MPSN Ch 10

Chapter 10

At dawn, Nikiel suddenly snapped awake. Half in disbelief, he threw back the blanket—then groaned in dismay.

Feeling awkward, he hurriedly carried the soiled sheet into the attached bathroom and carefully washed it before hanging it to dry, hoping to finish before Paul came in.

He could not fathom why he had dreamed something so bizarre. All throughout the early morning, he had dreamt of tumbling about a bed with some burly man. It had to have been an incubus.

The dream-incubus had gone so far as to put mischievous hands on him, leaving Nikiel steeped in self-loathing even after waking.

‘Is this the fallout from suddenly being swarmed with potential male suitors?’

What unsettled him even more was that it hadn’t even been a dream involving a woman who suited his tastes—no, it had been a man, his own gender, engaging in all sorts of… things, ultimately ruining the bedding.

‘Am I… sexually frustrated?’

Ordinarily, Nikiel never had the time nor inclination to dwell on such frustrations—he used to channel them into exercise. But this was not his own body; it was that of the “real Nikiel.” Considering how debauched the former prince had been, perhaps even a month of training hadn’t purged all of the residual urges from this body. If anything, given the former owner’s licentious lifestyle, it was hardly surprising.

‘…Right. Having a dream like that about a man is entirely this body’s fault. I never had those preferences myself.’

Nikiel brushed the thought aside easily. A month ago, when this body had been utterly untrained and fragile, such thoughts might have left him anxious and depressed. But now, Nikiel found little reason to agonize over them. Partly it was his naturally optimistic temperament, but also the physical training—exercise had quelled much of his former anxiety and melancholy, leaving him less prone to dwelling on unsolvable problems.

‘The perks of exercise, really.’

Since he was up so early, Nikiel thought he might as well take a walk and watch the sunrise. It would look impressive to stroll about with the bird perched on his shoulder.

Yet the bird, which had slept beside him on his bed last night, was gone. Checking the basket he’d set aside for it as an alternate perch, he found that empty too.

“Where did it go?”

He called out for the bird, but it didn’t appear.

Suspicious, Nikiel went to the window—only to find it slightly ajar, a single black-brown feather on the sill, unmistakably belonging to the black eagle.

A pang of disappointment struck him.

“Couldn’t even say goodbye, huh…”

Though the bird had seemed tame, it was still a creature of the wild—more intelligent than domesticated, yes, but not truly obedient. Having no true master, born of the wild, it might have simply grown restless and flown off into the open sky.

There was nothing he could do about it. Nikiel liked the bird, but if the bird didn’t want to stay, that was the end of it.

He picked up the fallen feather. It might make a fine quill pen, he thought. With that bittersweet sentiment, Nikiel set out for an early morning walk, still nursing a faint sense of loss for the creature that had left.

The morning sun was just beginning to climb over the eastern mountains, busy in its ascent. The faint aura of dawn struggled against the encroaching light and slowly faded away.

Nikiel alternated between reading the small book he’d brought and gazing at the sunlit path. Occasionally, when he stumbled upon wild lavender, he plucked its leaves to use as impromptu bookmarks.

Because this was the “real Nikiel’s” body, he had worried that the prince’s reckless nature might extend to his mind and intelligence as well. Yet, surprisingly, the infamous troublemaker seemed to possess a sharp intellect. Nikiel found himself absorbing passages with startling speed and mastering new concepts with ease.

And still, despite such mental acuity, the man whose body he now inhabited had lived a scandalous life—proof that the prince’s antics stemmed purely from his particular tastes and temperament.

Academia in this world was deeply intertwined with magic. Alchemists here had succeeded in transforming iron into gold. These experiments relied on mana rather than conventional reagents.

Back in Nikiel’s world, early chemistry had been rooted in the belief that base metals could be transmuted into gold. Here, however, that belief had evolved—mana-driven chemistry had diversified into myriad fields, culminating in the birth of what could only be described as “magic science,” capable of creating something from nothing.

‘This is incredible… I love it…’

An unabashed science nerd, Nikiel had been dragged into graduate school out of sheer love for study—and even in this new world, that instinct hadn’t faded. He was already plunging headlong into learning again.

