My Subordinates Are Too Competent, It's Driving Me Crazy (1)
The cube was complete.
That meant the decision was final.
However…
Everyone in the conference room, including the Demon King, held their breath.
'That spun a little too roughly.'
It meant someone wasn't happy.
The Demon King cautiously glanced at Daon's expression.
Same as usual—blank. But that only made it more concerning. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
Still, one thing was clear—he wasn't in a good mood. Sensing this, the Demon King hastily spoke.
"Of course, I know full well what type of combat you're specialized in."
"..."
"But monsters have emotions too. In fact, they're even more driven by them than intelligent beings. That means your combat style should be particularly effective."
"..."
Still no response.
Growing uneasy, the Demon King continued, speaking slowly and carefully as he gauged Daon's mood.
"Besides… didn't you ask for alcohol before?"
Flinch.
The fingers gripping the cube twitched slightly.
A faint crack appeared on Daon's previously stoic face. What peeked through was a mixture of embarrassment and a subtle hint of denial.
In contrast, the Demon King's face brightened with confidence—he knew he'd hit the mark.
"That means you've got a lot built up, doesn't it? Wouldn't this be a good chance to let it out?"
"..."
Was that too blunt?
A chill silence swept through the room like sharpened blades, aiming in all directions.
The source, of course, was Daon.
From the look of things, the Demon King felt like he should say something more—but he'd already said all he needed to.
Amidst the taut tension, he quietly waited for a response—
And finally, after what felt like an eternity, Daon's head moved in a slow, reluctant nod.
He calmly and slowly worked through his thoughts. Trying to interpret the Demon King's absurd reasoning.
He approached it from every angle, but ultimately reached only one conclusion.
"So… it's because I asked for a drink, huh?"
He barely restrained the urge to clutch his forehead.
What a half-baked excuse. Was he even trying to make it convincing?
The Demon King wasn't foolish enough to base a decision solely on something like that, so it must have been intentional—a flimsy excuse meant to back him into a corner.
In other words, no matter how he protested, he was going to be sent out one way or another.
"Goddamn it…"
There was no choice. He nodded begrudgingly, resigning himself to fate—but the moment didn't last long.
Because no sooner had he agreed than someone shot up from a corner of the table, hand raised high.
"Then I'll go too!"
"…Ririnel?"
A bit startled by the sudden hand from a seat he thought was empty, he relaxed slightly upon seeing a familiar face.
Ririnel, Commander of the 11th Corps. She had the most harmless-looking appearance, and every time he saw her, he'd instinctively try to take care of her.
Of course, he was aware that she had the second-highest mana reserves after the Demon King. And he knew well that she was known as the "Little Demon" on the battlefield.
Still, humans are creatures of narrow assumptions. And unfortunately, he was no exception.
What danger could such a tiny girl pose, really? That was the kind of mindset that made him let his guard down.
But now she was volunteering? She was?
"There are four major cities. I heard the number of monsters grows by the day."
Velitan quietly nodded.
Buoyed by his silent agreement, Ririnel clenched her small fists.
"So what we need are corps commanders who can defend all four cities efficiently."
"You're saying that person is you?"
"Yes! Velitan's a typical muscle-brain—I mean, warrior who swings an axe. Demon uses daggers."
…Did she just call him a muscle-brain?
It wasn't just me, right?
A quick glance at Velitan showed his mouth hanging open in stunned silence. Guess he heard it too.
What's going on between those two? Ririnel seems awfully sharp toward him…
"Fighting directly with weapons, no matter how skilled you are, limits you to protecting the fortress you're stationed at."
"So you're saying you can do more because you use magic?"
"Yes!"
"No ulterior motives?"
"Of course I ha— I mean, no!"
"..."
"..."
A Stifled Cough Echoed Among the Commanders
Or rather than a "cough," it was more like a startled gasp.
Ririnel fidgeted nervously, then glanced at me. As if firming up her resolve, she squared her shoulders confidently.
"Let me repeat: there are four cities. So if Velitan and Lord Daemon each take one, and I take two, I can lighten Lord Daemon's burd—no, wait, that's not what I meant."
"Ririnel."
"Yes?"
The Demon King shifted his posture. He leaned slightly to the side, resting his chin on his hand, and offered Ririnel a gentle smile. It was radiant—enough to charm just about anyone.
But I knew that smile.
It was the one he gave right before saying no. The kind that strung you along just long enough to crush your hopes. A smile only someone truly wicked could master.
I was already bracing myself to offer Ririnel silent condolences when—
The Demon King, still wearing that dazzling smile, spoke a single word.
So short I almost didn't believe I heard it.
"Go."
"…What?"
"I said go. I'm giving you permission."
The Demon King gave Ririnel—who looked completely bewildered—a kind and gracious expression.
She'd volunteered to help, after all. How could he scold a face so full of innocent intention?
Of course, he knew her motivation wasn't exactly pure. She liked Daemon.
But it wasn't romantic. He knew that much. It was more like idol worship. And besides, she had made a rational proposal.
She wasn't insisting on guarding the same fortress as Daemon. She just offered to take on two cities to lighten his load. There was no reason to refuse.
Had she irrationally demanded to be stationed with him? That would've been a different story. He would've denied her outright.
He might've even lost his temper.
"So you want to lessen Daemon's burden? Fine. Do as you wish."
After all, the whole point of sending Daemon out was to relieve his stress. It would be counterproductive if he ended up more stressed by trying to manage too many cities at once.
And frankly, there's nothing more dangerous in this Demon King's Castle than a stressed-out Daemon. So Ririnel's initiative was genuinely welcome.
