Orbanen Kalt

The moment I stepped into the emergency council chamber of the noble houses, I went over today's plan one more time.

Today was the day to assign official weight to the words casually tossed around by each faction, identify the speakers, and bind them to the resulting interests and responsibilities within the official minutes.

Hmm.

Phrasing it like that made it sound rather grand.

To put it simply:

If you talk nonsense, it goes on the record.

The chamber was already packed.

Elderly heads of the noble houses. Representatives from the military camps. Administrative officials of the Black King Castle.

People who detested one another yet had no choice but to sit beneath the same ceiling.

Their expressions generally fell into one of three categories: sizing me up, sizing up the rival house next to them, or calculating how much money they could avoid paying today.

The high society of the Demon Realm was healthy. It was rotting away in a perfectly normal fashion.

The heads of the noble houses sat in the center, the military representatives on the right, and the treasury and logistics officers on the left.

Evelyn Roadmia was seated at the front left.

A newly organized ledger of financial contributions lay before her.

One look at that sheet made it clear: someone was bound to weep today. Not out of deep emotion, but because they had to pay up.

At the back, a separate section was set aside for external parties.

Observers, respondents, and guarantors.

Seats with no voting rights, but where every word spoken would be recorded.

In the realm of politics, those are often the most terrifying chairs. The ones with no power to decide, but all the liability to bear.

Seated at the official diplomatic channel for the human kingdom was Elysia Arten.

Princess of the Arten Kingdom. Former envoy. Current official diplomatic channel.

I thought she was just a temporary envoy, but she had somehow landed a permanent position.

Congratulations, Elysia. You got a job because of me.

I am truly sorry. But then again, why did you act so cocky back then?

Of course, I did not say this aloud. I couldn't have Herman slipping a report on a diplomatic disaster into my coffin.

A short distance away from her was the section for the guarantors of the Northern Archduke's house.

Lena and Lene Brankenheim.

The same faces, the same silver-gray hair, and pale attire.

Lena was observing the chamber, while Lene stared at the tips of Lena's fingers.

And at the very back, the observer seats for the Serapion Church. They were empty.

I stared at the vacant seats.

"Herman."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"What of Serapion?"

"They have not arrived by the designated time."

The air in the chamber shifted ever so slightly.

Some lowered their eyes as if they had expected this, while others hid faint smirks.

The Demon Realm and the Serapion Church were ancient enemies. They were not on terms where one would meekly show up just because an invitation was sent.

In fact, their absence was more natural. It was a problem if they came, and a problem if they didn't.

Dammit. Living as the Demon King meant constantly running into these kinds of situations.

"Are they boycotting?"

"It is too early to say for certain," Herman replied. "The Serapion Church may delay their response, citing internal decision-making procedures."

"Internal decision-making procedures, you say."

I suppose even oversleeping becomes a procedure when an entire institution does it. Hmph.

I glanced at the empty observer seats once more.

Orbanen Kalt, the leader of the realist faction within the church.

From what I had heard, he was one of the two pillars supporting Serapion, alongside Raoden Berks.

If Raoden was the one brandishing a sword and shouting about faith, Orbanen was the one calculating the cost of that sword, its maintenance fees, and the liability for any damage.

When the hardliners called for war, the realists calculated how much of a loss that war would register on the church's ledger.

And that old man had not arrived.

"Let us begin," I declared.

One of the house heads spoke up cautiously. "Your Majesty. The church's observer has not yet arrived."

"And?"

The man's mouth snapped shut.

I tapped my fingers against the long blackwood desk placed below the Demon King's throne.

"An empty seat is also a stance."

Herman's pen poised to write.

"Record it."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The pen scratched against the paper. The sound echoed through the chamber.

It was a quiet sound, but the meeting had officially begun.

The first few agenda items passed quickly.

The reorganization of the eastern military camps. The management of the remaining prisoners in Noxvel. The capacity to accommodate additional survivors from Ragmund. The distribution of medicinal herbs and carts along the border. The maintenance of evacuation routes.

Every single one of them was a dull topic.

Yet, it was usually the dull topics that saved lives, while the exciting words were far better suited to killing people.

