Princess Elysia Arten, I'm a Demon King, Not a War Crimes Claims Adjuster
Standing in the middle of Ragmunt, the first thing I did was not declare victory. I didn't summon black flames, nor did I sneer wickedly at the captured soldiers of the Northern Archduke's army. Instead, I handed three damp registers to Hermoon.
Survivors. Deceased. Missing. Keep the three lists separate. Milena and her daughter are to be placed under protective custody. Kir is to be kept apart as a messenger and witness. Feed and treat the prisoners before interrogation. No torture.
The burnt sealing wax, the scraps of cloth smelling of holy oil, the medicine carts, and the records reviewing the exclusion of non-combatants from protection—seal both the originals and copies separately.
I was literally cleaning up the absolute shitshow the Northern Archduke had left behind at the border, armed with nothing but wet wipes and a lawsuit. And they called me a fantasy Demon King. Why was my actual job description closer to a customer service representative handling complaints?
"Your Majesty," Hermoon said, stroking his wet beard. "Shall we finalize the schedule to interrogate the prisoners after they have eaten?"
"If we force answers out of starving men, how are we any different from the Northern Archduke?"
"Indeed, Your Majesty."
"And if they lie, don't torture them. Just put their names on a separate list. Let them see exactly how far their own lies will follow them."
"Understood, Your Majesty."
That old minister had a terrifying knack for taking my wildest remarks and instantly translating them into polished administrative procedures. The real monster of the Demon Realm wasn't sealed in some ruined tower; he was standing right next to me, holding a pen.
I mounted my horse. Ragmunt receded behind me. The burnt storehouses. The rain-soaked villagers. A child clutching a loaf of bread with both hands. The Black Armor Guards wrapping bandages around the prisoners. And Milena, who had not stopped touching her daughter's forehead.
Victory. It was a nice word. Sigh. I shouldn't even bother. To hear people talk about it, you'd think victory was all fluttering banners, blaring trumpets, and a grand orchestral soundtrack. The reality, unfortunately, was a miserable, muddy mess.
As we marched, I reorganized the board in my mind. Leonhart hadn't fled deeper into the borderlands. Instead, I received reports that he was leading the Demon King's army straight toward the kingdom's front lines. A rainy border. The kingdom's banners. The battered Northern Archduke's army. The dark host of the Demon King. Looking at the picture alone, I was the invader. Why on earth was he doing this?
It was probably because of that damn job title of mine. Demon King. Those two words carried no right of appeal. If a Demon King said, "I came to save people," who would believe him? Even to my own ears, it sounded like a cheap scam.
But if a king's job was to make people believe the unbelievable, then I knew exactly what to put forward before any words were spoken. Living mouths. The names of the dead. Burnt sealing wax. The things that had been crushed beneath the hypocritical label of a 'Non-Combatant Protection Zone.'
Through the eyes of a Demon King, they were all leverage. The people were leverage. The documents were leverage. The wounds were leverage. The testimonies were leverage. Thinking this way made me feel disgusted with myself. But I had to use them.
If I left the survivors as nothing more than pitiful victims, the next village would suffer the exact same fate. So, I would turn them into political leverage. If that was the way of a king... then being a king was truly toxic to one's humanity.
"Your Majesty," Barkan said, riding up beside me. "We are not far from the border checkpoint."
"And Belion?"
"He is already facing them, but he has not drawn his sword."
"Good."
"It appears Leonhart Brankenheim intends to show the Princess and her entourage the approach of the Demon King's army."
"Then we must show them," I said, looking ahead. The rain blurred the road. "The exact picture that old man wants."
Barkan's gaze shifted slightly. "We are to show it to them exactly as he wishes?"
"Show them the picture," I said, tightening my grip on the reins. "But I will be the one to name the painting."
It was a game of mutual deception that had lasted a thousand years anyway. It would be laughable to start whining about cowardice or feeling wronged by a frame-up at this point. It was far stupider not to frame the narrative yourself when given the chance. The title they wanted to slap on this scene was obvious: *The Demon King's Invasion.* But I had a different set of titles in mind. *Handover of the Ragmunt Survivors.*
*Submission of Evidence Regarding the Non-Combatant Protection Zone.*
*Request for Verification of the Northern Archduke's Border Transgression.*
Long, boring titles. But in the real world, the sentences that saved lives were usually the boring ones. The exciting, dramatic sentences were always much better suited for killing.
*Holy War. Purification. Protection. Order.*
Such glittering words. And how easily they wrapped around a person's throat. I was on my way to strip those glittering words away.
As the conflict dragged on, people would eventually grow weary of the propaganda war and seek direct, concrete facts. I just had to bring those cards to the negotiating table with the kingdom.
