Memorial Day, the Trial Begins
“Your Majesty—shall we strike now?”
In the Abyssal Council Hall, a dozen silhouettes bowed as one.
They were archdemons—each of them a calamity. Set one loose on the Kingdom’s border and a city would burn to bedrock overnight. Yet here, every head was lowered, waiting for a single word from me.
I sat on the high throne of black obsidian, my fingers tapping the armrest, my gaze resting on the map of the Kingdom spread below.
“Report.”
Duke Infernos, first among them, spoke at once. “The capital is in chaos. Once word of your death leaked, the court tried to smother it. They failed. The people began mourning you on their own—building shrines, marching, lighting candles. In three days, seven memorial squares appeared.”
Another demon followed, voice slick with delight. “They’re calling you ‘the hero the Kingdom betrayed.’ The nobles don’t dare crack down in public. The harder they press, the louder the backlash.”
My face didn’t change.
Of course.
When I was alive, they treated it as natural—me standing at the front, taking the blows. Only after I vanished did they realize the wall had always been me.
“And the court?” I asked.
“Falling apart,” Duke Infernos grinned. “They’re not afraid of the mourning. They’re afraid the people have started asking the question—how, exactly, did you die?”
I leaned back, voice flat. “Keep watching. Without my order, no one moves against the Kingdom.”
Several archdemons looked up, confusion flickering in their eyes.
“My King,” one said quietly, “this is the perfect window. The world believes the Hero is dead. Border morale is shattered. Give the word, and the capital falls within seven days.”
I let out a small laugh.
“Too fast. Too clean.”
They froze.
From the throne, I looked down at the map, my tone calm enough to cut.
“I don’t want a pile of ashes.”
“I want them to dig up the truth themselves.”
“I want them to tear off their own mask.”
“And I want her to kneel in front of everyone and admit it.”
Silence slammed into the hall.
Then every archdemon bowed again.
“As you command, my King.”
I closed my eyes, and the past rose in sharp, merciless detail.
Not a battlefield.
Snow. Blood. The wind of the Seal-Lands.
Elena and I had stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the rift, holy sigils burning beneath our boots. She wore a silver cloak and carried the royal spear—yet her lover, a man who had never belonged near the core of our strike force, lingered half a step behind her, tucked into the safest pocket of the formation.
I remember it perfectly.
When the demon tide surged, everyone else instinctively pulled back.
I stepped forward.
Because I believed what I was protecting was the Kingdom.
And because I believed I was protecting her.
Then the Seal began to collapse. The keystone needed a vessel—someone to take the backlash, to hold the rift shut long enough to lock the tide back into the dark. In that moment, the accompanying temple priest shouted a name.
Not mine.
His.
Elena’s lover went pale. His legs shook. He couldn’t even keep his sword steady.
Elena’s eyes changed.
She didn’t hesitate for long—only an instant.
Then her hand shot out, fingers closing around the clasp on my bracer. Using the momentum of my forward charge, she shoved—hard.
She shoved me into the keystone.
Into the black mouth of the Seal.
“Ludwig!” she screamed, voice tearing like grief, like desperation. “Only you can do it!”
There was no love in it.
Only calculation.
She didn’t want me to live.
She wanted him to.
I hit the center sigil, and the backlash ripped through me like a thousand hooks. Bone cracked. Blood burst through the seams of my armor and ran along the glowing lines, drawn away as fuel. The Seal stabilized—just long enough.
I looked up in time to see it.
Elena planted herself in front of her lover, royal spear raised, shielding him from the shockwave.
She glanced back at me, lips moving.
As if she were saying: I’m sorry.
But her feet were already retreating.
She withdrew with him—away from the rift, away from the edge, away from the world where I could still breathe.
In the white storm, only I remained.
I stayed in the Seal-Lands. I bled out. My bones splintered. I waited to die alone.
And she returned to the capital—wearing my victories like jewelry, carrying my name like a banner.
Now, finally, she was starting to sense something was wrong.
In the demon’s scrying mirror, the capital’s streets came into focus.
