MPNS Ch 17

Chapter 17

‘Which fool just shut the door the prince had opened?’

Nikiel thought like someone who had never once forgotten his own status as a prince. That was why he was more than a little ticked off.

How dare someone shut the very door this royal self had been about to open? Resolving to mete out punishment for such an act of lèse-majesté, he looked up at the owner of the hand—who stood notably above him.

Nikiel was tall himself, so for the other person’s gaze to be at this height meant that the man was exceptionally tall.

Since coming here, Nikiel had only seen two people that tall. One was Raymond, who now looked at him as if he never wanted to exchange words again. The other was…

“Eavesdropping’s your hobby, is it? What a refined taste you’ve got.”

It was Yullan.

Nikiel was not only baffled by the fact that Yullan had so casually spoken to him in informal speech, but even more so by the faint murderous intent lacing his voice.

No matter how much he disliked him, how could he dare show such discourtesy to a prince of the realm? Granted, a duke outranked a prince in seniority, yet Nikiel was still royal blood.

But right now, he found himself pinned between the heavy oak door and Yullan’s imposing frame. The duke’s large hand braced against the wall above him, casting down a pressure that made Nikiel feel hemmed in.

The murderous aura—born of someone who had taken countless lives—seeped into Nikiel’s soft, untrained body like a fine drizzle.

From this close, Yullan’s body carried the faint scent of grass. Not the immature greenness of sap, but the wild fragrance of meadow flowers blooming in a thicket.

Even clad in his formal military uniform, the scent of open fields clung to him, and Nikiel found himself flinching without realizing it.

Being trapped between Yullan’s broad, solid chest and the closed door left him somewhat flustered.

Though there was no audible sound, he fancied he could hear the other man’s breathing—later realizing it was because he was watching that firm chest rise and fall.

A strange tug pulled at his lower abdomen. Nikiel was startled. He had not expected mere proximity to someone to elicit such a reaction.

The “real Nikiel’s” body began panicking even more as Yullan pressed closer; his heart pounded, his lower stomach felt heavy, and a tingling spread around the peaks of his chest.

‘No, seriously—what the hell is happening right now? Why is my body reacting like this?’

It was the body of the kingdom’s greatest libertine, notorious for indiscriminately bedding men and women alike. Nikiel found it absurd that this body was reacting to a predatory beast of a man who was practically snarling at him.

He told his own body it was being ridiculous, preparing a feast for no guest at all—yet reason rarely prevailed against instinct.

Still, once stray thoughts were purged, fire turned cold. Nikiel tried to steady himself, recalling advice he had once heard when summoned to the division commander’s office during his military service: clear your head and focus on the board.

After all, Nikiel was not just any prince; he was a PhD holder with nerves tempered by years of verbal hazing from his academic advisor.

“I apologize for eavesdropping.”

“…You actually know how to apologize?”

Yullan tilted his head slightly and ran the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, lazily scraping half of it.

His languidly lowered eyes did not contain the disdain Raymond’s held. No—this was an emotion far more primal.

…The kind of intent that said, I could sink my teeth into your throat right now and neatly end your life.

Nikiel disliked everything about this—the raw murderous intent, his own unsteady gaze, and the fact that he was forced to witness the entire situation play out.

What baffled him even more was why he found himself staring at the tip of Yullan’s tongue as it traced across his lip.

Forcing himself back to his senses, Nikiel schooled his features into stony composure.

“But really—holding conversations in a hallway where people pass by, then accusing others of eavesdropping? Does the duke have a hobby of walking around with his ears plugged to avoid hearing anyone else’s words?”

Nikiel’s tone was quiet and even. Spoken without rises or dips in pitch, his words blurred the line between insult and recital, making it hard to tell whether he was reading a book or hurling abuse.

That was why Yullan’s eyes narrowed a moment after Nikiel finished speaking—his expression betraying surprise.

‘This bastard, just like the other bastard, always looks shocked whenever I enunciate properly. Just how big an idiot do they think I was before?’

He could sense that everyone around him had treated him like a fool. Without realizing it, Nikiel furrowed his brows ever so slightly.

Yullan gazed down at him with his usual blank face. As Nikiel had thought before—what a man of few expressions.

Even the narrowing of his eyes had lasted only a brief moment. After that, his face was wiped clean of expression once again.

