Who Owns the Demon King’s Lands? - Chapter 1
A tiny village of just a dozen-odd houses. Erased even from land records and forgotten by its lord, the only one who stubbornly remembered it was the tax collector who came to squeeze out every coin. Late into the night, a light flickered on in one of those buildings.
The old woman gazed at the lantern with worry in her eyes. Her wrinkled eyelids and creased face told the story of her hard-lived life. If the oil dripped dry, she'd have to sell the vegetables she was growing now before she could refill it. No oil meant no sewing at night, and that meant fewer side dishes on the table for a while. On nights she didn't sew, she never lit the lantern. But tonight, she couldn't bring herself to snuff it out.
"Grandma, I can't sleep."
Her grandson, who should've been fast asleep by now, stared up at her with wide, sparkling eyes. The worry melted from her face in an instant. The troubles of life could never come before its reason.
She looked at him with eyes full of love. To this old woman, who had lost her entire family to war, her grandson was her treasure—her very reason for living.
After working in the fields all morning, he'd napped the afternoon away, only to wake up wide-eyed at night. He was scared of the dark, and without the light, he'd cry—so she couldn't put it out.
"How about Grandma tells you a story, then?"
"A hero story. I want the hero one."
"Heavens, you've heard that one more than ten times already."
"But it's still good... the hero story."
"Alright, alright. Once upon a time..."
"Liar. It was only fifteen years ago."
"My grandson's got a sharp memory, doesn't he? Right, fifteen years ago, the demons appeared in the world. Those terrifying demons took over the biggest kingdom in the world and eventually claimed half of it all. People banded together to fight them, but even they couldn't defeat the Demon King. That's when..."
"The hero! The hero and his companions showed up!"
"My, my, so you know who the hero's companions were too?"
"The hero, the mage, the saint, and the thief. But thieves are bad people. Why a thief?"
Flowers of laughter bloomed on the old woman's face as she watched her excited grandson chatter away. This child was why she clung to her meager life. She couldn't bear the thought of him left alone after she was gone.
"Grandma, are you crying?"
"When you get old, your eyes break sometimes. Tears just fall without warning."
"Don't get sick, Grandma."
"Grandma'll live till you grow old and die! So don't you worry. You were wondering why the thief's called 'the thief,' right? He started out as a bad man, but the hero turned him good. That's why we call him the thief. The hero, the mage, the saint, and the thief. Those four set out on a journey to defeat the Demon King."
A hero who cleaved the sky with his sword. A mage who overturned the earth with her magic. A saint who healed any wound as long as life still clung on. A thief who could raid the emperor's treasure vaults.
These four heroes crossed the demons' lands to the Demon King's Castle and slew the Demon King. And just like that, the demons who had claimed half the world vanished.
Some called it the hero's miracle, others the mage's, and some said the gods had heard the saint's prayers.
"The demons that brought calamity to the world were all slain, and half of it became ownerless land. And even now, people head west, to the West, to claim it."
Her grandson had fallen asleep without her noticing. Stroking his innocent head, the old woman's gaze turned westward.
The West—half the ownerless world. A dreamland where even commoners and slaves could become landlords, even lords.
Her son and daughter-in-law had probably turned to dust somewhere out there in the West.
The old woman blew out the lantern. The little village sank into darkness.
The procession of people and beasts stretched on endlessly. There were thousands of people, and over a thousand on horseback. Some had wagons hitched to their horses; others had ropes tied to the horns of oxen in place of horses. In any case, thousands of people and animals tangled together behind a roughly drawn line.
"Potatoes for sale! Freshly baked potatoes... Aaaagh!"
An ox shoved its head into a boy's potato basket. Startled by the hungry beast's assault, the boy toppled over. Hot potatoes flew, landing on the animals' heads. Enraged horses bucked wildly.
Riders struggled to calm their mounts, but with dozens of beasts panicking and stampeding, no single person could contain it.
The knight atop the makeshift watchtower pulled a pocket watch from his breast pocket, checked the time, and sighed.
"Gotta watch this shitshow for another hour?"
"Shall I quiet them down, sir?"
The knight pondered his adjutant's words, then shook his head.
"Nah, let 'em be. Can't tell who's who. Piss off the wrong crazy mercenary, and you'll get knifed on the road."
"Who'd be bold enough to touch a Union commander?"
"That's why they're crazy. Hell, stab someone and bolt ahead—who's gonna chase you down?"
The adjutant gazed at the endless plain stretching before the watchtower. Empty land reached to the horizon, and beyond that waited thousands, tens of thousands of times more, all awaiting new owners.
He gave a wry smile.
"No one'd catch 'em. Can't scour half the world for one killer."
"Who knows. If the victim were the Imperial Emperor or something."
"Sir, if I stabbed you, it'd be the gallows for me."
"I'm not Imperial. And if things go south, I'd just bolt ahead myself."
The knight gestured lazily at the vast plain unfurling before the watchtower.