The book he carried today was titled An Introduction to Basic Magic Theory. As he read, he marveled at how seamlessly this world’s magical principles intertwined with the scientific knowledge he already possessed, feeling both awe and genuine happiness.

It was then that the world suddenly darkened.

“…Huh?”

Thwip. Raindrops pattered softly against the leather-bound cover of his book. Had it started to rain? He glanced skyward—but aside from the lingering pale light of dawn, the sky remained clear.

A warm trickle slid from his nose.

“What the—?”

Puzzled, Nikiel wiped under his nostrils—and saw blood. A nosebleed. He blinked dumbly, unsure what to do.

The damned thing has risen beyond the horizon. My time is nearly up.

The words resounded—not through his ears, but directly into his soul. A voice neither carried by vibrating air nor striking eardrums, but resonating deep within.

It was deep and low, weighty like crema resting atop coffee, yet solemn as the toll of a bell in a sacred hall.

Nikiel swallowed hard and turned around—locking eyes with a man.

Eyes like mournful tides crashing upon a beach made from the sorrow of the world. That was what the man’s gaze evoked.

He stood atop a red oak tree, yet not a single branch sagged beneath him.

The man balanced effortlessly on a lone leaf at the tree’s crown. Nikiel’s eyes widened. A sharp ringing—piiiiiing—filled his ears, and all ambient sound vanished.

The wind stilled. The world itself seemed reduced to a static painting, with only Nikiel and the man left in motion.

The surreal hush left Nikiel dumbfounded.

The man was beautiful—impossibly so. Straight brow bones, brows dark as charcoal, hair and lashes black as a shattered night sky, and eyes of molten gold.

Taken individually, each feature was breathtaking; together, they were overwhelming, defying memory. The face was so arresting that Nikiel found it impossible to recall as a whole—blink, and it felt as if he would forget him entirely.

The man spoke in a somber tone.

I cannot bear you looking at me that way.

Once more, the voice reverberated within Nikiel’s skull.

Perhaps, with time, you might come to remember me.

The man whispered hollowly. Despite the considerable distance between them, his murmurs rang like thunder in Nikiel’s ears.

That accursed thing will freckle your fair, pale cheek.

The man sneered toward the sun, just beginning its ascent. Then he looked back at Nikiel.

If time passes and you grow far beyond who you are now…

…perhaps then you will remember me.

The man leapt down from the tree. Even as he landed on damp mulch, there was no sound. The tall grasses failed even to brush his silken shoes as he descended.

Step by step, he approached Nikiel—not so much walking on earth as gliding through air.

Closer and closer, until Nikiel held his breath. The man towered above even Raymond, the tallest person Nikiel had met here. His presence loomed like a mountain descending upon him.

The man spoke.

Can you remember me?

Remember… what? Nikiel’s dazed mind fumbled. Did he even know this man? Yet no—he had never seen anyone with features like his.

No sooner had he blinked than the man’s visage blurred again. Moment by moment, Nikiel forgot him—forgot everything except the fleeting instants they locked eyes.

The man glared at the sun suspended over the distant peaks, as though blaming it for all of this. At his glare, the nascent daylight dimmed once more, plunging the waking world back into twilight.

You must remember me.

Pity the wretched beast who carries even your memories within him.

His voice was cold—knife-edged wind biting down to the bone, yet sorrowful enough to wrench tears from Nikiel’s eyes.

Someone inside Nikiel’s chest seemed to cry out in anguish, raw and keening. His cheeks were soon wet with tears.

The man watched him and murmured:

So that you may recall the name of your faithful servant.

He stepped closer—until, at last, he knelt before Nikiel’s feet.

He reached out, taking Nikiel’s hand in his own. His voice swelled and receded like waves in the heart of the ocean.

“Remember it. Remember my name.”

And Nikiel collapsed into unconsciousness.

The prince who had gone out for a morning walk was discovered lying in the middle of the royal garden’s forest, blood streaming from his nose, ears, and mouth, late in the morning—just before noon.

A groundskeeper found him and rushed him back to the Prince’s Palace. Nikiel did not awaken for four whole days.

And when he finally regained consciousness—he remembered nothing.

Nothing, save for a sorrowful sense that he had lost something unspeakably precious.