I Was Not Wrong

Everything was soaking in the rain. Belion Vergrad lowered his hand, making no effort to hide his ferocious expression.

"Strike."

With that single word, he began turning the southern road of Ragmunt into a scene of absolute carnage.

And those reports, drenched in rain, began flooding into the Northern Archduke's command tent.

Leonhart Brankenheim did not hate the Demon Realm. Hate clouds the eyes. Anger hastens the hand, and hatred shortens judgment. One could not defend a border with such emotions. A border was not defended by hatred. It was defended by fear.

Leonhart had feared the Demon Realm his entire life. That was why he cut back on sleep, why he gathered records, and why he never missed a single word from any merchant, prisoner, or deserter crossing over from the Demon Realm.

People called him a demon-hater. They were wrong. Hatred makes one close their eyes. Fear makes one open them. Leonhart Brankenheim was a man who had never been able to close his eyes his entire life.

There were no mirrors in his command tent. Mirrors reflect a person, and they shake them. A tremor becomes an expression, and an expression becomes information. Surely, a spy was watching him from somewhere. He had no intention of giving even his own face to the enemy.

Instead, a massive map hung on the tent wall. The southern border of the Demon Realm. The road to Noxbain. Black King Castle. The Eastern Military Camp. The supply lines of the Roadmia bloodline. The locations of the Serapion Holy Order's relief centers. And a thin genealogy chart bearing the names of the Vergrad royal family.

Arkel Vergrad. Belion Vergrad. Lucion Vergrad.

Leonhart had known those names for a very long time. The rebellion of the Demon Realm's princes was not a sudden event. The royal palace of the Demon Realm always hid the scent of blood within, and the northern border was a vantage point to watch which gate that scent would leak from.

Arkel was the legitimate heir. Too straight, too high, too close to the throne.

Belion was the sword and shield of the Demon Realm. Rough and dangerous, but a man who knew the battlefield. Though ignorant of domestic affairs, he was well-versed in the ways of the world. He was a natural soldier, and a soldier knows the price of land, supplies, and death. If he shared a border with such a king, they would probably understand each other well.

And Lucion. Next to that name, Leonhart had written a note long ago.

That evaluation had not been wrong for a long time. At least, that was what Leonhart had believed.

But then, the blank space began to shift. Arkel died, Belion became a rebel, and the bloodlines wavered. From that blood-stained crevice, the name he had marked as insignificant ascended to the throne.

At first, he thought it was a mere coincidence. It was common on the battlefield for the weakest to die last. Arrows flew toward the threatening ones first. The frightened lived long in the corners. Like parasites. That was all it was. That was how Leonhart had rationalized it.

But the reports gradually grew strange.

Lucion, now the Demon King, had beheaded Kalen Drack. He stripped Belion of his title of prince. He gave the common soldiers a way to live while leaving the leadership branded with the name of treason.

He took the credit for Noxbain from Belion and distributed it among the soldiers. He captured Cardia Noxvel alive and threw her behind the kingdom's iron bars. He forced the Eastern bloodlines to stand before letters of explanation rather than execution scaffolds.

A chill ran up to his skull, making him dizzy. Because he hadn't killed Belion.

How on earth? How on earth did he bring him to his knees?

At that point, Leonhart closed the report for the first time. He blamed himself for misjudging from the very beginning. Not killing him was not out of weakness. It was the hand of a man who spared him to make him move even further.

Only then did he tear up the evaluation he had written long ago. Lucion Vergrad was not a blank space. It was a place that had only looked like a blank space. A seat left empty for a long time so that something else could sit in it.

"Your Grace." His adjutant bowed from outside the tent. "A report regarding the Ragmunt protection zone."

"Read it."

Leonhart sat in his chair. He had not removed his armor. To keep himself from sleeping. Because he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠did not trust himself when asleep.

"A summary of the reply in the name of Saintess Ariane Seraphel is spreading throughout the southern border region."

"The contents?"

"It states that Serapion's principle of mercy does not recognize the summary execution of non-combatants as an act of mercy."

The air inside the tent grew thin, and the adjutant swallowed his next sentence. Leonhart muttered as if talking to himself, "Continue."

"It appears that some members of the Serapion Elders' Council have sent confirmation letters to the same effect. The kingdom's central government is also verifying whether the Northern Border Army's actions in Ragmunt received official approval."

Verification of approval. The game was getting dirty.

