MPNS Ch 43

Chapter 43

 

By the time the tickling had grown unbearable and Nikiel’s body heat was rising, he was struggling to steady his blurred vision.

The hawk, meanwhile, abruptly lifted its head and fixed its stare on something beyond, with the look of a predator guarding its territory.

“Wh… what are you doing…?”

Words came haltingly as Nikiel pushed himself up halfway with elbows and forearms braced in the grass.

The bird, which had been staring toward the path, suddenly bent its head and rubbed its beak against his cheek — then shot skyward.

Its broad wings struck the air, stirring a burst of wind. Nikiel squeezed his eyes shut against it, and when he snapped them open again, the hawk had vanished entirely.

It wasn’t that it had flown fast — there should have been some sign, some fluttering feather — but there was nothing. Not a trace remained in the sky.

“What the hell…”

His cheekburning, his face bemused, Nikiel muttered in confusion.

And then he heard it: a rustle, the sound of someone approaching.

Still sitting slumped in the trampled grass, his garments wrinkled from the fall, he turned toward it.

“Ah…”

“……”

Standing there, garbed in the black tunic and beret that marked the Black Thorn Knights, was Yullan Balt.

Nikiel, still unaware of the stray blades of grass stuck in his platinum hair, locked eyes with him. The man’s gaze traveled slowly — to the grass tangled in his hair, to the white tunic askew around his shoulders, to his cheeks flushed like May roses, and over the flattened bed of grass as though pressed down by someone’s back.

“…Fuck.”

The curse slipped low and rough from Yullan’s throat.

Stunned by the sudden profanity, Nikiel blinked wide‑eyed at him.

“You… did you just curse at me?”

“You slut… Get up.”

What? Nikiel’s mind reeled — as though his sanity had round‑tripped from the 202X Republic of Korea and back.

Why in the world had he been branded slut all of a sudden? His brows drew tight as he sprang to his feet.

“What did you just say? To my face, what? Slut?”

He stretched the word out, his indignation sharp as he denounced him.

Just because he was supposedly the strongest, some medieval boss of thugs — he thought he had the right to fling such an insult straight at his face?

Nikiel himself had cursed Yullan of course — but only in his heart, never aloud. And yet Yullan had now spat insults at him directly, more than once.

He would not be the only one forced to endure impropriety. Nikiel seethed.

His embarrassment at their sudden encounter forgotten, he jabbed a finger into the air, shaking it furiously.

“Just because you’re a Grand Duke, does that mean you get a pass? You’re a citizen of Ossinis too — and you dare speak so to the royal house without a shred of loyalty?”

It was his intent to point out that loyalty or not, no decent man spoke such things aloud to one’s face.

But Yullan stepped in with long strides, looming closer. Startled, Nikiel stumbled back — until his spine thudded against a tree trunk.

The coarse bark pressed through the thin tunic. He opened his mouth to start railing, but the look in Yullan’s eyes froze him.

Like burning ice — an icy stare, but within it, fury seethed like molten iron.

Instinctively, Nikiel fell silent.

Yullan spoke in a growl fit more for a beast than a man.

“Loyalty to the royal house?”

“……”

“In broad daylight, rutting in the grass like some beast — and the prince of this kingdom demands loyalty from me?”

Rut? Nikiel’s brows drew together — too slow to find words in the churn of confusion.

Yullan’s gaze fell to his flushed cheeks, and he added coldly,

“Shameless. This is not some lone field; this is a path even the palace servants walk. And yet you thought to tryst here?”

“That’s not it. I can see what you’re misreading, but—”

Nikiel sighed, brushing his hair back. He was beginning to understand the “real” Nikiel’s image in Yullan’s eyes. He had only been roughhousing with a bird before tumbling over. He opened his mouth to say so—

Yullan cut him off with laughter edged in derision.

“A misunderstanding, is it? What kind — that there were two partners instead of one? Don’t trouble yourself. Everyone in Noble Society already knows what a slut you are.”

Something in Nikiel snapped, the fuse burning through.

He shot back without restraint.

“So — are you included in that? As an Ossinis nobleman?”

“What?”

“Do you sprout a hard‑on looking at me, then?”

His glare bore down, daring him to answer. If nobles in general lusted after him — was Yullan among them?

Yullan’s brows drew together; his mouth opened — then he abruptly straightened, leaning back from where they stood chest‑to‑chest, and masked his face expressionless.

When he spoke again, it was in a forbidding, official tone, still a barb.

“My vulgar prince. Walk around with that face, and all will think you unchanged.”

“For the last time — I only fell because of a hawk! A big one! It attacked me, I swear—!”

Nikiel could no longer hold back, his voice rising in frustrated squeal.

Yullan, even hearing the words, did not seem convinced. His eyes flicked down to Nikiel’s chest — an unreadable, disquieting glance.

Nikiel’s awareness caught up too late: the heightened sensation from before had drawn blood to his skin. The peak of his chest stood out sharply, dimpling his thin tunic.

His arms instinctively crossed to hide it.

Yullan’s eyes all but said: If it was truly just a bird, why do you bear marks like that?

Goddamn timing. Why did he have to appear just then… If he thinks I’d sneak into the monster hunt to seduce men—

The Subjugation Tournament drew elite fighters, nothing but hardened men. Of course Yullan would imagine he couldn’t control himself, would leap into some tent.

Though Raymon was nominally Marshal of the Hunt, Yullan was the supreme authority over monster subjugation. Nikiel could ill afford to antagonize him. Especially given Yullan had once told him outright not to enter.

Shaking off his frustration, Nikiel raised his chin and said,

“It was the truth. A hawk. A small one — but it suddenly grew huge.”

Even to his own ears it sounded absurd — but his philosophy had always been that truth, however unlikely, was safer than lies, for deception is uncovered far faster.

So he spoke it plainly. And to his surprise, Yullan’s mouth stayed shut. Instead of mocking, he seemed deep in thought — eyes narrowed as he regarded Nikiel.

“…You’re saying the bird grew suddenly larger.”

“Do you treat respect as optional? Yes, that’s what I said. You won’t believe it, but it’s the truth.”

Scowling at the man’s inconsistent manner of speech, Nikiel plucked a leaf from his hair and dusted his tunic.

Yullan watched quietly, then with his chilling stare, asked,

“And what kind of bird was it?”

“A hawk.”

“You know how a hawk looks?”

“Unbelievable — how rude!” Nikiel yelped.

Yullan paid his outburst no mind, continuing to mull deeply.

Every so often his gaze shifted to Nikiel, sharp enough to freeze blood. And yet Nikiel met those eyes without flinching.

Fine, stare all you like. It’s not as though I don’t have eyes myself.

Blood rushed to his gaze until it stung — but he held it steady. He wanted this boor to know he had spirit of his own.

Then Nikiel snapped out the words like bullets.

“I was on my way to the Duke of Boltwick.”

At that name, Yullan’s brows twitched. His focus returned, looking down with faint derision.

“Going to him? What for? Trash conspiring with trash?”

“So now it’s down to ‘hey you.’ Fine. Call me as you wish. I was going to ask him to summon me a sword instructor. For self‑defense.”

One brow on Yullan’s face rose slowly as though incredulous.

“Found yourself caught between some lady’s legs and had her husband slap you with his white glove?”

“Pure. Ly. For. Defense.”

Nikiel enunciated each syllable, face twisted in irritation.

Footnotes

• “White glove slap” — in European dueling tradition, striking with a glove was a formal way to issue a challenge.