The Weight of a Name
The first thing to change in the Eastern Military Camp was not the shouting. It was the silence.
The morning after the proclamation had been posted, the soldiers rose as they always did. They donned their armor as usual, checked their blades as usual, and swallowed their curses as they fell into line as usual. But one thing was different. Their mouths were a fraction of a second too slow.
"Loyalty to His Highness Belion!" the roll-call officer shouted.
It was the same slogan as always. By all rights, it should have erupted instantly. Like the opening of a rusted iron gate, the voices of hundreds of men should have surged forth in unison. But this time, it didn't. A half-beat. Truly, just a half-beat. The words caught in someone’s throat.
"……Loyalty to His Highness Belion!"
The shout burst out belatedly. It was loud, but it was late. The roll-call officer heard that half-beat. The officers heard it. The soldiers heard it, too. And that was why no one said a word. If they spoke of it, that half-beat would become the truth.
"Dismissed," the officer said, gritting his teeth.
The soldiers dispersed. On any other day, they would have headed straight to clean their weapons or collect their rations. But a few could not simply walk past the wooden pillar where the proclamation was posted. The black wax seal still clung to it. The crest of the Vergrad royal family. And the sentence written beneath it:
[Soldiers who lay down their weapons will not be held accountable for their crimes.]
A soldier stood still. He was young—a lad who didn't even have a proper scar on his chin yet. In a war-torn hell like this, having no scars meant one of two things: you were lucky, or you were about to get some.
The soldier looked down at his waist. A red cloth was tied to his scabbard. It was the mark of the Eastern Military Camp. He hesitated for a moment, then began to untie it.
"Hey."
A hand flew out from behind him, grabbing his wrist. The young soldier stiffened.
"What are you doing?"
It was a fellow soldier, older than him. A burn scar from the Defense of Noxvine remained on his chin, the skin twisted like dried leather.
The young soldier couldn't answer. The grip on his wrist tightened.
"I asked you a question. What are you doing?"
"……Just a moment."
"A moment?" The scarred soldier laughed, but only his lips moved. "Was the Eastern Camp’s mark just a decoration you tied and untied whenever you felt like it?"
The young soldier’s throat bobbed. "The Royal Decree……."
As soon as those words left his lips, several soldiers nearby turned to look. The young soldier closed his mouth, but it was already too late. The scarred soldier slowly released his wrist.
"Royal Decree?" He didn't look at the proclamation; he looked at the young soldier. "Don't you remember who dragged your brother’s corpse out from under the walls of Noxvine?"
The young soldier’s face hardened. "Was it His Majesty Lucion, who was busy writing letters in the palace back then?"
His Majesty. The term fell strangely onto the camp floor. Both of them paused for a moment. The scarred soldier gritted his teeth, as if realizing what he had just spat out.
"No," he said again. "It’s Lucion."
The young soldier said nothing. The partially untied red cloth hung from his fingertips. He couldn't let it drop, and he couldn't tie it back up. That hesitation was the bigger problem. In an army, the most dangerous man is not the one who runs away; it is the one who hesitates. You can catch a deserter, but a man who hesitates infects everyone around him.
"Drag him here," a low voice commanded. It was an officer. He looked at the young soldier’s wrist, at the red cloth, and then at the lips of the surrounding soldiers. No one spoke. That silence was more accurate than any report.
Belion Vergrad did not kill the captured soldier immediately. This was different from what the officers had expected. They had already prepared the execution grounds. The head of a single deserter—there was no cheaper or faster way to bind a camp back together. But Belion did not go to the execution grounds. He brought the soldier into his tent.
The young soldier knelt, unable to lift his head. Belion stood before him.
"Name."
"……Ladin, sir."
"Were you at Noxvine?"
"Yes."
"Which unit?"
"The Eastern Gate supply escort, sir."
Belion said nothing for a moment, then spoke. "If that supply route had been cut, the Eastern Gate would have fallen within three days."
Ladin’s shoulders trembled. "The bread that kept them alive, the arrows they fired, the shrouds used to pull out the dead—they all traveled the path you guarded."
Belion looked down at him quietly. "You are a soldier who protected this country."
Ladin bit his lip. It was a face that desperately wanted to hear those words, yet simultaneously dreaded them. Belion tossed the proclamation onto the table.
"And yet, is this single sheet of paper heavier than the country you protected?"
Ladin could not answer. Belion did not draw his sword. That made it all the more terrifying.
"Are you going to kill me?" Ladin finally managed to ask.
Belion chuckled lowly. "Killing you would be easy."
The officers held their breath. "But I will not kill you today."
Ladin looked up. Belion continued, "If you want to lay down your weapon, then do so."
The atmosphere in the tent froze. An officer spoke up reflexively, "Your Highness, that is—"
Belion turned his head, and the officer’s mouth snapped shut. "Go," Belion said to Ladin. "Walk out on your own two feet. And go wherever it is you want to go."