My horse's hooves kicked up mud. The border checkpoint came into view. The first thing I saw was the rain-soaked banner of the kingdom. Standing beneath it was Elysia Arten. My breath caught for a fraction of a second.
*Dammit.*
I was still reacting to her. This body's software updates were painfully slow. Just how many ex-girlfriends did this guy have? If my soul was swapped, shouldn't the emotional cache have been cleared too? Lucion, you absolute bastard. Elysia.
The name rose to the back of my throat. I clenched my teeth and swallowed it down. I couldn't call her by that name right now.
This wasn't a trip down memory lane. A rainy border. The human kingdom's envoys. The Northern Archduke. The Court Mage. The Demon King's army. And me. If I ruined this entire setup over a personal name, Hermoon would probably draw up an approval line on my coffin by tomorrow morning.
The second person I saw was Leonhart. The old Archduke was soaked to the bone. Rather than a defeated general, he looked like a madman. More precisely, he had the face of a man desperately waiting for proof that he wasn't insane.
The moment he saw me, he grinned. "Look, Your Highness," he said. "He has come." His words weren't directed at me. They were aimed straight at Elysia. "Look at the one who defiled the Holy Church and set the North ablaze. And now, he has brought his army right to the kingdom's doorstep."
Bullshit of that caliber belonged in a museum. He was the one who struck first, yet he spoke with the seasoned craftsmanship of a master of victim playing. I remained on my horse. Belion was the first to move. Stepping back from the vanguard, he bowed his head toward me. "Your Majesty." It was a single, brief word, but its ripple effect was massive.
The former rebel. The Shield of Noxbain. The man the human kingdom had once hailed as a war hero. That very Belion had just addressed me as 'Your Majesty.' I could see the surrounding soldiers catching their breath. Elysia froze, standing rigid, while Rabiel Mor's eyes narrowed, locked onto me. The Northern Archduke, Leonhart, looked back and forth between Belion and me, his grin widening.
I looked past Belion and focused on Elysia. She stood beneath the dripping banner of the kingdom. Her dignified beauty, just as I remembered, shone even brighter on the battlefield. But that was all it was. She was the face of the kingdom's court. The King's daughter.
A woman who could neither abandon the Northern Archduke nor afford to share the blood on his hands. I spoke. "Princess Elysia Arten." My voice carried a low, steady resonance. Elysia blinked, a fraction of a second too slow. It was a tiny reaction. Anyone else might have missed it, but I saw it. She was quietly swallowing her nerves.
"Your Majesty, the Demon King," Elysia replied, her tone perfectly polite. "How do you intend to explain this military presence?"
Leonhart smirked, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment. I ignored him. "This is not a military presence."
"Then what is it?" Elysia asked.
"An escort."
Leonhart let out a hollow laugh. "An escort. Your Highness, look at him. He stands before those black armors and war banners and calls them an escort. An escort!"
"One requires an escort to bring people back safely, does one not?" I raised my hand. From the rear, a line of carts rolled forward. The Black Armor Guards parted to either side. The survivors of Ragmunt emerged into the rain. Milena. Her daughter. Kir. The villagers whose names had not yet been recorded.
Three prisoners from the Northern Archduke's army. A leather case containing burnt documents. Scraps of sealing wax still smelling of holy oil. Carts of medicinal herbs. One by one, the things Leonhart had abandoned were laid out upon the wet border. Rain washes away evidence. But it cannot erase everything.
Only then did I look at Leonhart. "Archduke Brankenheim." His jaw tightened. "Did you say the Demon King's army has arrived?"
"I did."
"You are correct." Elysia's eyes wavered. Leonhart had reverted to his usual expressionless mask. I continued without pause. "We brought people." Milena held her daughter tightly. "And documents." Barkan held up the leather case. "The things that survived the place you dared to call a protection zone." Rabiel Mor's gaze drifted toward the scraps of sealing wax.
"I am willing to negotiate," I said, looking at Elysia. "Princess Elysia Arten." I will let you cover up this evidence. But what will you give me in return? "But before that, let us first examine exactly what the kingdom has been calling a 'protection zone.'" Since you have to pay the price, we might as well lay everything out on the table.
Elysia did not answer. The rain beat down between us, and Leonhart's breathing was growing ragged. Belion stood silently behind me. Then, Elysia looked at me. It was not the gaze of a royal envoy, but the eyes of the woman who had once analyzed my every move. She spoke in a barely audible whisper. "Your Majesty."
"Speak," I replied.
Elysia's lips parted, then closed, before she spoke again. "My claim that a good person could never become a king..." Her words fell colder than the rain. My breath caught. Elysia Arten looked straight into my eyes. "...appears to have been mistaken."