A Blood-Stained Reply as a Trap

The reply was late. Good news usually travels slowly. Bad news comes running with a broad grin. But what does it mean when nothing comes at all?

"Your Majesty," Hermoon said softly. "The appointed hour has passed."

"I know." How could I not? Right now, I wasn't acting like a Demon King; I was more like someone obsessively refreshing a package tracking page, waiting for the Saintess's reply.

Where the hell is my package?

I looked out the window. The Grey Bridge. It wasn't just the name of a single bridge. It was a bleak border zone comprising a dilapidated checkpoint castle, a prisoner exchange yard, the Serapion Southern Third Relief Center, and a treaty house built long ago. It was a grey area where the borders blurred.

Neither humans nor demons called this place a sanctuary of peace. It hadn't been built out of mutual trust. It was built out of mutual distrust.

A place where they counted corpses, exchanged prisoners, handed over the wounded, and traded documents that essentially said, "We only committed war crimes up to this exact point." In other words, it was a highly dignified venue for passing the buck.

I sat inside the ruined checkpoint castle of the Grey Bridge. The ceiling was low, the walls thick. The stone walls bore ancient sword gouges and scorch marks. There was no telling who had won. Most likely, both sides had lost. Not that war ever truly had winners.

What remained on a battlefield was rarely the glory of victory. It was the scars of who had managed to survive like a dog, and for how long.

At the end of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my inquiry, I had specified the location for the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠reply: the Treaty House at the Grey Bridge on the southern border. The deadline was one day. If no answer arrived within that time, I intended to bind the Serapion Holy Order's silence directly to the Northern Archduke's justification.

In a way, it was tantamount to blackmailing the Saintess using her political life as collateral. But I couldn't afford to give her an escape route. If Ariane truly did nothing, the Northern Archduke's political leverage would grow accordingly.

Politically, this was the correct move. Humanely? What did "humanely" even mean? I had forgotten long ago. Trying to weigh such sentimentalities was exactly why I was so exhausted. It was better to just throw the dog a bone and be done with it.

Belion was not here. He had taken a scouting party and a portion of the vanguard to inspect the southern path of Ragmunt. I had sent Barkan with him. Although Belion was the only one who knew the way, I wasn't a mad enough king to let a former rebel roam free without supervision.

The former rebel scouts the path. The commander of the Black Armor Guards watches the former rebel. And the rookie Demon King waits for a letter. Splendid. If this were a game, it wouldn't feel like a kingdom management simulator, but rather a private detective agency waiting for evidence of an affair.

Just then, a horse's shrill neigh pierced the air outside. Even before the sound of hooves ground to a halt, a guard atop the ruined checkpoint's gatehouse shouted, "It is a priest!"

I did not rise from my seat. My legs were numb, and I desperately wanted to stretch them, but a Demon King must not spring to his feet over a mere reply. The throne shapes the man.

Frankly, shouldn't I be considered to have graduated from "rookie Demon King" status by now? At any rate, even when surprised, a Demon King must react slowly. Authority, after all, is the art of delaying panic. Thus, joy and sorrow must be processed in slow motion. Slowly. Yes.

Moments later, a priest was dragged inside. His white vestments had turned grey from the rain, and a crimson stain was spreading across his flank. He tried to kneel but failed, collapsing in a heap instead.

The reply had not arrived easily. Someone had clearly decided this paper must never reach its destination, judging by the obvious attempt to assassinate the messenger. That fact alone instantly drove up the value of the document.

On the battlefield, the value of a document is not determined by the paper it is written on. It is determined by the blood spilled to stop it. Therefore, I did not offer to tend to his wounds—not until he proved the worth of his grueling journey here.

With a trembling hand, the priest held out a scroll tube. The white wax seal was half-scraped away, and the exterior of the tube was smeared with blood. A white seal had arrived before the black Demon King. Talk about terrible shipping conditions. But at least it had arrived.

"A reply... from the Serapion Council... and Saintess Ariane Seraphel..." the priest rasped. His voice was wet. Whether it was from the rain, the blood, or sheer terror no longer mattered.

"Who attacked you?" I asked.

Clutching his bleeding side, the priest's lips trembled. "It was not... the Northern Border Army."

"Then who?"

"They bore the insignia of the Serapion Northern Relief and Inspection Corps."

The Relief and Inspection Corps. Hermoon lowered his gaze. Had a schism broken out within the Council? Ah. I see. The Northern Archduke wasn't just wielding a sword; he was wielding prayers as well. For a murderer, he certainly loved to invoke the name of God and babble about the Holy Order.

I suppose if you stuff the tithing box a little fuller than everyone else, you get to do that. Filthy bastard. This is why I despise "dignified" hypocrites the most. They are always the most vulgar opportunists.

