Prince Belion

Rumors arrived in Ragmunt before the Saintess's reply did.

They said the Saintess had denied it. They said the Saintess's Principle of Mercy did not permit the summary execution of non-combatants. They said the Northern Archduke's army had merely used the Saintess's Principle of Mercy as an excuse.

Words were faster than documents. While a document had to have its seal verified, its recipient located, and pass through the hands of the person in charge, rumors knew no such etiquette. That was why they were faster.

Rowen Hartz, the local executioner of the Ragmunt Non-Combatant Protection Zone, was using the village storehouse as a temporary execution office. It was a place that had originally held flour, dried mushrooms, and farming tools. Now, stacks of resident registries, requisition sheets, labor deployment tables, and protection exclusion review records piled up in layers.

A living village dies quickly once it is reduced to piles of paper.

Rowen never gave orders in a loud voice. Without ever showing anger or getting blood on his own hands, he merely flipped through the record files with his cold fingertips. One page. Then another.

A report had arrived stating that a summary of the Saintess's reply had been leaked on the road to Ragmunt. Along with it came a rumor from the southern path that individuals wearing the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠insignia of the Relief Inspection Team had tried and failed to burn the summary.

Rowen did not ask about the authenticity of the insignia, nor did he ask who had moved first. If it was real, it was dangerous. Even if it was fake, it would become dangerous the moment people began to believe it. Belief was sometimes faster than facts. Especially so on a battlefield.

"Is anyone mentioning the Saintess's name?"

"Not yet, sir," a soldier replied.

Not yet. Rowen hated that phrase. "Not yet" was usually just another face of "soon."

He dipped his pen nib into red ink.

Rowen's pen stopped. She was a woman whose face he had never seen, nor did he need to. Having her name on the document was enough. Some people needed to see a face to kill. Others only needed to see a name. Rowen Hartz was the latter.

"A name that would be troublesome if left alive." There was neither anger nor hatred in his voice. It was as calm as asking to remove a loaf of bread from tonight's dinner table.

"Her status?"

"The apothecary's residence was empty. It seems someone inside the village is hiding her."

"So she is not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in custody."

"We have not secured her yet."

Not secured. It sounded much cleaner than saying they had lost track of a person.

"Move the subject under review for protection exclusion to the finalization process." The soldier wrote it down.

"Secure her custody."

"And if resistance occurs during the process?"

Rowen blotted the red ink. A single dot fell next to the name.

"Field discretion is authorized."

Field discretion. In truth, a license to kill had been granted. From this moment on, if anyone was found hiding her, they would be summarily executed.

A young scribe stopped his pen. "If the Saintess truly denied it..."

Rowen did not look at him. "Is the Saintess in Ragmunt right now?"

"No, sir."

"Is there an official retraction from the kingdom's capital?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Then the order of this place still remains here." Rowen adjusted his glasses with a finger. "Do not run this field with such a weak mindset."

The scribe bowed his head.

A moment later, another report arrived. Traces showed that forces from the Demon Realm were searching near the Grey Bridge for Ragmunt's protection exclusion review records and surviving witnesses. It wasn't a complete order. Just a few torn sentences. A fragment of a draft seemingly dropped by a messenger.

Rowen did not debate whether it was real. If it was real, it was dangerous; even if it was fake, it sufficiently revealed what the Demon Realm was aiming for.

Rowen's gaze fell back onto the name Milena. The Saintess's reply. The movements of the Demon Realm. The rumors spreading on the outskirts of Ragmunt. Simply erasing the written words was too late now. The mouths that would make people believe those words had to disappear as well.

"Move the record files." A brief silence. "Find the apothecary."

"How shall we handle Milena?"

Rowen did not even change his expression. "Handle her in accordance with the order of the protection zone."

Those words were enough. The soldiers of the Northern Border Army had already learned the hard way: the residents of Ragmunt were no longer anything at all.

Elysia Arten received her father's sealed letter even before the Saintess's official reply arrived. The formal document had not yet reached the royal palace. However, the urgent dispatch from the Grey Bridge had already knocked on the messenger network of the Arten Kingdom Northern Foreign Villa.

The Arten Kingdom Northern Foreign Villa. A place far from the capital, close to the Northern Archduke's territory, and where news from the border of the Demon Realm arrived all too quickly. A map of the northern border hung on the wall. On that map, Ragmunt was but a tiny dot.

A tiny dot. Because of that dot, the Saintess had moved. The Demon King had sent an inquiry. And the King of the Arten Kingdom had sent a sealed letter to his daughter.

Elysia broke the seal. The king's crest felt heavy.

The Northern Archduke was the shield of the kingdom's north. If they publicly abandoned him, the northern nobles would waver. If they shielded him, the royal court would end up covered in the blood of Ragmunt. If they remained silent, the Demon King would weave even that silence into his pretext for war. Lucion had left the kingdom with no easy choices.

Elysia's fingertips paused. Lucion. What had he been like before? Somehow, the memory had grown hazy. If she called his name in a soft whisper, he would smile. If she called out, he would turn back. He was a man who, even when hurt, would be the first to say he was sorry.

A good person. That was what she had thought of him. And she had also believed that a good person could never become a king.

Elysia read the final line of the sealed letter. You know that Demon King. That was what her father had written. The king calculated even his daughter's past as a diplomatic asset. That was what a kingdom was. That was what a royal family did. Even a person's heart, when the time was right, would be filed away in a record folder. Elysia did not smile.