"Fair point."
The Union's knight and adjutant—pulled from different nations and organizations—burst into laughter. Below, the ripples from the scattered potatoes still hadn't settled.
One excited horse bolted across the roughly drawn white line. Its rider clung desperately to its body, face drained pale.
The laughing adjutant's face hardened.
"Sir."
"Hold. Mage moved first."
A fireball plummeted from somewhere, engulfing horse and rider. The mage's flames burned until nothing but ashes remained. A handful scattered on the wind.
The adjutant swallowed hard. The knight leaned casually on the watchtower railing.
"Guess we just kill time, then."
"Th-that was magic, huh."
"Wasn't he a commander-level mage? First time seeing it?"
"Strategic division. Typical desk jockey."
"Ha. Even sending paper-pushers to the front? Things must be desperate everywhere."
The knight snorted in disbelief and looked skyward. His adjutant felt the same absurdity about their own posting. Lighting a cigarette from his pocket, he followed suit, eyes tracing the sky and the horizon beyond.
"Everywhere, yeah. Empire, Duchy, Holy Empire. Half the damn world, after all. You ever see demons, sir? At your age, you must've been active back then."
"Saw 'em. Even cut a few down myself."
"What were they like?"
The knight's eyes grew distant. He rolled back the years by a decade.
His homeland bordered the front lines, and he'd fought as one knight among many against the Demon King—who devoured half the world—and his demon hordes. The shining pinnacle of his life.
But a moment he'd never want to relive.
"Black demons swarmed from horizon to horizon. Battles raged from dawn till dusk without cease. Curl up under a single blanket, and the endless thunder of artillery kept you from sleep. If hell exists, that's it."
"That bad?"
The knight ruffled the adjutant's hair—young enough to be half his age.
"Yeah, you little shit. So thank the hero. Without him, you'd be tossed into hell too. Hell, maybe humanity'd be gone by now."
The weight of a veteran's words made the adjutant gulp.
"You ever see the hero himself?"
"Once."
The adjutant's tension melted into shining eyes. Among his generation, few escaped the hero's allure. The hero and companions who crossed demon-infested lands, slew the Demon King, and vanished like mist!
A legend made real in their lifetime. And he was young enough to have lived it.
"They say the hero's single stroke parted the clouds, and the mage's spells shattered heaven and earth. True?"
"Didn't see clouds part, but I saw him cleave the land. Demons crawling horizon to horizon—split in one swing. Made you doubt he was even human. If God's apostle or incarnation walked the earth, it'd be the hero."
"...For real?"
"You're the one who asked, punk."
The knight smacked the adjutant's head. Rubbing his stinging scalp, the adjutant grumbled innocently.
"But come on. Even top knights can barely chop trees, let alone horizons."
"That's knight slander."
"But it's true."
"Fair enough."
A knight severs a tree with one stroke. That's the benchmark, the very reason they're called knights. And superhumans.
Loggers swing massive axes dozens of times to fell one tree. Give an amateur an axe, and they barely scratch bark. What takes scores of blows from an axe, a knight does in one with a slender, fragile sword.
That's a knight.
The hero? He cleaves horizons in one stroke.
The adjutant couldn't even picture it. The knight savored the vivid, thrilling memory even after a decade-plus.
Silence hung between them for a long stretch. A few more horses bolted the line in excitement, each swallowed by mysterious flames.
"Busy mages today. Good luck for us."
"Sir. Look there."
"Huh? What's that?"
The adjutant's finger pointed to ownerless land—soon to have a new master in an hour. In its midst, a man walked toward them.
"What're the sentries doing?"
"He just appeared. I saw him."
"Some special talent?"
"Shoot him?"
"Out of range. I'll handle it personally. Escort him here, and tell the mages not to fire."
"Yes, sir."
The order rippled out across the starting line. The knight squinted at the approaching man.
Looked young, sturdy build. And in one hand...
"An instrument?"
"Harmonica. Popular back home."
"Why play it now?"
"Who knows. False starter?"
"False starters guard their flags. We'll know when we meet him."
One thing was certain: that guy was no ordinary fool.
The man approached slowly. Time ticked on.
"Sir, isn't it start time?"
"Five minutes left."
Four, three, two. The knight pulled a firecracker from his pocket. Some riders eyeing him from the watchtower yanked reins; others dosed horses with stimulants.
Horses were valuable assets, but the reward dwarfed them: land. Their land. Pure and whole, not some lord's.
The knight's eyes lingered on the man still playing harmonica as he walked.
"Guy's got a death wish?"
"Like you said, sir—probably no pushover. But if we delay the start, we're in hot water too."
"I know."
The watch chimed noon. The knight yanked the firecracker's fuse. Explosions echoed from several spots simultaneously.
Thousands surged forward. Rag-clad folk ran barefoot; those with mounts whipped whatever they had and charged.