Words like holy war or purification. Those glittering terms.

That was why I laid out a boring table of figures today.

A few bags of grain. A few carts. A few guards. A few bolts of cloth. A few bottles of medicine.

When you drag a shining cause down to the earth, this is what it usually looks like.

The cost of food, medicine, transport, and labor for guards.

Damn it. Was running a kingdom ultimately just acting as a general affairs manager on a world-building scale?

Evelyn read out the distribution table.

Her voice was calm.

So calm, in fact, that the complexions of several house heads darkened further.

"The supplies for the reorganization of the eastern military camps will be primarily borne by the three military houses of the Black Flame faction. The Roadmia house will handle the initial delivery of medicinal herbs for the additional survivors from Ragmund, and subsequent contributions will be recalculated based on the length of each house's supply route."

"The length of the supply route," a southern house head muttered quietly. "Who decided on that criteria?"

Evelyn looked at him.

"It is the actual distance the carriages must travel."

"Are you not taking into account the history and contributions of the noble houses?"

"Carriages do not roll over the history of a noble house, after all."

A tiny chuckle almost escaped from one corner of the chamber.

I applauded her in my mind.

Lady Roadmia. Your skill at stabbing people with a ledger is improving by the day.

The high society of the Demon Realm was functioning normally today as well.

Even rusty gears could turn, though they required a splash of blood to get moving.

It was then that a house head wearing a gray horn ornament spoke up.

"Now that the hostages from the Northern Archduke's family have arrived, can we not consider the border guarantee issue stabilized for the time being?"

The chamber fell dead silent.

Someone held their breath. Someone closed their eyes.

And someone very slowly shifted their gaze from that house head to me.

A chuckle bubbled up inside me.

At times like this, I felt as delighted as a scholar who had just discovered a perfect specimen.

"Herman."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Who spoke just now?"

Herman was already writing.

"The head of the Grey-Horn family, Graen Mordheim."

Graen Mordheim. What a convenient name to write down.

"Good. Write it down."

Graen's face stiffened.

I looked toward the guarantors' seats.

Lena maintained her composure. Lene let out a tiny gasp.

I looked at both of them.

Then, addressing the entire chamber, I spoke.

"The first problematic statement of the emergency council."

Herman's pen moved.

"Referring to the guarantors of the Northern Archduke's house, Lena and Lene Brankenheim, as hostages."

Graen's fingers gripped the armrest of his chair.

"And add this," I said.

"Classify the statement as an instance of importing the propaganda narrative of the Northern Archduke into the internal council chamber of the Demon Realm."

A low murmur rippled through the chamber.

Graen hastily bowed his head. "Your Majesty. That was not my intention."

"Then what was your intention?"

He could not answer.

"If you wish to call them hostages, do so," I said quietly.

"But it will be attached to your name."

All eyes turned to me.

"Who it was that uttered that word."

I stared at Graen.

"What political effect they hoped to achieve with it."

Looking back at Lena and Lene.

"Whose responsibility that word ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠obscures, and whose justification it bolsters."

Finally, I declared to everyone, "Write it all down."

Graen spoke no further. The first mouth had been shut.

The remaining mouths in this room would now know.

Today was a day where they had to check their own nameplates before speaking.

Lena then spoke up quietly. "We have come as the promise of the North."

And Lene spoke a beat later. "We came... as a promise."

Her voice was small.

I nodded. "Then we shall record it as a promise."

Lena's eyes trembled slightly.

Your father holds no sway here. Here, you must follow my lead.

If you wanted a polite, equal discussion, you should have held the talks in neutral territory, not the Black King Castle. In the end, this is a council of the noble houses.

Next, I turned my gaze toward Elysia. "Princess of Arten."

Elysia turned her shoulders to face me. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Her voice was polite.

The kingdom had accepted some of my demands, and at the same time, they had appointed Elysia as the official channel between the Demon Realm and the human kingdom.

It was a promotion.

Though the person in question was likely not pleased in the slightest.

I also had no reason to address her with honorifics anymore.

"I will grant you the floor."

If I were a citizen of her kingdom, I would have sent a congratulatory wreath.