That's why the Demon King readily allowed the departure of the 11th Corps Commander, even though she was usually responsible for the castle's magical barrier.
External threats could be faced head-on, but internal allies throwing tantrums? Far harder to deal with.
"Just be sure to reinforce the castle's barrier before you leave."
"Yes! I'll make sure it holds for at least 100 years!"
…A hundred years?
The Demon King simply smiled.
After the meeting, everything moved like clockwork.
What that means is…
"Lord Daemon, all preparations are complete."
"Are you sure everything's ready?"
"Yes, absolutely perfect."
"Still, double-check. Are you certain you didn't forget anything?"
"Nothing was overlooked."
"You know… memory can be unreliable sometimes…"
"Just to be safe, I even asked those close to you if you might need anything else. Nothing came up."
Perfect. It was all so perfect, it made me want to cry.
A groan escaped my lips.
"Isn't this… happening a little too fast…?"
"You flatter us. Since it's your first time leaving in a while, we wanted to be as efficient as possible."
That's not what I meant. Not at all.
Why is my adjutant so terrifyingly competent?!
While the 6th and 11th Corps are still scrambling to prepare, my own troops are already fully geared up and waiting outside.
At this rate, my death approaches ever more rapidly.
As I lay face-down on the bed in despair, Edgar approached, holding a black robe.
"You won't need bandages this time, since we're staying in the Demon Realm."
True enough. No sun to worry about here.
When I go to the human world, I have to wrap every inch of exposed skin in bandages, then wear a robe over it.
Even my face gets wrapped or masked, with the robe's hood pulled low. No need to explain how thorough I have to be.
"It's a bit suffocating… but I've got no choice."
What Can I Do About My Frail Body?
My eyes, my skin—they can't handle much sunlight at all. Even brief exposure causes problems, so as inconvenient as it is, I have no choice but to cover up.
You might ask, isn't just wearing a robe enough?
It's not. A gust of wind could blow the robe aside and expose bare skin—hands, arms, or face. So the safest method is to first wrap myself in bandages, then wear the robe over them.
"Honestly, in the Demon Realm I don't even need the robe… but it's symbolic."
On the battlefield, the "Zero Corps Commander" always wears a black robe. That's just how it became.
It got to the point people started calling me "Grim Reaper."
Although to be accurate, there used to be a modifier in front of that—Crazy Grim Reaper. But I've decided to omit that part. Of all the misunderstandings, that one was definitely the most undeserved.
"Lord Daemon?"
"Ah."
Lying face-down with my cheek pressed to the bedsheet, I blinked and reached out my hand for the robe. But instead of placing it in my hand, Edgar took a step back.
"…?"
Annoyed, I forced myself to lift my head. Edgar still stood there, robe in hand.
I stretched my arm out again and opened my palm, silently asking for it. But still—nothing. No response, no robe.
I was starting to get irritated. But I didn't have the guts to show that to Edgar, a former corps commander candidate. So I swallowed my frustration and muttered under my breath:
"…Just hand it over."
"I'll help you put it on."
"Edgar, as I've said a hundred times, that's not nece—"
"I want to."
"…"
I'm begging you—please don't.
Edgar is, without exaggeration, the most competent aide among all the corps commanders.
He was once considered for the position of corps commander himself. I don't need to list all his qualifications—you'd understand just from that.
Imagine how I feel, having someone that competent serving under me.
Sure, his skills are a blessing, and his kind personality is nice. But every day with him is like walking on a tightrope. Especially when I ask him to do something.
It's always the same fear:
"What if he snaps one day and kills me for overworking him?"
Or worse, what if one day he realizes I'm actually kind of useless?
"You made me run errands? You worthless fool—prepare to die!"
So I try not to give him work unless absolutely necessary. But this guy seems to have some kind of disease where he breaks out in hives if he's not constantly working.
He jumps at every possible task—whether it's going to the Human Realm to buy a new puzzle cube, or trivial chores like helping me with my robe.
"Please, just take a break for once!"
The idea that someone so overqualified is here just to help me put on a robe… My conscience and survival instinct both scream in protest.
Still, before I could voice another refusal, Edgar struck first.
"When you look at the aides of the other corps commanders, they're all half-dead from exhaustion, carrying piles of documents everywhere—even during meals. Meanwhile, I get to watch them from across the table, not a single paper in hand, not even dark circles under my eyes. Imagine how that makes me feel."
"…"
…Happy?
But I knew that's not the answer he wanted.
I said nothing. Edgar sighed quietly, then lifted the robe slightly to emphasize his point.
"If I don't at least do this, I'll start to feel like I have no reason to exist. Please, allow me to help you dress."
"…Do as you like."
It sounded like permission, but really, I had no choice.
I swallowed a sigh and was just about to let Edgar assist me when—knock knock—someone knocked at the door.
I didn't miss my chance. I quickly pulled away and nodded toward the door.
"Looks like someone's here."
"I'll get it."
Edgar gently placed the robe on the bed and moved toward the door.
While he was occupied, I swooped in, grabbed the robe, and threw it on. Fast and smooth—so much so that I felt a little proud.
But Edgar didn't see it that way.
"Lord Daemon, the 12th Corps Commander is here to—wait, did you dress yourself?"
"Yes."
"…It's a mess."
Uh-oh. Maybe I put it on too fast.
Now that I looked, parts of the robe were all crooked and out of place. Still, it wasn't that bad… was it? Did he really have to sigh?
With a faint sigh, Edgar returned to my side and began smoothing out the robe, straightening the folds and tying the sash securely so it wouldn't slip.
While doing so, he repeated what he'd been about to say.
"The 12th Corps Commander is here. Will you see him?"
"The 12th Corps Commander…?"