At dusk that day, I stood upon the castle roof.
Positioned at the highest point in the Royal Capital, I gazed down at the sprawling cityscape below.
This land, which had once been reduced to a desolate city of the dead, was finally pulsing with life again. There was no trace of its former ruin; it functioned perfectly as the new Capital.
“……”
A biting wind swept past me.
The sky was gradually deepening into a darker hue. There wasn't a cloud in sight. It would likely be a beautiful night for stargazing.
In truth, I really should have been tending to my paperwork. Even as I stood here, the mountain of administrative tasks requiring my attention was surely growing. My subordinates were likely working themselves to the bone at this very moment.
I had no time to be idle. And yet, I couldn't bring myself to return to my desk.
As I stood there in quiet contemplation, I heard footsteps behind me. The presence came to a halt at my side.
“What’s wrong? Waiting for the stars to come out?”
I turned to find Logan standing there. With his arms crossed, he watched me with eyes that betrayed no emotion. I felt a pang of discomfort, as if I were being interrogated.
Pushing that feeling aside, I shook my head.
“I have no interest in stargazing.”
“I know,” Logan replied instantly. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a quiet, serious tone. “Dwight, what’s weighing on you?”
“……”
I looked down and remained silent. Had I been anything other than a skeleton, I likely would have been visibly shaken. However, even in my undead state, Logan was the sort of man who could see right through to my true state of mind.
Lies and evasions would never work on him.
He followed up with a question that pierced the very heart of my turmoil.
“Is this about the Hero—Claire Baton?”
I froze. He had realized it after all.
Taking care to ensure my voice didn't tremble, I finally answered.
“…How did you know?”
“There are only a few things capable of troubling you to this extent. How many years do you think we’ve known each other?”
Logan spoke with a hint of irritation. He was likely genuinely annoyed with me. I couldn't find a single word to argue with him—he was exactly right. He had been seeing through my secrets since we were young. It seemed that hadn't changed at all.
Logan offered a suggestion in a calm, steady voice.
“Talk to me. It might help you sort out your thoughts.”
“But…”
“Discard the title of Demon King for a moment. Just talk to an old friend as Dwight Harvelt.”
Logan spoke with a sudden intensity, a passion that was rare for him. He was being completely sincere. The atmosphere made it impossible for me to refuse.
Steeling myself, I gave a small nod.
“—I understand.”
Logan and I sat down on the edge of the roof. With our legs dangling over the precipice, we looked down at the city side by side. In that quiet moment, I finally voiced the concerns I had kept buried.
“To be blunt, I am at a crossroads. I am torn between two choices, and I cannot decide which path to take.”
“What are the choices?”
“Whether or not I should resurrect her.”
The moment the words left my mouth, a sharp pain swelled in my chest. My vision seemed to narrow, and I found myself struggling to speak. This was the dilemma that had haunted me for the past six months. It was always there, lurking in the back of my mind. I had tried to find an answer on my own without telling a soul.
But I had failed.
“I want to show her a world that is finally at peace. That is my own selfish wish. However… she may not want that herself.”
“Do you have a reason to think that?”
“She is the only one my power cannot touch. I cannot turn her into an undead.”
It was the simple truth. My Authority of the Valley of the Dead transcended mere Necromancy; it was capable of turning any corpse into an undead thrall. With the right magical adjustments, I could even mold the dead into any race I desired.
And yet, she was the sole exception. No matter how much power I exerted, she would not rise. Her remains were intact, so it should have been a simple task. Over a year had passed since I returned to the surface, and my Authority had grown significantly more potent than it was at the start, yet this one wish remained ungranted.
(She wanted world peace.)
That was why she became the Hero and eventually defeated the previous Demon Lord. It was why she accepted her own execution—she knew that to resist would only ignite a new cycle of conflict. Her devotion to peace had been genuine.
I wanted to show her the peaceful world she had dreamed of. I had taken up her mantle and exerted myself to this end. My methods were vastly different, but I believed our goals were the same.
And yet, perhaps I was wrong. Does she truly not wish to see the world as it is now? That doubt had thrown my heart into total disarray. It invited constant anxiety and paralyzed my thoughts. Had it not been for my duties as the Demon King, I might have sought the release of death long ago.
“Furthermore, bringing a Hero of the past into a peaceful world is an act that invites conflict. It would cause nothing but unnecessary chaos. It contradicts the very reason for my existence.”
The Return of the Hero and a Deterrent World Peace. These two concepts were fundamentally incompatible. They were contradictory policies. From the perspective of a Demon King, a Hero should never be allowed to appear. I had spent my time thus far eliminating any potential heroes for that very reason.
To resurrect her would be to betray every policy I have upheld.
I have no desire to fight her. However, the people of the world would naturally expect a Hero to slay the Demon King. Everyone yearns for a story of poetic justice. For me, that would be a disastrous development.
Even she, brought back into the modern era, would likely be bewildered by her position. She would never be able to live a life of tranquility.
“The Research Institute is currently pursuing the Resurrection Art of the Dead. We haven't achieved it yet, but I’m certain they will succeed one day.”
I was sure of it. That facility possessed the most advanced technology in the world. Given enough time—centuries or even millennia—they would eventually master the art of resurrection. They would bring her back to this world not as an undead, but as a living human being.
I cannot decide what I should do when that technology finally becomes a reality.
“Diera once asked me what she would think of me if she saw me now. I couldn't give her an answer.”
That had happened six months ago, during the battle following Barulk’s schemes. Those words had caused me to falter, leading to a serious injury. It was a failure born of my own immaturity.
It remains a massive weight on my soul. If it had been a mere provocation, I would have remained unmoved. It was only because I harbored those same doubts in the deepest depths of my heart that it created such a fatal opening.
I have to admit it: I have been unconsciously averting my eyes. To put it plainly, I do not have full confidence in my own actions or my methods. I am terrified that she will look upon me with contempt.
Regardless of what the people want, it is entirely possible that she and I would end up crossing blades.
(Can I, the modern-day Demon King, truly stand before her with pride?)
Even when I asked myself, the answer did not come easily. I am burdened by a profound sense of guilt.
Those are the worries and the conflicts that plague me.