MPNS Ch 46

Chapter 46

 

Because of this, the Black Thorn Knights lived in constant resentment: if even a single day of training was missed, cruel punishments awaited them.

Their commander, Yullan Balt, had no interest in petty human excuses — only whether or not his men completed their daily drills.

If the city’s Royal Guards barred them from the training yard, that circumstance was irrelevant to him. The Grand Duke’s creed was that the greatest virtue of a knight was diligence.

To shout “We can’t do it!” was impossible. His attitude was simple: if you dislike the system, then leave.

And no knight was so foolish as to throw away their place in the greatest order in Ossinis with his own hands.

Thus, between the inevitability of punishment for missing training and the spiteful bullying of the Guards who sat on the yard merely out of territorial pride, resentment grew among the ranks.

Now came the order to spar in pairs, even past supper time. Exhausted from the day’s brutal drills, the knights were in no state to brawl with the Guard — and muttered bitterly:

“Bet those bastards come barking at us again.”

Benedict, the Left Marshal, gave a faint nod. True enough — but disobedience against the commander was unthinkable.

Not only because of the hierarchical nature of their order, but because none knew what terrifying consequences might follow if Yullan’s order were flouted.

For Yullan Balt was a monster.

Some in the city joked of him being “a beast in human skin.” They jested, because they did not know.

He was no metaphorical monster — but a monster in truth.

In every way, Yullan was beyond human.

His body’s unmatched ability, his swordsmanship that had reached the level of Swordmaster at a shockingly young age, his sharp intellect, his flawless, chillingly beautiful appearance.

In the capital he lived quietly — but in his northern duchy of Iteren, he was different. There, he rode out unaccompanied to meet monster tides, returning drenched in gore.

Sometimes he returned on horseback. More often, he returned as a wolf house‑sized, his entire body soaked in monster blood.

The people of Iteren thanked their lord, crafting clothes from hides of the beasts he slew, oiling expensive candles with their rendered fat. They lived well because of him.

But his knights, who lived day in and day out at his side, thought otherwise. To them, he was something else entirely: a beast who knew human law and society — and nothing is more frightening than a beast with reason.

Even after putting them through training so harsh they would vomit daily, Yullan himself completed every drill with the ease of a stroll.

No man dared disobey him and leave for dinner. Resignedly, the knights paired off to spar, faces grim.

And then came the sound of boots — the Royal Guards, not even finished their evening practice, entering the yard.

Shadows fell across the dirt. The Guards had come to see why it was still in use past the scheduled supper. The Knights frowned at the sight.

At their head, swaggering, was Captain Percival Hoffmann.

“Supper drills are allotted to the Guard. What’s going on here?”

The knights scowled. It was the first time the Guard captain himself had appeared.

Hoffmann, a military man with a belly swollen from indulgence, looked across at them smugly. Benedict sighed inwardly — here we go again — and greeted him politely.

“A good evening, Commander.”

“Ah, Sommes, Left Marshal. Good evening indeed. And what is the meaning of all this? The records show clearly the Guard has the yard this evening.”

Clearly, my ass, thought Benedict. At this hour, Guards stuffed their guts with barley beer, not training.

Still, he kept his expression bland.

“The Grand Duke has ordered paired sparring. We ask your understanding.”

“Oh? And why sparring, all of a sudden…?”

As a viscount of the capital, Hoffmann carried only middling rank — and yet spoke down to Benedict, heir to one of the great houses, his tone habitually disrespectful. He would not dare such things to Yullan himself, but with Benedict he grew bold.

Benedict only shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

And left it at that. The lack of further answer made Hoffmann’s fat face twist slightly, his mustache twitching in irritation.

Spying Yullan approaching them, he straightened and spoke:

“Good evening, Your Grace.”

Yullan ignored him outright, taking the sparring roster from Benedict’s hand.

But Hoffmann persisted. Emboldened by the king behind him — and knowing full well the monarch relished stoking dissent between the Four Heads — the man saw his chance to provoke.

“Your Grace, might we know the reason for this bout?” he asked, his sly smile implying, what important excuse can you possibly have for causing such trouble in our yard?

Yullan gave him a single cold glance and replied,

“Do I look like a man who answers questions?”

For a second, Hoffmann faltered, not daring to answer yes or no. Then he gave another simpering smile.

“Not at all, of course. But without an explanation, how could I justify canceling my men’s drill? We must record such things in the Guard’s logbook. Surely we cannot cancel without reason.”

“Write down overeating. None will doubt it, since the Viscount’s belly is as big as Mount Tausus.”

Mount Tausus, called the Mother of the North, the greatest mountain range — invoked here as mockery of Hoffmann’s swollen gut.

The Guard captain’s face turned crimson.

“Your Grace! To so insult the King’s loyal servant before his men!”

“If stuffing your face sounds like insult, eat less.”

Yullan answered idly, settling into a chair brought by a knight‑attendant. And then he yawned, broad and careless.

Never before had Hoffmann seen a noble yawn in his face. His thin eyes widened in indignation.

“You must give me a reason!”

For a city man, you speak firmly, Yullan thought impassively, propping his chin on the armrest. He replied:

“It is to appoint a self‑defense instructor for the youngest prince.”

“What—?!”

The knights gasped. By “youngest prince,” he could only mean Nikiel Ossinis — the palace slut himself.

Word had spread far and wide, past even the Tausus range, that he refused to raise even a book lest his wrists thicken. And now an instructor?

Any man tapped for that duty was condemned — a miserable fate indeed. Their already weary faces grew long and deadly pale.

The Guards, meanwhile, burst into ugly snickers.

“Self‑defense instructor for His Highness? That’s as good as appointment to his bedroom.”

“Considering he’ll couple with even a stablehand, any hale tutor won’t lack for summons — day or night.”

“Oh, then I want that post myself—”

Whichever fool spoke hadn’t realized: every word had reached the ears of Yullan Balt, whose heightened hearing as a Swordmaster was beyond normal human range.

“The three who just spoke. Arrest them. Royal insult.”

“What?!”

Hoffmann had chuckled with his men, but now gaped.

Yullan’s face was ice as he flicked a nod toward Benedict. Instantly, the Black Thorn Knights seized the three guards and drove them to their knees.

“What are you doing—!” Hoffmann howled.

The king had called him once before, telling him: Don’t allow the northern hound to run wild in the palace.

Today, he thought, he had his chance. To see the Grand Duke seize palace Guards inside the royal palace itself — such insolence could be called treason.

True, his men had been first to insult Nikiel’s name, mocking him as courtesan to all nobles. But to Hoffmann, the infamous “palace slut” was nothing worth defending.

No — what mattered was the king’s command: engineer scandal for Yullan and his Black Thorn Knights.

And today, Hoffmann thought, he had his case. His fat neck corded with veins, he shouted:

“To dare bring palace Guards to their knees in the royal palace — this is an affront to the Crown itself!”

In the capital, it was often said: In a shouting match, the loudest man wins.

Now, Hoffmann bellowed with all the breath in his belly.

Note

• Mount Tausus (타우수스 산) — great northern mountain range, invoked as metaphor for Hoffmann’s massive belly. 
• Royal insult (왕족 모독죄) — crime of lèse‑majesté, punishable by dismissal and forfeiture of titles. Extremely serious.