“Arming humans, Your Majesty?”
Alfred tilted his skull.
Edward knew he had to explain why this terrifying specter should accept aiding mortals.
“I intend to change how the Great Work is done. A gentler method.”
“A gentler method?”
“Instead of killing or enslaving humans, I’ll win them over. I’ll be both Demon King and King of Men.”
The wraith’s hollow gaze seemed to pierce through him.
“My body is human now. Though weaker than before, it allows me to approach humans without their instinctive rejection. They will yield to me more readily.”
“As always, Your Majesty’s foresight is awe-inspiring.”
Edward exhaled in relief.
“The body’s original owner was the son of the local lord here.”
“What a remarkable coincidence, that Your Majesty reincarnated so near this fortress.”
“And the family name is Griffiths.”
“An all too familiar name.”
Even among the Demon King’s enemies, that name had carried weight. Edward was certain his subordinates knew it well.
“Five hundred years ago, the one who struck me down was also a Griffiths.”
“Then Your Majesty has been reborn into the bloodline of your ancient foe.”
“Exactly. And you know that once, Griffiths ruled this entire land.”
“Yes, Sire. Though I also heard of their downfall.”
“They remain an old and venerable house. That heritage will make it easier to enthrone myself as king among men.”
“Indeed. Mortals cling to the weight of time. To follow an ancient line comes naturally to them.”
“To make it happen, I must first deal with a problem.”
“A problem, Sire?”
“Bandits plague the domain…”
Edward briefly explained the situation in his territory.
“To use Griffiths’ bloodline as leverage, the domain itself must survive.”
“If only I could leave this castle, I would handle such rabble myself. Alas…”
Edward knew Alfred could crush not fifty, but a thousand marauders with ease.
“You said you were bound to the castle?”
“Yes. It was Your Majesty’s own decree, to stabilize my unstable soul. If I stray beyond this mountain, I cannot endure.”
A pity—but perhaps for the best. A scythe-wielding wraith in broad daylight would incite chaos and panic.
“Then the villagers must be armed, and trained to stand themselves. In doing so, I’ll forge them into my people.”
“That is why you sought weapons.”
“Exactly.”
“Very well, Sire. Let us proceed to the armory.”
Edward followed Alfred.
“The distance is long. Permit me.”
The wraith chanted, and Edward’s body lifted gently from the ground.
“I shall guide you.”
Suspended in the air, Edward drifted behind Alfred, without effort or step.
They left the hall and entered a corridor.
“Pardon me, Sire.”
Snap!
At Alfred’s gesture, brooms, dusters, and mops materialized, floating to life. They swept, scrubbed, and polished the stone floors until they gleamed like new.
What a waste of talent…
To use seventh-circle sorcery for housecleaning.
“This is the armory.”
Rows of towering racks rose like walls, stacked to the ceiling.
“Empty.”
“Some remain.”
Alfred gestured. Clank! The racks sank into the floor.
How tall is this place?
As the racks descended, others rose from above, like an endless elevator of weapons. Entire walls of racks shifted, enough to hold tens of thousands of arms.
“There, Sire.”
A rack brimming with weapons emerged.
Spears, swords, armor, helms—everything we need.
Forged for the Demon King’s armies, their appearance alone was terrifying. Any brigand who saw them would soil himself.
“All of blacksteel, Sire.”
Blacksteel—harder than normal steel, and much heavier.
They’ll sweat blood under these, but so be it.
Even a line of spears, five meters long, would create hell for the bandits. Time was short, but Edward could teach them the basics.
“No ranged weapons?”
“One moment.”
Alfred gestured again. The rack sank, and another descended, filled with massive crossbows and quivers.
“These are scatterbows. They release multiple bolts at once.”
Edward recognized them. A Demon King’s invention, later copied poorly by the Alliance. Unlike ordinary weapons, they required little skill—just point at a crowd and unleash.
“Can these be moved outside?”
“How far?”
“To the cave entrance.”
“A simple task. Shall I begin?”
“Not yet. I’ll return tomorrow morning—have them ready by then.”
“As you command.”
“Now… where is my throne?”
Behind the throne lay chambers only the Demon King could enter. If any treasures still remained, they would be there.
“In the Grand Hall, Sire. Shall I escort you?”
“Take me.”
Alfred guided him to the castle’s heart. They ascended on a magical lift, rising to the very top.
There it stood—the Grand Hall.
The Supreme Throne.
Seat of the Demon King, ruler of the continent.
Edward’s heart pounded as he sat. Alfred watched with a look of satisfaction—if a skull could smile, this was it.
Mana seeped from the throne’s arms, resonating with Edward’s own.
Open…
He willed it, just as the Demon King’s memories instructed.
Vwoooom.
Before him, a crimson portal swirled into being.
The subspace that only the Demon King could enter. A dimension that opened solely when the Demon King’s soul resonated with the Supreme Throne.
Step. Step.
Edward crossed through the portal to the other side. The interior was about the size of a single room.
“Heh, heh, heh.”