The kingdom's central government was always like this. Silent when the North bled. Choosing their words carefully once the North finished the dirty work. If it succeeded, it was the 'shield of the kingdom.' If it failed, it was 'unauthorized action by the border army.'

Leonhart could not even afford to be angry. Lest the Demon Realm find out. Lest his angry face look weak. He did not indulge in such waste.

"And the Princess?"

"Princess Elysia Arten and Court Mage Rabiel Mor are heading south under the pretext of verifying the border."

Verifying, indeed. If the Princess was coming accompanied by the Court Mage, it was no different from the eyes of the kingdom itself arriving.

Were they coming to help him? Or were they coming to measure how useless he had become? Both were possible. Therefore, he had to prepare for both.

"The inspection team?"

The adjutant's throat tightened. "The team bearing the insignia of the Serapion Northern Relief and Inspection Team failed near the Grey Bridge. Two dead, one missing. They failed to retrieve the original reply. It appears the copies and summaries have already been dispersed."

Leonhart slowly unfolded his fingers.

One. The Saintess. Two. The Elders' Council. Three. The kingdom's central government. Four. The Princess and the Court Mage. Five. The Grey Bridge. Six. Belion. Seven. Lucion.

All lines were converging on a single person. It could not be a coincidence. Coincidence does not strangle one's neck so exquisitely.

"Your Grace?" the adjutant called out cautiously.

Leonhart spoke in a low voice. "The Demon King is crossing the line."

The adjutant could not answer.

"He is opening the Saintess's mouth, dirtying the Holy Order's hands, summoning the kingdom's central government, and putting the Princess on the witness stand to cross the border."

Down that path neatly laid out by Lucion, Belion's army would charge. Like a ferocious beast.

He looked at Ragmunt on the map. A small village, a single well. A few storehouses and an old blacksmith. A point where supply lines paused to catch their breath. It was originally an excellent stake. A small, solid stake driven into the flesh of the Demon Realm's civil war.

If Belion won, Leonhart could demand a buffer zone on the southern border in exchange for supporting his legitimacy. If Belion lost, he could bind Ragmunt as a Non-Combatant Protection Zone to slow down the Demon Realm's advance.

The kingdom's central government would not reprimand him for the sake of demons. The Holy Order would have closed its eyes under the word 'mercy.' The Demon Realm could not use the word 'hostages.' Because Leonhart had not taken hostages. He had merely established order.

It was a sufficient design, if not perfect. But someone had drawn a different picture over that design. In that instant, the protection zone became an occupied territory. Mercy became usurpation. Order became summary execution. And the name Leonhart Brankenheim, unable to hide beneath elegant documents, was being dragged out into the open.

"Your Grace." Another messenger entered. His face was pale. "A fire has broken out on the southern supply route. Three supply wagons were burned, and one medicine cart has vanished."

Leonhart closed his eyes. The supply route. "And the rearguard?"

"Their response is delayed."

"A delay could mean they are dead, or it could mean they have been bought."

The messenger bowed his head even lower. "I will verify."

"No." Leonhart opened his eyes. "Do not verify. For even those sent to verify will become subjects of verification."

The messenger's shoulders stiffened. Leonhart rose from his seat. The metal plates of his armor clanked with a low ring. Iron is honest. That must be why it revealed his location so easily.

"The Demon Realm always comes like this," he said. "Without rumors. Without crests, dialogue, or justification—they come only to scatter blood."

He looked at the old painting hanging on the wall. A legendary depiction of the first Demon King burning the northern region of the human kingdom. As a child, Leonhart had cried every night in front of that painting. In the midst of the fire, a horned shadow looked down upon humanity.

The adults had said, "That is an old tale. The Demon God was defeated long ago. The north of the kingdom is strong now. So, child, do not worry."

The young Leonhart had not believed them. He still lived harboring that fear. The shadow in the painting had not died. Only its name had changed. First from Demon God to fiend, then from fiend to Black King Castle, eventually from Black King Castle to Demon King, and now... Lucion Vergrad.

"Your Grace!" A third messenger practically tumbled in. The moment he fell to his knees, mud splattered across the tent floor. "Black flags have been spotted at the southern pass!"

Every officer inside the tent froze. Leonhart's eyes stilled. "Repeat that."

"Black flags! The black military banner of Vergrad! We suspect it is the vanguard of the Eastern Subjugated Army!"

"And Belion?"

"Confirmed. The Shield of Noxbain is at the head!"

Someone gasped. The messenger's voice cracked as he continued.