Ladin could not move. "Why?"
"Because I need to see how far Lucion’s words can reach." Belion pressed his finger against the proclamation. "There is no ruler more accurate than the legs of a living soldier."
Ladin’s face turned pale. He understood now. He hadn't been forgiven; he had become a living marker. Belion stepped closer.
"And remember this," his voice was low. "It wasn't a Royal Decree that saved you at Noxvine."
Ladin’s breath hitched. "It was me."
The words were not a threat. They were the truth. And that made them all the heavier.
"A deserter has appeared."
Hermun’s report arrived before my morning tea. I received the document before I could even lift my cup. This world has no "mute notifications" feature. Becoming the Demon King is like being forcibly hired for a 24-hour customer service center. Of course, all the customers are holding swords.
"How many?"
"Only one confirmed. However, there are reports that the roll-call slogan was delayed within the Eastern Military Camp."
"Delayed?"
"Yes."
I looked down at the report. Delayed roll-call. Attempted removal of unit markers. Tension among officers. Increasing silence among the rank and file. This isn't a military report; it’s a middle school student’s record. "Classroom attitude is somewhat unstable; silence in relationships with friends is increasing." But if the "friendships" go sour here, it’s a civil war. This is one hell of a school.
"Did my Royal Decree work?" I asked as calmly as I could.
Inside, I wasn't so sure. All I did yesterday was paperwork. I stamped a seal, wrote some harsh words, and added a period. And yet, a soldier in the enemy camp tried to remove his mark. What is this? Did a virus get into my word processor?
Hermun looked at me. "You could say it worked."
"And another way to put it?"
"You scratched it."
"What?"
"Belion’s camp."
I folded the report. "Then that’s good news."
"Only half of it."
Of course. This old man always puts poison behind his good news. "And the other half?"
"Belion did not kill the deserter."
I paused. "He didn't kill him?"
"Yes. It is said he let him go."
"Playing the benevolent rebel, is he?"
"No." Hermun shook his head. "It is a test."
I stayed silent for a moment. Hermun continued, "He is using the feet of a living soldier to measure exactly how far Your Majesty’s decree reaches."
Belion. That bastard is much more annoying than I thought. It would have been better if he were just a rebel with anger management issues. But the reality is he’s a war hero with a political sense to boot. The patch is too overpowered. Where is the operator’s conscience?
"Belion is a rebel," I said.
"Yes," Hermun answered immediately. "But to the Eastern Camp, he is still the Shield of Noxvine."
Noxvine. When that name came up, something deep inside my body reacted. It wasn't my memory. It was Lucion’s. A red sky. Walls. Starving soldiers. And the rumors that drifted from deep within the royal palace: His Highness Belion blocked the East. His Highness Belion defeated the Holy Crusade. His Highness Belion saved us.
I tapped the desk with my finger. Once. Twice.
"A rebel who once saved the country, eh?"
"That is correct."
"The worst kind."
I meant it. You can kill a rebel. But if you kill a hero, it becomes a story. And stories last longer than swords.
"Your Majesty," Hermun said. "The Eastern Camp will not collapse all at once."
"I know." I looked down at the map. The Eastern Camp. There are soldiers there. Officers. Belion. And the debt of the Defense of Noxvine. My Royal Decree showed them a way to live, but Belion’s past is holding them back by the ankles.
I laughed. Not because I felt like laughing, but because I felt I should. "Then I suppose I’ll have to start by calculating the debt."
Hermun went silent. I picked up my pen. My fingertips trembled slightly. I knew why. Because I was afraid. And because I had an inkling of what I was about to do.
"Send a second Royal Decree to the Eastern Camp."
"What shall the contents be?"
I looked at the map and said, "To all soldiers who participated in the Defense of Noxvine."
Hermun’s eyebrows twitched ever so slightly. "Recognize their military achievements."
The room went quiet. "Not Belion’s?"
"Belion wasn't the only one fighting that war." I placed the pen on the paper. "Return the honor of protecting the country to the soldiers."
The ink soaked into the paper. "And leave the crime of treason to Belion alone."
Hermun said nothing for a long time. I spoke, "Breaking the shield is a foolish act."
The tip of the pen stopped. "You have to split the handle."
In that moment, I couldn't tell. Was I speaking like a king? Or had I just learned a dirty trick to survive? But one thing was certain: Belion was binding the camp with the soldiers' memories. If so, I had to peel Belion’s name away from those memories.
"Write it," I said. "Vergrad has not forgotten the soldiers of Noxvine."
Hermun bowed his head and said in a very low voice, "I shall obey, Your Majesty."
His voice was strangely heavy. I looked down at the paper. The first Royal Decree made Belion a rebel. The second Royal Decree would divide his glory among the soldiers.