"Take him out and stop the bleeding," I ordered. The priest was immediately supported and led away. "Was it truly the Inspection Corps?"

"I cannot say for certain, but the insignia was genuine," Hermoon replied. "They also knew the speech patterns and the transit passcodes." Could it really be a forgery? I gestured. "Hermoon."

Hermoon took the scroll tube and inspected the seal. "There are no signs of forgery. The seal of the Serapion Council and the Saintess's personal seal are stamped together."

Together. That word was peculiar. Ariane hadn't hidden away alone, nor had the Holy Order completely swallowed her up. It was a half-hearted, yet official, compromise.

"Read it." Hermoon unfurled the document. A chilly draft swept through the ruined checkpoint. Outside, the collapsed horse exhaled a ragged breath; inside, the scribes paused, their pens hovering over parchment.

It was a brief statement. Yet everyone in the room understood its immense weight.

I said nothing. Ariane Seraphel. The woman who had told me to do nothing. The woman who had said she would pray, who had begged me not to interfere with the world. That very woman had sent something inside this blood-stained scroll tube. What had she infused into this letter?

A sudden sting pricked the back of my throat. It felt as though the spot where Belion's blade had grazed me was burning anew. How ironic. Sometimes, blood is drawn by a mere slip of paper. No, it wasn't funny at all.

Lucion Vergrad. Just how many people had the original owner of this body mortgaged his heart to? I was the only one suffering because of his past track record. It was infuriating. If debt accumulated like this, you'd go bankrupt. So why was I the one paying the interest?

I was calling things "funny" because if I didn't laugh, I wouldn't be able to bear them. I felt like I was losing my mind. If mental health insurance existed in this world, my application would have been rejected instantly.

Fucking hell.

"Very well," I squeezed out in a calm voice. Perhaps it was a blessing. Though my throat was trembling like a desk missing one of its legs, I could still play the part of a king on the outside. "Now, let us strip away the Archduke's 'mercy.'"

Hermoon folded the document. "How do you wish to utilize this reply, Your Majesty?"

"Keep the original safe." I looked at the blood-stained scroll tube. "If we lose it, we're the ones who look like fools."

Hermoon bowed his head. "If we use the Treaty House's archives, we can produce three certified copies. Five, if we push it."

"Three will suffice."

"And the rest?"

"Distribute them as summaries."

Hermoon looked up. I tapped my fingers against the worn table. "There is no need to let them read the entire text. Send only the sentence the Northern Archduke will hate to hear the most."

Hermoon understood instantly. "Simply that the Saintess did not recognize the summary execution of non-combatants as mercy."

"Exactly." I smiled. "A single sentence is more than enough. After all, we live in a world where a single sentence can sever a man's head." The scribes began to move.

*Scratch. Scratch.*

In the archives where they once counted the dead, sentences that might save lives were now being copied.

It was amusing. This room was originally meant for tallying the dead, yet today, it was being used to write down the names of those who must live. Even a battlefield occasionally allows for a change in duties—though usually, everyone's duty simply changes to becoming a corpse.

"How many routes shall we use?" Hermoon asked.

"Five."

"Shall we send them covertly?"

"Hide three, and send two out in the open."

Hermoon's pen paused. "A decoy?"

I looked down at the blood-stained seal. "If they bite, it becomes a trap."

Hermoon, now quite accustomed to my cryptic remarks, simply bowed his head. Silence reclaimed the ruined checkpoint castle. Then, the door swung open. Belion entered, his cloak drenched in rain and his boots caked in mud. Barkan stood right behind him.

Mud clung to the tip of Barkan's scabbard, and blood stained Belion's gloves. Seeing as both were unharmed, it clearly wasn't their own. "There were those who tried to intercept the messenger," Belion said.

"Did you see them?"

"We spotted them on our way back and gave chase. Two are dead, but one escaped." Barkan added in a low ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠voice, "They bore the insignia of the Serapion Northern Relief and Inspection Corps."

It was certain now. I let out a short breath. "Has the Holy Order truly fractured to the point of assassinating their own priests?"

The corner of Belion's mouth twitched slightly. "Is the Holy Order's hypocrisy anything new? Even priests turn craven once you force them to share a table with a blade."

The trouble with this bastard was that his answers were always so quintessentially Belion. The even bigger trouble was that he wasn't wrong. Hermoon looked at Belion. "You seem particularly wary of the Holy Order, General."

"Incorrect." Belion walked over to the map. "What I am wary of is human nature. Specifically, the class that manufactures justifications, and the class that lives and dies by them." He pressed his finger against the spot marked Ragmunt. "Because it is a small village, the roads are poorly maintained. This means their supply lines are tangled."