"And behind him are the Black Armor Guards. Their numbers are vast—far greater than expected. The southern supply line to Ragmunt is being severed. The rearguard is not responding. The team sent to retrieve the summary of the Saintess's reply has not returned either."

Watching him deliver the information as if wailing, Leonhart stood perfectly still. Without saying a word. A silent scream began to fill the tent. This was a battlefield.

He slowly inhaled. And then... he slowly smiled. Only his lips moved. His cheeks trembled violently.

"Of course." His baritone voice was low. Like a prayer. Like a curse.

"Of course." The second utterance was clearer. The officers could not look at one another. Because the Northern Archduke's eyes had grown strangely bright. They were eyes filled with terror. Yet, at the same time, they were eyes that had found salvation.

"I was not wrong." Leonhart placed his hand on the map. Lucion Vergrad. A weak prince? A blank space? An ink stain? No. He was not. He was a name that had been empty from the very beginning. A shell left behind so that the ancient entity known as the Demon King could occupy it.

"He has finally arrived." Had he finally completed the preparations for his descent?

The adjutant asked in a trembling voice, "Your Grace, your orders."

Leonhart looked at the spot marked with the Princess's flag. Elysia Arten. Court Mage Rabiel Mor. The eyes of the kingdom. The ears of the kingdom. The place where the kingdom had not yet decided whether to abandon him or protect him.

"Your Grace, your orders... Your Grace, please, your orders."

Very well. That place would do. Even the Demon King would have to hide his fangs before the eyes of the kingdom. No. It would be even better if he didn't hide them. Because then, everyone would see them. The fangs of that fiend.

"We retreat."

The tent ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠froze. One of the staff officers reflexively raised his head. "Your Grace, if we retreat now, control of the Ragmunt protection zone will—"

"Protection zone?" When Leonhart looked at him, the staff officer shut his mouth. "As a staff officer, did you actually believe in that until now?"

He spoke in a low voice. "Can you not see? The Demon King is dragging the Saintess's name around like a corpse."

The Saintess, who was equated with mercy, had withdrawn her mercy. Then her name was as good as dead. The Demon King had wounded her. Only the Demon King could have dragged the Holy Order down. No one could answer.

"Burn the evidence. Take only three bundles of documents. Abandon any unusable carts. Allocate horses to officers first. As for those excluded from protection—" He paused for a moment. The apothecary. The scribe. The well keeper. Their names came to mind. They were dangerous, but there was no time to kill them all. They were all pieces of evidence that could not be completely destroyed. In that case, he only needed to kill the key figures.

"Leave them."

The staff officer's face stiffened. "Do you mean we should leave them alive?"

"No," Leonhart said coldly. "Let the Demon King take them."

The air inside the tent stirred at those words.

"He will think he saved lives. The Princess will think she saw a merciful Demon King, and the Holy Order will delude themselves into thinking they have reclaimed their name."

He had to induce complacency even in his allies. That was how desperate the situation was becoming. His finger slid across the map. The Princess's flag. That spot.

"I only need to show them. And from this moment on, you will remember this as our highest priority."

"What is that, Your Grace?"

"The scene of the Demon King's army crossing the border and swarming right before the eyes of the human Princess." Leonhart's voice dropped. Auditory hallucinations buzzed in his ears, but he endured them.

"I am not fleeing." He clung to his own words first. Because if those words crumbled, he felt he would crumble as well.

"I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠am going to prove it." The invasion of the Demon Realm, and his own wavering reason for existence.

He finally pressed his finger down on the Princess's flag. "If we retreat before the eyes of the kingdom, you too will be able to preserve your lives."

The adjutant bowed his head. "We shall obey your command."

Military orders spread outside the tent. Horses neighed, and wagon wheels ground through the mud. Soldiers hurriedly packed their gear. Lights flickered in the storehouses of Ragmunt, and the black flags were already approaching along the southern road.

The Northern Archduke, Leonhart Brankenheim, looked back one last time. Nothing was visible yet. But he saw it. Beyond the mist. The black army. The Shield of Noxbain standing at its head. And behind him. The fiend that had grown in his imagination for far too long. Lucion Vergrad.

Only then did the Northern Archduke feel at ease. He was not mad. The thing he had feared his entire life had finally come, bearing a face. He hid his trembling hands inside his gloves, and covered his face with his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gloved hands.

He comforted himself. "I am going to the Princess." No, he tried to comfort himself. Feeling the leather pressing against his face, tracing his expression, he added in a very low whisper, "Because I must show her the Demon King."

His smile would not fade.