MPNS Ch 50

Chapter 50

What’s this—why suddenly kind?

Nikiel didn’t know the reason, but it wasn’t a bad start. Even if Yullan had only sent him some low‑ranking knight as an instructor, Nikiel was confident he could have treated him with utmost respect as his teacher.

For was it not the student’s duty, in all things, to serve the master and receive his teachings?

So long as the man wasn’t another psycho like that Professor Han, Nikiel had always held his instructors and trainers in esteem — even his army drill sergeants.

Whatever discourtesy Yullan had in his tongue, his swordsmanship would not be likewise. If anything, men as severe and rigid as he were almost pedantic in their perfection; once Nikiel showed the posture of discipline, Yullan would never dare neglect to teach him seriously.

And when it came to the right mindset for learning? No one could outdo Nikiel. His delight at this new master–student bond shone through his clear smile.

“Any time will do. Even now, right away.”

Yullan’s eyes flicked toward the sun outside. It was already early autumn, but the hot season was not yet past; the sun blazed low and heavy.

From the side, Nikiel sensed his valet giving the Grand Duke a pleading glance. Under such fierceness, the ivory‑pale skin of his prince would surely crack and burn.

Yullan shook his head, regaining that faintly indifferent expression.

“Not today. I have business. We begin tomorrow. I cannot spare mornings or afternoons; my duties with the Order hold me. Can you manage evenings, Your Highness?”

“Of course! I’d spend all day learning if I could.”

He truly meant it.

One of Yullan’s brows lifted faintly once more. So unexpected was that answer. Certainly, he did not imagine the boy was merely rejoicing at the thought of receiving lessons from the best instructor in the field.

A strange unrest passed through him, as if he’d been slipped some Sanpas venom.

Was something put in the tea?

His golden eyes turned to Nikiel, dark with suspicion — but no hint of malice or deception could be found.

The Lords, beasts that they were, could scent hostility like poison in the air; if Nikiel bore ill intent, Yullan would have known.

He did not. Which is why Yullan and Benedict could only accept Nikiel’s bright farewell and depart the Palace. By some twist of fate, the Grand Duke himself had assumed the unwanted mantle of royal sword instructor.

Thus their lessons were to begin. Paul, ever fretful, clucked that at this rate His Highness’s arms would soon be the girth of horse‑haunches.

Nikiel ignored such fuss. He went straight to the Palace head cook, Bendi, and ordered an increase of high‑calorie meals from that night forward.

Swordsmanship, after all, was both aerobic and anaerobic at once; fuel would be needed.

Bendi, long bored of preparing sparrow‑portions for a prince who barely ate, recalled briefly the excitement when the prince — newly awakened from illness — had demanded a high‑protein, low‑carb diet of his own design. But in recent days, the fun had ebbed.

“No salt,” he insists. Not even the Cardinals eat so austerely!

Every delicacy coming into the Prince’s Palace needed only be boiled, poached, or baked without oil. Tedious work, without joy of craft.

But now — at last, the command for high‑calorie feasting! Bendi quietly cheered. The boy was too lean — fattening him with rich roasts was pure delight to the chef.

Nikiel, of course, would have wept in despair at hearing his three months of careful balanced meals wasted. But either way, he ate well that night: teal leg confit, a north‑sea crab tart, and spiced beef stew — and went to bed content.

Upon his face, Paul secretly laid a rose‑petal moisturizer after he’d fallen asleep.

—

But Nikiel did not sleep long. He felt something warm sliding against his chest, burrowing in.

“Mmh… what now…”

He stirred, rose petals scattering across his cheek. The presence beside him pressed closer still. He blinked awake with a frown—

“What the— you?”

He started. It was a bird, nestled into his arms.

His eyes shot to the windows. With autumn nights already chill, Paul had locked them fast. They were still locked now. A closed room, no way in.

Even half asleep, Nikiel knew it was strange. But too tired to think, he simply patted the hawk and drew it nearer.

“Here, cover up. It’s cold…”

He tucked the blanket over the bird, stroking it gently. The creature nuzzled closer. Sleep drowned him again.

This time it was dark as if the heavens themselves had fallen in a curtain — no dream could come. Or so he thought.

From the bedside pitcher, a voice intruded into his dream.

So now you even share your bed with strange men.

Strange men? The thought jarred him even in slumber. He hadn’t any men at all — neither “his own” nor otherwise. Sharing his bed? Absurd.

But then he realized: someone’s arms were encircling him.

Who…?

He felt it — dense muscle, strong bare flesh, holding him still, cradling his head. A firm body, yet achingly foreign to him.

The timbre pressed on, low as sorrow:

So. You’ve forgotten me completely, haven’t you. I always knew you’d betray me sooner or later, but so quickly…?

No! He had never betrayed anyone. Breathless, Nikiel tried to protest — he had never once forgotten him. He didn’t even know who this was!

…Don’t know me?

The voice resonated, as if hearing his silent plea. Nikiel bobbed his head furiously, struggling to free himself from the embrace.

A hum, deep, doubtful:

Then what about that bird? Why do you let it linger? There is contact, yes, but what else are you sharing but disgrace? Pathetic. I drift each night bodiless, clinging to a single mouthful of water from your bedside just to be seen… while you—

Tears burst from Nikiel’s eyes. To hear him call himself pathetic shattered him. He wanted to cradle him, kiss the proud bridge of nose and dark brows, bury his face in black hair deep as night.

But the voice was only that — a voice. No body he could hold.

Mine is only a false form, a phantom image before you. We cannot touch, cannot kiss. You’ve forgotten your own servant, and all while the damn sun rises ever again from the east… I’m losing my mind.

“Aahhh—” Nikiel sobbed, wracked. His chest heaved with grief.

“Don’t weep. Even your beast tries to comfort you now.”

And then came a sound — chiririri! The trill of the hawk in his arms.

Nikiel gasped awake, cheeks wet with tears.

A soft wing brushed across his face. He stared up at the ceiling, breathing ragged. What just happened?

Had he made some dreadful mistake toward someone dear? But who? What mistake?

And then he felt the thought stab: perhaps the betrayal itself was forgetting him.

But who was he? Nikiel’s mind was blank. Confused, another realization struck.

“My name—”

He didn’t remember his true name. The one he was born with in Korea, registered on his family line, graduated university under. That name — erased.

“Uhh—hkkh!” He clawed his throat. Couldn’t breathe. His chest rose and convulsed, as though his lungs rejected air itself.

His heart thundered; ripping at his garments helped nothing.

And then—