The message would read: Congratulations on your appointment to the Demon King Task Force. Resignation is not permitted.

Elysia spoke slowly. "The kingdom does not desire unnecessary conflict."

Having said that, she sat back down, closing her mouth and eyes as if indicating she had no further comments.

I looked at Elysia.

With the church's seats currently empty, biting too hard at the kingdom first would disrupt the balance.

Meetings were similar to children's political games.

Stabbing everyone at once might look impressive, but it usually meant you would get stabbed in return right after.

"Very well."

I looked at the empty church seats.

"Since the Serapion Church is deemed absent due to procedural delay, I shall leave these as official inquiries."

Herman bowed his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"First. Do they acknowledge that the name of Serapion was used along the Ragmund border?"

The pen moved.

"Second. Do they recognize the summary execution of non-combatants as an act of mercy?"

The air in the chamber grew heavy.

"Third. Was the reply from Saintess ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Ariane Serafel a personal opinion, or was it part of the church's official procedure?"

Elysia opened her closed eyes and blinked at me a few times.

The kingdom, too, would want to hear the answer to that.

"Fourth. Are they reviewing the resumption of the Hero Selection process?"

This time, the house heads reacted.

In the Demon Realm, the word "Hero" was not just a word.

It was an old wound. An ominous prophecy.

And for many of the house heads, it was the cause of death written on their ancestors' tombstones.

"Fifth," I said slowly.

"During the suspension of the Saintess, by what procedure does the church intend to invoke the oracle of the Holy Sword?"

The moment those words left my mouth, the doors to the chamber swung open.

Everyone turned to look.

An elderly man dressed in gray clerical robes walked in.

He was not tall.

With a moderately thin, non-threatening build, he looked like a quiet old man.

Yet, his steps did not falter.

He walked right to the center of the chamber and bowed to me.

"Forgive my tardiness, Your Majesty."

Orbanen Kalt.

The leader of the realist faction of the Serapion Church.

And now, that old realist had shown himself just before Serapion's absence could be carved in stone.

"Serapion's internal procedures took longer than expected."

I looked at him. "You are late."

Orbanen raised his head. "But I have not boycotted."

I stared at him for a moment, then chuckled. "Did you come all this way just to record that distinction?"

"That distinction is of great importance ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to Serapion."

Old men like him are a bit troublesome.

When Raoden draws his sword, you only need to watch the blade. Orbanen doesn't draw a sword; he looks at the margins of the contract. It is men like him who live the longest.

I spoke to Herman. "Amend it."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"From 'absence of the Serapion Church'..."

Orbanen's eyes shifted.

"...to 'arrived after the opening of the council.'"

Herman's pen moved.

Orbanen immediately spoke. "I request one line to be added below that."

"Speak."

"The Serapion Church is guaranteed the official right to respond and refute in this council."

A very low murmur spread through the chamber.

I looked at Orbanen.

Minimizing losses by arriving late, and securing gains with the right to respond.

Truly a realist.

He was not the conscience of the church, but the man who fed the massive beast of the church to keep it from starving.

"Very well," I said. "The official right to respond and refute is guaranteed."

Orbanen bowed his head. "Thank you."

"However."

His head stopped mid-movement.

"Your responses will also be recorded."

I tapped the armrest of my chair.

"Any deferral of responses will be recorded." One tap.

"Any requests to amend the wording will also be recorded." Two taps.

"And the fact that you arrived after the opening of the council will be recorded as well." Three taps.

Orbanen fell silent for a moment.

Then, he nodded very slowly. "I expected as much."

I smiled.

Indeed. That is a realist for you.

I raised my hand, gesturing for him to be guided to the observer seats.

"Take your seat, Orbanen Kalt."

Before he sat down, I added one last thing.

"From now on, rather than the reason your church arrived late..."

Every eye in the chamber turned to him.

"...I shall ask the reason you had to come, even if it was late."

Orbanen's face did not waver.

However, the tips of his fingers pressed down, just for a split second, on the edge of his sleeve where the holy symbol was embroidered.

Business is booming today. Seeing how much there is to feast ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on.