MPNS Ch 49

Chapter 49

Yullan’s face remained expressionless, but the heavy musk of beastly pheromones rolling off him told the truth of his mood.

The knights glanced at one another nervously, oppressed by that savage aura. Only then did they realize: the Slut Prince—no, His Highness Nikiel—was, after all, effectively their commander’s betrothed-to-be.

To call him a beauty, to praise him as a peerless flower in earshot of their duke—such remarks were grossly out of line.

Benedict clicked his tongue, having been waiting for a chance to intervene. No matter how much their lord despised Nikiel, Nikiel was still destined mate to one of the Four Heads. There were lines that should not be crossed.

Better he scold the men now, nip the problem in the bud, than let it fester—

“Three at a time. Whichever man wins will go to the Prince’s Palace as his sword instructor.”

Yullan’s low voice cut through the silence. He unbuckled his swordbelt and handed it to Benedict, then casually picked up a practice blade from the rack at the edge of the yard.

With a snap of his shoulders, he swung. The wood sliced the air with a terrifying report, sharp as thunder.

The knights swallowed hard. One stammered out,

“M–My lord, what do you mean by that…?”

“Exactly what I said. Three against one. Any one of you who lands a single mark on me will be named the prince’s instructor.”

Calm-faced, Yullan strode to the center of the ring.

Sweat pricked the knights’ brows. Even three-on-one, no one believed they could best him. Yet the opportunity to cross blades with a Swordmaster was not one to waste.

And besides… they held live steel; he only had a wooden sword. True, a Swordmaster could infuse such a weapon with sword-ki until it cut like a real blade. Even so, three swords of steel against one of wood—surely that meant some chance.

Seven bouts were waged. By their end, six “winners” had been chosen to face him in trios.

But to Benedict’s eyes, it was no duel. It was one-sided butchery. Yullan cudgeled them mercilessly, sending each sprawling to the dust. Not even once did a knight succeed in touching him.

Not a victory—not even close. Child against giant.

Benedict puzzled over it. His superior never lost his temper mindlessly. Why suddenly batter his men? Was it because they had slighted Nikiel? It wasn’t impossible.

All four Heads despised the prince. Yet mocking him in front of them was another matter entirely. For all his faults, Nikiel had still always been acknowledged as the destined spouse of one of them.

But still—it didn’t fit. Yullan, who hated him most of all, wouldn’t usually care enough to “teach a lesson.”

Yet he looked… displeased. Strangely so.

As though to confirm Benedict’s suspicion, Yullan clicked his tongue and growled:

“Not a one of you is fit.”

When at last Benedict’s thoughts cleared, the ground was already littered: Rives and the other five trios, groaning, all thrown down by Yullan’s wooden blade. Not a single touch landed.

Thus the automatic victor—the Grand Duke himself.

Which is why Benedict now stood uncomfortably in the reception hall of the Prince’s Palace, following his commander in to deliver this “teacher.”

That Yullan might truly declare himself the boy’s master—unthinkable. And yet he had done it.

Benedict, who had learned to read even the tiniest flickers of his commander’s moods over years of service, could tell Yullan wasn’t entirely pleased with the outcome either.

In truth, Benedict had expected the prince to refuse—mildly, smoothly, but firmly. Surely he would never accept Yullan himself as his fencing tutor. That would have been the neat conclusion.

But Nikiel’s reaction had been something else entirely.

“A master swordsman—the best in the kingdom, in all the Western Continent—as my instructor? That’s practically… a guaranteed résumé boost. Free pass at any gate.”

“Re…zu‑may? Free… pass?”

The foreign syllables bewildered them all. Not Sansbri, not Eastern dialects. What language was that? No one had ever heard that the prince studied tongues. Benedict frowned.

Regardless, it was clear: Nikiel was thrilled. Benedict went cold. If His Grace truly became the prince’s teacher, their already overburdened schedule would collapse.

The autumn drew near. The Monster Subjugation Tournament loomed. Already, preparations devoured their time: weapons, horses, tents for over a thousand knights and twice as many squires, supplies for all.

Yullan Balt, touted “Swordmaster,” wasn’t merely a war-beast. His duties as Duke included enormous logistics and administrative oversight. On top of that, tutoring a prince in swordplay? Impossible.

Yet. He had said it. And now, Nikiel welcomed him with open delight. There could be no taking it back.

Why? Why deal such punishment? Why batter six knights so pointlessly? Was it Rives’s words that angered you, my lord?

Benedict clenched his jaw. He had seen enough to know: Yullan had never once respected Nikiel Ossinis. He had sneered, mocked, disdained. Nothing in all their fraught history hinted at respect.

The prince himself had been reckless: born a royal with divine power that rivaled the Pontiff’s, yet wasting his life in dalliances and debauchery, spitting on the honor of his bloodline.

For Yullan, power meant responsibility. Those with divine favor bore duties. Nikiel had spat on his.

And yet… since this “memory loss,” Nikiel seemed changed. Requesting a sword instructor. Rejoicing like a child at being taught by the best whose scorn he had endured.

The look on his face—sincere, guileless, bright as a lily-of-the-valley growing wild along a roadside.

Lily…?

Yullan pressed an ache from between his brows. Since when had he compared anyone to flowers? He who never so much as noticed blossoms save to mark the season.

And still Nikiel chattered on, oblivious:

“Well, Grand Duke—when shall we begin lessons?”

“…Whenever Your Highness is prepared,” Yullan found himself saying, his tone softened at the edges.

For even he could no longer deny: this “slut prince” had changed.

And Nikiel—trained soldier, lifelong comrade of men—caught the subtle slip in his tone immediately.