The moment he entered, laughter burst from him. Gold ingots were piled up to his knees.
Even at the lowest estimate, it had to be at least ten million gold.
The money problem is over.
It was more than enough not only to pay off the debts but also to revive the territory.
Yet, this sheer volume of gold was bound to draw the world’s attention. For now, Griffith lacked the strength to withstand powerful factions sniffing around for the source.
I can at least sell some of this off quietly.
For now, he pocketed only a small ingot.
Hm?
Behind the mountain of gold, two altars came into view. One held a ring, the other a sword.
He approached the ring first.
<The Ring of Gyges>?
The name surfaced in his mind at once— as though he had cast an identification spell.
A ring of random rank. It manifests powers based on the bearer’s desires. When appraised, it reveals the power the appraiser most longs for.
The Eye of God not only gazed into the soul of others but also revealed the true essence of objects.
The more it is used, the more the wearer’s mind corrodes, until they are enslaved to the ring’s true master. The wearer can never disobey the master of the ring. The true master is the Demon King. The ring has no effect on the Demon King.
A ring that turned its wearer into the Demon King’s thrall. Useless to Edward, since it could never bind him.
I’ll give this cursed thing to some unlucky fool.
He pocketed the ring.
Next, he picked up the sword.
In length, it resembled a longsword. Runes shimmered faintly along its gleaming edge.
The unusual part was the grip: slots in the center, the ends, and even the pommel where something could be inserted.
<Hubris>
The name rose in his mind once again.
Its rank shifts with its opponent. At the lowest, it is rank 3, and at its peak, rank 9. It absorbs arrogance. The more an enemy underestimates its wielder, the stronger it becomes.
By itself, it was already a fine weapon. But against the right opponent, it could become a legendary blade.
For Edward—weak in body and magic, always underestimated—there could be no better weapon.
Today really is my lucky day.
Grinning ear to ear at the unexpected haul, he stepped back out of the pocket dimension. The portal vanished behind him.
“Your Majesty, there’s something you must see.”
Alfred’s voice called from the far end of the great hall. Edward walked toward him.
“What is it?”
The grand hall was shaped like an open-air balcony, giving a full view of the mountains and valleys below.
“Is that not Your Majesty’s domain over there?”
Alfred pointed toward a shabby-looking castle and its meager lands in the distance.
“It seems so.”
A mounted troop was riding hard toward the territory, surrounding a carriage.
***
Thud!
“Ugh!”
Logan doubled over, groaning as a fist slammed into his stomach. He staggered back, barely keeping his balance.
“You’re supposed to pay your debts on time!”
Thud!
“Ugh!”
Another blow sent him crashing to the ground.
“Stop it! He’s already injured! You’ll kill him at this rate—”
Smack!
“Argh!”
The mercenary cuffed Hans hard across the face, sending him sprawling and spitting blood.
The other villagers only trembled, too frightened to step in. A score of mercenaries surrounded them, radiating menace.
A few of the territory’s soldiers were present, but they could only watch. They, too, were buried in debt.
The only person with the authority to intervene—the steward—was absent.
In truth, his absence had been arranged.
“Pathetic peasants.”
From his carriage, the moneylender Shylock sneered at the scene. A powerful figure from a nearby city, he had lent considerable sums to both the Griffith family and the villagers.
“What kind of lawless madness is this! The contract says we still have two months left!”
Logan shouted hoarsely as he forced himself back to his feet. His large frame gave him resilience, but not enough.
Thud!
“Ghhk!”
Another mercenary’s strike dropped him again.
“Pitiful.”
Shylock clicked his tongue as he stepped down from the carriage. Waving the contract in his hand, he sneered.
“Can’t you read? Right here—today is the deadline. You even signed it yourself.”
“A month ago, you told me three months!”
Logan rasped, voice breaking.
What he said was true. Shylock had indeed said three months. But he had written one month in the contract.
The illiterate farmers had simply trusted his word and signed.
Shylock jerked his chin.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
“Argh! S—scam—agh!”
The mercenaries kicked and beat Logan mercilessly.
Shylock’s mood was foul. Debtors who failed to repay angered him. Debtors who actually repaid also angered him—because then he couldn’t squeeze them further.
In truth, Shylock was rarely ever in a good mood. And his foul moods always spilled out onto the people who owed him money.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!”
A thunderous voice rang out across the square. Shylock and his mercenaries froze mid-blow.
A familiar young man was striding toward them.
“Well, well, the young lord. Shouting so loud, you’ll burst my eardrums.”
Shylock scowled as he recognized Edward. Rumor said the frail boy had been acting up lately—making a scene before his inevitable end. No matter. A sickly, timid brat couldn’t change a thing.
Step. Step.
Edward gave no reply. He walked straight toward the mercenary who had been pummeling Logan.
The mercenary smirked at him, as if to say, And what are you going to do about it?
Shrrk!
Edward’s hand flashed to his sword hilt. The next instant, the mercenary’s head went spinning through the air.
“…What?”
Even Shylock was struck dumb. Everyone froze in stunned silence.
Cliche Novel 