"Explain."

"As long as the Saintess's name is attached to it, Ragmunt is a protection zone." Belion traced a small circle around Ragmunt. "But once her name is removed, it becomes occupied territory."

"And occupied territory must be defended."

A protection zone only required protection, but occupied territory was a different beast entirely. "Indeed. Defending it ties down troops. Tying down troops slows the march." Belion's gaze turned cold. "And the Northern Archduke despises delays."

"Then we should make him abandon it?"

"No," Belion said, looking at me. "We must make him believe he *can* abandon it." At those words, the air inside the ruined checkpoint grew even colder.

Belion's finger stopped on a narrow path south of Ragmunt. "An army with its retreat cut off will naturally band together," he said. "But an army with an open escape route will be too busy deciding which baggage to carry. Such is the logic of the battlefield."

"Baggage?"

"Evidence. Munitions. Prisoners. Hostages. The various officers in charge." He chuckled softly. "The moment they believe they can escape, the commander begins calculating what to discard and what to keep."

I chewed on his words. The Northern Archduke didn't view Ragmunt as a village; he saw it as a mechanism. If so, we shouldn't destroy that mechanism. We had to make it run—until it broke down under its own weight and spewed out its contents.

"What about the villagers of Ragmunt?" I asked.

Belion's eyes darkened. "If you must save them, you must move quickly."

"*If* I must?"

"Your Majesty," he said, using my formal title because of the soldiers nearby. "Some things do not unfold as we wish. The battlefield has always been that kind of beast."

Abandon those destined to die if you wish to avoid losses. It was cold. It was reliable, logical, and the only sensible advice to follow—but I hated it. "Even so, we must save them," I said. "As many as we can."

Belion stared at me for a moment. There was no mockery in his eyes, but there was no agreement either. "Then it must be tonight." Instead of arguing, Belion offered a solution in an incredibly short span of time. Silence fell over the ruined checkpoint. Tonight.

"Those trying to prevent the Saintess's reply from spreading to Ragmunt will move again," Belion said. "Ambush them when they do."

"No," I said. "Let them move."

Hermoon looked at me. "Your Majesty."

"The original remains here. There are only three copies, and the summaries will be sent along five paths." I looked down at the map on the table. "And if two of those paths are completely exposed..."

A subtle shift flickered in Belion's eyes. "What do you hope to fish out?"

"The ones who fear the spread of this sentence the most." I stared at the blood-stained scroll tube. "A man always moves fastest when he's near the sins he's trying to hide." Belion did not reply. His silence was oddly satisfying. "So, let them move." I smiled. "If you want to feed a rat poison, you have to dig the rat hole first."

Hermoon was silent for a moment. "Your Majesty, I shall not record those exact words in the official archives."

"If you do, you're the first one I'm firing."

"I shall keep that in mind."

I liked these exchanges. It was strange to trade jokes on a night when lives hung in the balance, but without humor, a person broke down far too quickly. Especially a fragile Demon King like me.

"Belion."

"Yes."

"Leave now with Barkan."

"Where shall we head?"

"The path you saw earlier." South of Ragmunt. "The path the enemy will desperately want to use for their escape."

Belion stared at me in silence. He didn't answer immediately. His gaze felt analytical, perhaps even wary. After a moment, he spoke softly. "Your Majesty is learning the ways of war remarkably fast."

It didn't sound like a compliment; it felt closer to a warning. Surprisingly, Belion didn't seem particularly pleased by my rapid adaptation. "Is that not a good thing?"

"A king who learns war too quickly..." Belion tore his gaze away from the southern path of Ragmunt and swept his eyes over the entire Demon Realm. "...rarely remains a good man for long."

A good man. I chewed on the words. Suddenly, a memory—those very words—drifted back to me from the distant past. A voice laced with deep-seated resentment. A gaze sweeping over me. Hands neatly folded. A good man cannot become king. This is as far as you go.

I folded the Saintess's reply. The white seal flattened beneath my palm. "Then it is a relief," I said. "Since I am already the Demon King."

Outside, messengers began to scatter on horseback. The original document remained at the Grey Bridge. The certified copies slipped away in three directions, while the summaries were torn along five different paths. Two of them rode out in plain, obvious sight. *Bite. Please, bite. The moment you do, you step right into the trap.*

The Saintess's reply departed the Grey Bridge and raced toward Ragmunt. The blood-stained sentences hurtled down the muddy roads. To exact vengeance upon the Northern Archduke, and solely for the revival of the demon race. Today, once again, I masked my throbbing headache and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠played the part of the Demon King.