"Your Highness," a diplomat asked cautiously. "How will you reply?"

"Do not write an apology," she said. Her voice was calm. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠"The royal court has neither approved nor denied Ragmunt yet."

"Then a letter of inquiry?"

"A letter of confirmation." Elysia picked up her pen. The royal court of the Arten Kingdom is currently confirming the relationship between the Saintess's Principle of Mercy used in the Ragmunt Protection Zone and the summary execution of non-combatants. It was too cold. She crossed out the sentence. To His Majesty Lucion Vergrad, King of the Demon Realm. Her pen nib paused again. His Majesty.

Those two words still felt foreign on the paper. No, perhaps it wasn't the words that were foreign. It was her own fingertips that had to write them.

The Lucion of the past was not someone people begged for an audience with. Today, of all days, memories kept flooding back. She couldn't focus on her official duties. A man who would turn back when called, stand silently when told to wait, and truly do nothing when told to do nothing.

Yet now, he was asking: Is it permissible for people to die in the name of the Saintess? With that single question, he had shaken the Holy Order, tarnished the crest of the Northern Archduke, and pushed his way into the diplomatic chambers of the royal court.

He had not begged. He had not resented. He had simply asked. And because remaining silent to that question was a dangerous thing to do, Elysia pressed her dry lips together.

"Your Highness?"

"With the variable that is Lucion, the stabilization of the Demon Realm might arrive much faster than expected." The diplomat could not answer. Perhaps it was because he had heard that name, or perhaps because he did not understand the meaning of her words.

Elysia pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. This time, her hand trembled less. "We cannot abandon the Northern Archduke," she said. "But we cannot entrust the entire name of the kingdom to him either."

"Then..."

"I must visit." The room fell silent.

"To the Demon Realm, Your Highness?"

"To the border." Elysia folded the sealed letter.

"The probability of a meeting being confirmed is low, but simply positioning myself there will create opportunities for diplomatic achievements," the princess said.

But her inner thoughts were slightly different. She had to confirm it. His transformation. What kind of king he had become. Or rather... what the good person she had abandoned had thrown away in order to become a king.

Someone laughed softly near the doorway. Elysia turned her head. A pale woman stood there. Slender build. Eyes that had long forgotten sleep. The tips of her hair were curled black as if singed, and the scent of ash suited her fingertips far better than ink. A court mage. Another command her father had attached to the end of the sealed letter: Do not go alone. I will attach a mage to you.

"You are my companion, then," Elysia said. The woman bowed her head slightly. "Rather than a companion, I am closer to an observer."

"Of whom?"

"Of the situation," the woman replied indifferently.

"People often mistake themselves for being the situation itself, after all."

Elysia stared at her for a moment. The kingdom generally disliked mages. The Northern Archduke hated them even more. The Demon Realm would likely be wary of them. That was why her father had sent her. To insert a card that would make everyone uncomfortable among those who disliked each other. The kingdom was truly acting like a kingdom.

"Prepare to depart," Elysia said. Do not apologize to the Demon King. The final sentence of the sealed letter remained before her eyes. But she could also read the unwritten words behind it: Treat him as a merchant, and bring a price that will tempt him.

Elysia looked out the window. The northern sky was low and overcast. She had believed a good person could never become a king. But perhaps she was wrong. Now, she had to go and deal with a king who had decided not to remain a good person.

The southern road of Ragmunt was soaked with rain. The mud clung to horses' hooves, and the low shrubs cut off the line of sight. It was a road too slow for wagons to pass, yet too easy for a person to vanish into. Belion Vergrad did not smile as he looked at the path. He was already moving under Lucion's orders. Barkan stood a few paces behind him. Rain ran down his black armor.

"Is this the kind of road that makes one want to run away?" Barkan muttered.

Instead of answering, Belion raised his hand. The scouts crouched low. At the edge of the forest, a black flag rose very slightly. Those trying to move the record files were on the move. Those searching for the apothecary had also begun to stir. Two paths. Belion stared at both directions for a moment, contemplating.

Lucion's order had been brief. Bring them back alive. As many as possible. It was an order unlike any military command. A military order where the words to save people came before the words to strike down the enemy. Belion chewed on that command for a moment. Strangely, it was a difficult order to interpret.

"Which way, sir?" Barkan asked.

Belion looked toward the interior of Ragmunt. The sound of military boots searching for people was echoing down the narrow alleys. Suddenly, old memories surfaced. Why he had joined the military in the first place.

"Records can be recovered," he said. "But people..." Belion nudged his scabbard. The blade gleamed faintly in the rain. He wanted to protect the essence of things. He was the type to get confused by abstract concepts or vanity. "Once they die, it is often difficult to leave even a gravestone behind."

Ever since he was young, he had wanted to feel the expressions of others, their hands and feet, and the situation right before his eyes more directly. He had thought he was the only one who felt that way. That protecting the essence was what mattered.

Barkan's gaze shifted slightly. Belion continued. "It seems His Majesty dislikes that. He told me that if it is hard to save them, bring back their corpses, and if there are not even corpses, at least find out their names."

Belion's hand dropped. Shadows in the forest dispersed low through the rain-soaked underbrush. The black armor made no sound. The downpour swallowed the friction of steel and leather, and the mud muffled their footsteps.

At the end of an alley deep inside Ragmunt, the boots of the Northern Border Army entered first, heading in the direction where Milena might be hiding. Behind them, lower, darker footsteps followed closely.

"Draw your swords. We strike now."

With that single command, the night above the muddy road was torn in two.