't a leash, and it certainly wasn't protection. The Northern Archduke was undoubtedly preparing for another massacre.
I held out my hand to Hermoon. I took the scroll and examined it myself. At the bottom of the document, a wax seal was stamped. The crest of Northern Archduke Leonhart Brankenheim. And right beside it, the emblem of the Serapion Holy Order. Beneath it, in small print: In accordance with the Saintess's Principle of Mercy.
I stared at those words for a long time. Protection. Mercy. Summary execution. Three concepts coexisting within a single document. Written in an incredibly neat hand. Elegant, yet wearing a horrific face.
I laughed softly. I couldn't help it. Sometimes, when I get truly furious, laughter comes first. Before my body can spit out curses, my face loses its mind.
"Belion."
"Yes, Your Majesty," he replied, using the title once more.
I held up the document and fluttered it toward him. "The man you grind your teeth over. He's here, isn't he?"
The Northern Archduke. Leonhart Brankenheim. The man who slaughtered and disposed of demons as if they were mere beasts.
"Was he always like this?"
Belion's eyes sank into a cold abyss. "He has always been thus."
"I see." I pressed my finger against the Serapion emblem on the document. "But this time, he's borrowed someone else's name."
The Saintess's mercy. Ariane's name. That pure white prison. The girl who had been locked inside it, praying. That very name was stamped right next to the clause for summary execution. What a truly magnificent world. One person turns away from love to become a Saintess, while another uses her name to mask a massacre.
"Hermoon."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Preserve the original of this document."
"I shall obey your command."
"We will need copies. Many of them."
Hermoon raised his head. "Where shall I send them?"
I looked toward the south. Ragmunt. A southern border village of the Demon Realm I had never visited. And beyond that, past the human kingdom, where the Serapion Holy Order resided.
"To the Saintess," I said. "And to the Order's Council of Elders as well."
Hermoon's brow furrowed. "The Holy Order... They have no diplomatic channels with the Demon Realm. Shall I draft it in the form of an official inquiry?"
"Yes." The smile vanished from my face. "Let us ask them a question."
Protection. Mercy. Summary execution. I recalled the three words. This wasn't a problem that could be solved by a sword alone. Belion could handle the sword. My job was to tear those words to shreds.
"Does Saintess Ariane Seraphel," I said slowly, "recognize the summary execution of non-combatants as an act of mercy?"
Hermoon's pen stopped. Belion stared at me. Barkan remained silent. I looked down at the document once more. The emblem of Serapion stamped at the bottom looked exceptionally clean.
"She will have to answer."
Ariane Seraphel. People are dying in your name. I wanted to ask her: Are you going to tell me to do nothing this time, too?