MPNS Ch 48

Chapter 48

Nikiel forced a genial smile as he looked around the reception room.

Thankfully, Yullan had not come alone.

Standing behind him, the Left Marshal of the Black Thorn Knights, Benedict Sommes, inclined his head to Nikiel in greeting. Nikiel returned the courtesy with a smile—only for Yullan, still wearing that blunt, stony face, to open his mouth before the prince had even finished the civilities.

“So you’ve finally gone insane.”

“Ah, yes. And I’m very well, thank you, Grand Duke.”

Nikiel’s blood boiled. This wolf has the manners of a dog. How old are you, pup? Back home, I lectured halls full of students your age— I was a faculty member, damn it! And you treat me like a nobody?

But his degree certificate was in another world, far out of reach. Grinding his teeth, forcing his eyes away from bulging veins of annoyance, he scanned the room.

Why did he come himself? I asked for a sword instructor. Where’s the teacher?

But no matter how he looked, the reception held only Yullan Balt, Benedict, and his own steward Paul.

It made no sense. The great Left Marshal of the Black Thorn couldn’t possibly have come simply as a fencing tutor. And Yullan himself obviously wouldn’t waste his time instructing him in person…

At last, he had to ask directly.

“The, ah… teacher I requested? Has he arrived?”

His last words were aimed at Paul. Why, if I asked for a tutor, am I trapped here in a reception room with this damned wolf and my steward?

Behind Yullan’s back, Paul gestured frantically, face twisted in exasperation: Idiot! He IS the teacher!

But Nikiel missed the message. With no choice, he turned back toward Yullan.

Benedict only stood silently, lips sealed, behind the Grand Duke as he lounged on the sofa.

Nikiel’s gaze was pointed, demanding an explanation. Yullan, immaculate as ever, only reached a finger forward to tap the teacup set before him, as if dismissing everything.

What, you don’t like the tea? Disdainful bastard— Nikiel glowered, dropped himself gracelessly into the seat opposite.

It was improper, yes, but Yullan had sat impassively since the beginning, not rising to greet him, legs crossed, face unreadable, as though he truly were in his own home parlor. On no level could that qualify as courtesy, high rank or not.

Even friends rise to greet a guest, damn you. Arrogant bastard.

Huffing down his anger like a man tamping a fire, Nikiel waited for him to deign to speak.

And at last Yullan did, dryly.

“He’s here. Your instructor.”

“Oh, truly?!”

For a moment Nikiel brightened. To receive an answer so promptly was unusual. He hadn’t expected him to act so quickly after the bouts held the day before to choose a teacher.

“Where, then? Where is my fencing master?”

At last, I’ll welcome a teacher. Let me show what respect for a master truly means, as taught back home—a doctor from a Confucian land knows how to honor one’s mentors…

Yullan, instead of answering, plucked a biscuit from the table, tossed it into his mouth, and grimaced at the sweetness, pulling a face as if affronted.

No one forced you to eat it! At least tell me who! Nikiel stared at him intently.

For a fleeting moment, Yullan’s eyes slid toward him before turning away again, faint annoyance drawn between his brows.

Nikiel felt another sting of offense. What, do you think I like looking at you either? Just tell me who my master is already!

At last, Yullan’s voice fell like a stone.

“I am your sword instructor.”

“…And what is his name, this ‘I Am’?”

Nikiel blinked blankly, not understanding. Yullan’s gaze swung back toward him, like a teacher watching a hopeless child, until realization dawned slow and painful across Nikiel’s face.

“…Wait… you mean you—? You, Grand Duke, are truly….”

He couldn’t finish. This can’t be right. A Swordmaster as my self-defense teacher?

It was absurd. He wasn’t about to march south to conquer barbarians or slay a Demon Lord for a holy title. He just needed a little self-defense.

But Yullan, reading his shock, let out a quiet chuckle, lips twitching.

“Does my lord frown so at the idea? If you don’t mind any gutter‑born fool being your master, surely it’s no worse to have the greatest sword of the realm?”

Nikiel jumped to his feet.

“Of course it’s better!”

“…What did you say?” Yullan sounded genuinely taken aback.

“You, Grand Duke, becoming my tutor? That’s the greatest fortune imaginable!”

And he meant it.

He had attended science academy, endured countless private teachers and academies to secure his place there, carried the relentless hunger for good instruction through every step of his youth.

If a chance came to learn under the best in any field, he had always seized it, whether small prep room or vast capital boarding school.

In another life, he had nearly become professor himself — until fate killed him, dropped him here. But even another world couldn’t smother the fire for study.

And a Swordmaster was nothing less than the top‑ranked “star lecturer” of the sword.

Delighted, Nikiel’s pure happiness broke across his face, and Yullan’s stony mask flickered with something strange.

Behind them, Benedict Sommes looked quietly stricken.

For neither he nor his commander had come with intent to actually teach.

They had expected rejection. At least, Benedict did. After all, Nikiel wasn’t the crown heir; he wasn’t destined for a soldier’s life. Training him would be a terrible waste of their Duke’s time.

And yet, here they were.

The memory of yesterday’s bout returned to Benedict: they had whittled six candidates from the knights when suddenly Rives had spoken.

“I don’t mind being the prince’s tutor.”

All eyes had snapped toward him — round as gold coins.

“What?”

“You’ve finally lost your wits to the brutal training, Rives!”

Rives, eldest son of Baron Oschlitz, was tall, handsome, personable. His hair was straw‑gold, not quite as radiant as Nikiel’s, but passably blond, his features open and attractive. With freckles across his nose, he grinned untroubled despite the glares.

“On patrol near the Prince’s Palace I saw him. He spent the day exercising in the back garden, then read books when tired. Polite, I thought. He even answered his servant gently when scolded, about the sun tanning his skin. Closed his book, rose, so soft‑spoken. Friendly with his man.”

The knights stared in shock. Nikiel Ossinis? Polite?

This man had been the terror of society’s salons, the very watchword for impossible demands.

‘I only drink water melted from the eternal snows of Mount Ifus! Fetch me rose‑water — what filth is this?’

So he had cried once at Countess Griot’s ball, spitting out a glass of water. The pale countess had turned redder than ever from fury.

Nikiel, the notorious complainer about even his drinking water, easy to serve? Had Rives lost his mind?

But then Rives added with a simple shrug,

“Besides… he’s beautiful.”

And at that, the room had changed.

Yes. Nikiel Ossinis, whether or not his character was stained, was unparalleled in beauty.

Nose high as the mountains, hair bright as honeyed gold, eyes bluer than the Hippivaul River itself, skin pale as first snows.

So striking was he that long ago, when foreign envoys first saw the young prince, they had declared that the greatest natural wonder of Ossinis was the blue reflected in his eyes.

A beautiful child only became more stunning with age. Nikiel had bloomed like a rose in full glory.

All had nodded.

“Yes, he is beautiful.”

“No rival in the whole of Rhasiris.”

“Not only here — nowhere in the kingdom itself is there a fairer flower.”

The winners chuckled and agreed, until they felt the shadow.

One by one they turned their heads. Yullan Balt, stone‑faced, was watching them in silence, and the murderous glimmer in his eyes made every throat go dry.