"Now we are friends."
I squeezed my right hand tight.
I swear, Bathory the Great's hand was easily twice the size of mine. But in this moment, my palm wrapped around his hand like a python. Bathory the Great stared at me with eyes clouded by fear of the unknown.
"We are good friends indeed."
I playfully tapped the back of his hand with my left hand. The handshake loosened of its own accord.
I inclined my head ever so slightly toward the Great King, whose gaze was still wavering. So slight a tilt that "tilted" would be a more accurate description than "bowed."
"May the Goddess watch over you and your sister."
I turned my steed around.
The fine horse gifted to me by Barbatos seemed to read my thoughts, breaking into a canter with perfect naturalness. The black-maned beauty's name, as it happened, was Amicus.
Which meant "friend."
As I rode forward, three cavalrymen waiting in the rear fell in behind me. I issued my command to the soldier clutching the white banner.
"Raise the flag high!"
"Yes, Your Magnificence."
The cavalryman thrust the banner skyward. If the negotiations succeeded, we would fly the white flag; if, regrettably, they fell through, we would slam the whole pole into the ground. I had told Marbas as much in advance.
Fifteen thousand allied soldiers erupted in a single thunderous roar. Pikes jabbed at the sky, shields hammered the earth. The chances of winning this battle were slim. No matter how bellicose the Demonkin might be, nobody relished a fight with defeat already written into it.
— Dantalion!
— Dantalion! Dantalion! Dantalion!
I let the soldiers' cries wash over me as I rode to the very center of the formation.
At that moment, Marbas put on quite a splendid show. He sounded a war horn and wheeled the entire army around. The Orc tribes, the Goblin tribes, the centaurs and the beastkin—each blew the horns that had been passed down through their clans from generation to generation.
— Bwuuuuuuuu.
The flutes of forty-nine tribes echoed across the Polytunia Plains. Strange and blunt. Those ominous flute sounds that had unfailingly heralded war throughout two thousand years of the Crescent Alliance Army's history blessed, today, a victory won without spilling black blood.
The cavalry on both flanks wheeled their horses and galloped toward the rear. The infantry in the center turned on their heels, reformed their lines, and marched out. The entire army began its full-scale withdrawal.
Changing formation so abruptly risked allowing the enemy to launch a charge. It could mean instant defeat. Yet there were two reasons Marbas would show his back to the enemy.
One was courtesy toward the enemy. I trust you are not so cowardly as to attack the back of an envoy. That was the message.
The other was showing virtually boundless trust in me.
There was not the slightest possibility that I, the envoy, had misjudged the situation. We trust your judgment entirely. You reported that peaceful negotiations succeeded, so we shall act accordingly...
It could only be described as a grand yet elegant gesture. Very Marbas. That must be what it feels like to be a gentleman of the battlefield.
"Looks like the negotiations were a success."
I reached the command group. Marbas had already ridden off toward the rear alongside the other Demon Lords. The moment he saw me, he flashed a refreshing smile and spoke.
"It ended in a single conversation. Was it really necessary for you to drag an army all the way here?"
"Stephen Báthory is cunning and cruel as a bear. He's always ready to sink his teeth into the weak."
I brought Amicus right alongside Marbas's ash-gray horse.
"Polytunia is a nation with a strange blend of monarchy and republic. The king nominally rules the country, but for anything beyond the smallest matters, he must secure the consent of the Noble Assembly."
For instance, the throne of Polytunia was not hereditary. The Noble Assembly elected the king through a vote. Their power over the throne was absolute—they had to approve not only taxation and tariffs but even the deployment of military forces.
In general, the king of Polytunia was nothing more than a puppet.
"That would also explain why Polytunia has been so friendly toward the Habsburg Republic all this time."
"Oh? Then wouldn't that mean this Stephen Báthory fellow has even less room to maneuver?"
"Exactly. That's what makes him dangerous."
"In general" meant there were exceptions.
"He's being called the Great King despite only playing the role of monarch in such a Pollitunia. He tamed the Pollitunian nobles, whose tempers burn like wildfire, using nothing but his own charisma."
This era was teeming with outstanding monarchs, towering like a forest of giants. Even setting Elizabeth aside, many nations had been led throughout history by approximately three exceptional leaders. There was a reason the Demon Lord's army was annihilated in Dungeon Attack.
It was enough to make you sigh and wonder what on earth was going on. Was humanity going to produce an All-Star member as well?
For me, only Emperor Henri of France and our Empire's Emperor Rudolf were the sole salvation. I loved them both. I'd kiss them if they wanted. Both were dead, though.
"It's a case of a single individual's ability overcoming the limitations of the system itself. A nation led by such a leader can sometimes display astonishing power. Confronting Stephen Báthory head-on is not the wisest course."
"But if Stephen Báthory dies, that power would vanish as well, wouldn't it?"
I wore a sly smile.
"That's exactly right."
A nation maintained solely by the monarch's personal charisma would lose its cohesion along with the king's death. Even an ordinary successor wouldn't suffice. Even a slightly above-average successor wouldn't do.
The nobles, having already tasted that tremendous charisma, would inevitably compare the current king to his predecessor. They could only grumble, "Things weren't like this when His Majesty the previous king was alive." As a result, the power that had temporarily concentrated with the king would rapidly drain back into the hands of the nobility.