Pushed horses toppled, crushing nearby runners. Hooves and wheels trampled the fallen.
People, horses, and vehicles vanished like arrows.
They'd race to the horizon's edge, plant flags, and claim land once surveyors measured. Land even the knight and adjutant couldn't have.
"Land, huh... Maybe I should pioneer too. What about you?"
"Me? Never. Unlike you, sir—who chops people like firewood—I'm too soft to kill a rabbit. If half of what surveyors say is true..."
The adjutant shuddered at the mere thought.
"Quit moping and let's go down."
"But the first flag's not even..."
"That guy's something, alright."
The knight jerked his chin at the dust cloud and leaped from the watchtower.
Through the haze, the man still strolled, playing harmonica.
"Survives that madhouse where even knights get trampled?"
One-handed on harmonica, no less.
The adjutant descended the ladder properly—unlike the knight, he was just a normal human; jumping would've snapped his legs.
By the time the slow adjutant arrived, mystery man was in custody of the starting-line soldiers, knight beside him.
Sensing him, the knight shot a glare, then turned back.
Before him stood a dust-covered youth, harmonica still in hand.
"Empire? Duchy? Holy Empire?"
"Duchy."
Duchy tongue flowed from the man's mouth.
The Demon King claimed half the world; the hero slew him, emptying half. To claim it, folk poured from the remaining half, speaking three main tongues: Empire, Duchy, Holy Empire.
Those three became the pioneer pidgin, mixed with races and cultures. Anyone in the frontier spoke at least one—often all, haltingly.
The knight asked which; the man answered Duchy.
"No need for a translator, good. Why come from the pioneer side?"
"Mercenary. Official survey permit from the local guild."
"Imperial."
"Guild standard."
"Not a false starter or accomplice?"
The knight's eyes sharpened. False starts were serious Union business for managing West reclamation.
Race starts, you dash and plant flag—claim surrounds it. Fine print varied, but that was the land race's core.
False starters snuck in early, planted flags, hogged prime spots.
"Fifteen years ago, the Demon King appeared and swallowed half the world in under a year. Ten years ago, the hero felled him. Demons occupying half vanished like mist, leaving it ownerless. That right?"
"Showing off history to the man who lived it?"
"Oh, a war hero! Respect to your courage, sir. Anyway, greedy nobles schemed to carve up the empty half. Frontline nations like your Duchy—who bore the Demon King's assault—wanted first dibs on flags. Rearguard powers, chiefly Empire and Holy Empire, had to block 'em at all costs."
"Damn right. They didn't lift a finger to help."
The knight was getting drawn in.
"Or the Duchy'd swallow it whole. Fair recompense, really. You think so too, sir? At least part of the West belongs to the Duchy."
"Fucking dogs."
The knight gnashed his teeth. Frontliners wanted to pioneer empty land, resettle war refugees, rebuild strength. Duchy chief among them.
Half the world empty. Just claim till continent's edge—easy. Human greed sated awhile; generous terms offered.
Even war vet knights like him got shots at land. All squandered by rearguard meddling—Empire, Holy Empire proxies pressuring with armies. Stalemate over unclaimed earth.
"Five years of brutal politicking birthed the Union. Oversees all West reclamation. Union rules: race flags sold three days prior, Union-certified mark only. That's how it was before I entered unclaimed lands. Changed since?"
"No."
"Then I'm innocent. Entered a month ago."
"Proof?"
"Merc guild Papuran, general store Ena. Regular guild drunks'll vouch. Wanna check?"
"Nah, go ahead."
"Thanks. Where do I buy flags?"
"Temporary stall by merc guild. Starting now?"
The knight eyed him curiously. Leaders were gone; nobles who hated crowds had bolted far ahead. Catching up to plant a flag? Near impossible.
"Gotta have dreams, right?"
"Dreams... Yeah. Can't outlaw dreaming. Merc, name?"
"Marhal. Marhal."
"Merc Marhal, wish your dream comes true."
"You too, sir—retire with all limbs intact."
As Marhal walked toward the stall, the knight called after him.
"That harmonica—what's the deal?"
"Boredom cure. Walking the wastes alone gets dull, no?"
Marhal pocketed the harmonica and blew a skillful tune. Dust rose on the wind as a cloud; with harmonica's melody, he vanished around the corner.
"Weird one. Your take?"
"Agreed."
Knight and adjutant stared his way till the music faded.
Marhal found the mercenary guild. As he opened the wooden door, the receptionist spotted him and shot up.
"Marhal! You crazy bastard! Where the hell you been for a year?!"
"Told you—had some business. Handle this, will ya?"
Fluent Imperial poured from his mouth. He handed over the survey permit he'd shown the knight.
The man snatched it, frowning at the date.
"Issued a month ago? When you weren't even here? You mad fuck, this is forging official docs!"
"Whoa, easy. Keep it down—Union might hear."
Marhal shushed him, finger to lips. The man gawked, incredulous.