His eyes were the color of molten gold left to cool into solid metal. For all their beauty, they carried no warmth—only a metallic chill.

Looking down at Nikiel with those very eyes, Yullan spoke.

“They say you’ve lost your mind and become a complete idiot. I had high hopes, but look at you now—seems you’ve learned how to use that head of yours, my prince. A pity.”

“Your words are… quite something, Duke.”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but regardless of what oracle comes down, you will do as you said—you will not participate in the subjugation tournament. Say it plainly.”

“…I mean, if it’s an oracle, what am I supposed to do about it…?” Nikiel muttered.

Yullan looked down at the honey-colored hair, at the lashes of the same shade fluttering gently like butterfly wings.

Within them, the lake-like blue of Nikiel’s eyes stared past Yullan’s shoulder. No matter how many times he saw it, Nikiel’s exterior was flawless.

That face was a perfect replica of Osinis, the kingdom’s founding king. And for Yullan, who lived with the beast’s fur embedded deep in his soul, resisting that appearance was impossible.

Yet appearance was only appearance. Yullan constantly reminded himself that even his accursed grandfather’s face had been striking—proof that good and evil did not reside in the shell.

No one knew this better than Yullan Balt himself.

So even if Nikiel’s lashes fluttered like a butterfly’s wings, Yullan had to remind himself that the man’s character was foul and his soul base.

Even if just being near him soothed the raging beast inside, night and day.

“Don’t try anything clever. I’ll be watching you. All you need do, Your Highness, is follow the loyal counsel I so generously provide.”

Yullan’s words dripped with killing intent, burrowing into Nikiel’s meek little ears.

He leaned closer, blond hair falling back to reveal pale ear rims, and spoke in a tone that simmered like molten lava.

A predator by birth, whose very cry once sent small animals quaking—that was the sound of his voice.

Even Nikiel, born sacred yet carrying a base soul, could not withstand it.

Had he not always trembled like an aspen leaf before Yullan’s predator-laced warnings, cold as northern frost?

Though Nikiel’s obsession with shallow, visible gains often led him to forget such warnings, scaring him this way usually bought some temporary peace.

That was what Yullan had hoped for. But instead, Nikiel replied flatly, almost bored.

“Doesn’t sound particularly loyal to me.”

“What?”

“You call yourself loyal, yet you’re not even loyal to me. Curious, isn’t it?”

“……”

“Besides, you’re not even my retainer. Are you, Duke?”

Saying this, Nikiel looked up at him. His lashes, no longer lowered, revealed sapphire eyes as blue as a lake—previously hidden like jewels beneath lace, now dazzling in their full glory.

Those eyes struck differently now that they were wholly bared.

Yullan, whose face rarely betrayed emotion, raised one eyebrow—an unconscious shift he did not even notice.

“If you’re neither loyal nor my retainer, then next time you address me, don’t call yourself ‘this loyal subject.’ Say instead, ‘This so-and-so speaks, Your Highness.’ Then perhaps I’ll truly lend my ear to your earnest words.”

With that, Nikiel slipped through the small gap in the door Yullan wasn’t blocking, darting inside.

Like a flying squirrel scurrying up a pine tree, he moved so quickly that Yullan, still mulling over his words, withdrew his outstretched hand belatedly.

Then his eyes narrowed again—a rare expression for the man with an otherwise blank face, the kind he wore only upon discovering an exceptional steed. Neither Yullan nor Nikiel realized this.

“Ah, fuck. What a goddamn temper.”

Left alone, Nikiel spewed a coarse curse. In hindsight, he realized Yullan was a Swordmaster and could probably hear his muttering through a wall, but what did it matter?

“Does he think I’ve got no temper of my own?”

Nikiel raised both middle fingers toward the door and flipped them off with gusto, then promptly forgot the entire exchange.

For someone who lived by the motto a healthy body houses a healthy mind, Nikiel found that as his muscles grew and his fibers multiplied, adrenaline surged more easily, letting him stay calm rather than fly into rages.

Even if anger flared for a moment, he could quickly refocus on what mattered. Compared to when he first inhabited this body, Nikiel rejoiced at how rapidly his mental state stabilized.

Working out is the best.

When he had first entered this body, it had been utter hell.

Back then, Nikiel’s body couldn’t even be called that of a man in his twenties. Unending coughing fits came with blood, and bouts of vertigo left him feeling like he was constantly hungover.

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