Black-and-white ribbons hung from the avenues. Flowers drowned the base of the Hero’s statue. Old men, soldiers, children, merchants—even clergy—murmured the same name beneath their breath.
“Lord Ludwig.”
“The one who truly protected the Kingdom.”
“May the Hero rest in peace.”
No one said Elena.
Not once.
The mirror shifted.
In the palace corridor, Elena walked fast, her face draining by the second. Servants and nobles no longer snapped into bows and scrambles the way they used to. They simply dipped their heads and looked away, eyes evasive.
She stopped by a window and heard the talk drifting up from the street.
“If it weren’t for the Hero, the North would’ve fallen three years ago.”
“Wasn’t the Princess on that expedition too? Then why is she the only one who came back?”
“I heard the Seal-Lands are a disaster.”
“So how did the Hero really die?”
Elena’s fingers tightened on the sill until her knuckles whitened.
Watching her, I felt nothing like surprise.
She was finally learning what losing me meant.
Not just losing someone who cleaned up her mistakes.
But losing the gaze of the entire Kingdom.
Back in her chambers, she dismissed everyone and sank before her mirror.
“No…,” she whispered, as if the word could hold the world together. “Ludwig wouldn’t leave me.”
She was begging herself to believe it.
“He loved me.”
I watched her through the mirror, and other memories surfaced—clean, cold, undeniable.
When she fell ill, I stayed awake for three nights, armor still on.
When she provoked the Western lords, I crossed the border myself and buried the conflict.
After every campaign, I brought her the rarest spoils—blue crystal from the tundra, moon pearls from the sea-kingdoms, scarlet-gold feathers from a dragon’s nest.
All she had to do was smile, and I would shoulder the consequences.
And what did I get in return?
Distance.
Indifference.
Lies that grew smoother with every telling.
Until the day she pushed me into death without blinking.
I opened my eyes, voice like ice.
“Continue.”
The mirror changed again.
In the royal council chamber, the atmosphere was worse than any frontline.
Great nobles circled the chancellor, shouting over one another. The tide of public mourning wouldn’t be contained. The border legions were wavering. Even those who used to grovel before Elena were recalculating—quietly deciding how long the crown could still stand.
Worst of all was the Temple Knight Order.
On paper, they served the throne. In truth, they served only honor and the truth.
And now, they were pulling at old seams.
“The report on the expedition three years ago has missing sections.”
“The return roster from the Seal-Lands is incomplete.”
“The Hero’s final combat log was altered.”
One accusation after another hit the table.
Without my presence, the nobles no longer feared Elena’s aura. Because everyone was beginning to realize that aura had never been hers.
It was something I propped up—piece by piece—so she could wear it.
Elena understood that. That was why she fought so hard to bury the Seal-Lands.
She ordered information sealed, witnesses replaced, blame shifted onto “demon ambushes.”
Too late.
The truth spread like wildfire.
From taverns to plazas, from barracks to cathedrals, the Kingdom was asking the same question.
“How did the Hero die?”
Once a question like that exists, it doesn’t vanish.
Because it drags a second one behind it.
Who killed him?
In the mirror, Elena was unraveling.
Her makeup was flawless. Her spine was still rigid with practiced royalty. But fear had made a home in her eyes. She signed decrees, summoned ministers, issued orders—clawing for control.
The more she struggled, the faster she sank.
A knock sounded at the chamber door.
“Enter,” she said, her voice already tight.
The Vice-Commander of the Temple Knights stepped in.
He didn’t kneel the way he once did. He simply stood there, gaze heavy and unblinking.
“Your Highness.”
Elena frowned. “What is it?”
The Vice-Commander raised his hand and placed a thin journal on the table—its cover stained with dark, dried blood.
“We recovered this near the Seal-Lands’ perimeter.”
“Your Highness… you should read it yourself.”
Elena looked down.
The blood had soaked half the cover, but the title was still legible.
Ludwig — Field Record.
Her breath broke.
“That’s impossible…” Her voice trembled. “Why is this in your hands?”
The Vice-Commander’s expression didn’t move.
“Because the truth doesn’t deserve to be buried.”
Elena reached for it. The moment her fingertips touched the cover, her hand began to shake.