The king would resort to coercive measures to prevent this. The nobles would push back. Royal authority and aristocratic power would clash violently. While the two factions fought and bickered, the nation's strength would be squandered, whether anyone noticed or not……
"Royal authority—or rather, national power—must ultimately be guaranteed by the system. A nation is not so fragile that it can be sustained by a single outstanding charisma alone."
So I wait.
Until Elizabeth grows old and dies.
Until Stephen Báthory rots into a white skeleton.
Until all the great human figures who were supposed to dominate this era are buried in their graves.
"Our Demon Lord, on the other hand, can live forever. We need to look ahead with a long-term perspective and plan for a war of attrition."
"Time is on our side, then."
Marbas laughed.
"Dantalion, you're truly cunning. You flatter the opposition endlessly, but what use is it? In the end, you're saying we're the ones who'll win, aren't you? To their ears, it sounds worse than receiving no praise at all."
"Noble one."
I shrugged my shoulders.
"The more I praise the opposition, the greater the value of our victory over them, wouldn't you agree? Trust me. Just as wine grows sweeter the longer it matures, our triumph will only become all the more precious with time."
Marbas burst into laughter once more.
That was when my body bent slightly forward. I had never bent over, so I paused for a moment.
I tilted my head with a bewildered expression, only to find Marbas staring at me with an odd look.
Only then did I understand why my body had bent. Marbas had lightly slapped my back as a gesture of goodwill. Since the incident where he had punished Raora, I had lost almost all sensation in my back, so I hadn't even noticed.
I gave a faint smile.
"I injured myself a little while ago, you see. I can't feel anything on my back."
Marbas furrowed his brow.
"On your back? It's nothing serious, is it?"
"Haha. They said there's nothing wrong with my body itself. It's probably a psychological issue."
"I have a few excellent physicians on hand. I could send one your way."
I shook my head, saying I was fine.
"We Demon Lords are probably the beings who least need doctors in this world. It's nothing to worry about."
"Hmm..."
Marbas gazed at me in silence for a long moment.
"You may think of it as an old man's nagging, but hear me anyway. Dantalion, you must treasure your body far more than you do. More than you could ever imagine."
"Pardon?"
This was no simple concern or baseless worry. Marbas's expression was grave.
"You once praised Stefan Batory for compensating for the limitations of the system with individual ability. In my view, that assessment applies equally to our Demon Lord's army. What do you think has been the reason for our string of successes lately?"
"……."
"It's not the system. We don't have any system at all."
That was true. The Demon Lord's army, if one were being modest in their assessment, was closer to... a loose tribal confederation.
Each Demon Lord governed their own Demon Lord's Castle in a different way. Their attitudes toward the demon race differed as well.
Just as Barbatos and Paimon exemplified two starkly contrasting models, the Demon Lords held sharply divergent opinions on what an ideal society should look like.
"The reason I created Walpurgis Night was precisely that. I wanted to put in place at least some minimal mechanism that could be called a system within the Demon Lord's army. But as you already know, Walpurgis Night is nothing more than a simple gathering — no more, no less."
In fact, the Demon Lords who participated in that gathering barely managed to scrape past half.
"The reason we've been able to succeed one after another is purely thanks to individual ability. Dantalion, you are undoubtedly one of them. You occupy the most critical position."
"……That's too generous a compliment."
"I'm not saying this to hear your modesty."
The lens of Marbas's single eyeglasses gleamed.
"If you die, both the new Demon Lord's army and the Habsburg Empire will be finished. People say a Demon Lord lives forever, but remember Bael's end. Fate is an uncertain thing. Be cautious, and then be cautious again."
"……."
I managed a bitter smile.
What was I supposed to say to that? I felt a bit awkward. Having someone praise me so directly didn't really suit my personality. I preferred compliments that were a bit more twisted, distorted, and spun in a dark direction.
But here, I ought to express my gratitude honestly.
"Thank you, Marbas. I'll keep that in mind."
"Mm."
Marbas nodded with satisfaction, his chin tilting upward.
There were quite a few words used to refer to Marbas. The most noble Demon Lord, the Imperial Viceroy, Sevastokrator. By calling him simply Marbas this time, I was expressing that I would accept the promise just made as belonging wholly to you alone.
"So, I was thinking of making a proposal—"
Huh, the conversation apparently wasn't over yet. I offered a gentle smile.
"Please, go ahead."
"Ahem…"
Marbas cleared his throat. Dragging out a conversation was not the sort of behavior befitting Marbas, so I found it somewhat puzzling. Marbas swallowed his words several times. And finally, he spoke.
"Dantalion."
"Yes, Marbas?"
"…Tell me, would you have any interest in becoming my son?"
Without realizing it, I stopped speaking.
Marbas, in turn, stopped speaking and looked at my face. I couldn't quite imagine what my expression must have looked like right then. All I could manage, like a fool, truly like an utter fool, was a blank, stupefied question in return.
"…I'm sorry? Did I hear you wrong?"
As if what was spilled could never be gathered back, Marbas declared boldly.
"A son — an adopted son. I wish to take you in as my adopted son."
My jaw dropped open.
What kind of nonsense was this now?