MPNS Ch 53

Chapter 53

His golden eyes swept across everything before him: the overturned provisions in the basket, his vassal Benedict’s uneasy face, and finally Nikiel—standing calmly with composed expression.

Gold has many forms. There is the brilliant orb burning in the heavens, and there is gold smelted pure from sands into cold, gleaming metal.

Yullan’s eyes were the latter kind—metallic, chill, sharp.

When those cold irises lingered on each in turn, everyone flinched in instinctive fear. Everyone, that is, except Nikiel Ossinis.

Yullan clicked his tongue.

“Food? You never tire of tricks. Was that rutting‑dog’s draught you slipped me two years ago not sufficient?”

His tone was flat, his face deadpan as though none of this had anything to do with him.

Nikiel exhaled a quiet sigh. He hadn’t expected to score points in one move, but being slapped with that remark still stung.

Secretly, after telling Benedict he would taste the food himself to end the suspicion, he had harbored a foolish hope: that Yullan might put a stop to this humiliation.

Why else would he feel so oddly peeved now?

He wasn’t angry, not really—more faintly irritated. The basket’s contents had been torn apart in the knights’ inspection, delicacies once so carefully prepared.

Born in Korea, Nikiel had grown up taught that food was sacred and waste a sin. And thinking of poor Bendi, the chef who had labored so lovingly over every detail, only sharpened the feeling.

His volunteering to taste had not been to play the martyr, but to stop them tearing apart the careful presentation. Even if ruined, the flavor would remain, but Bendi was a man of pride—a chef who wanted the eye to feast before the mouth. Nikiel did not want his devotion thrown away.

Now even that had been spoilt. For Yullan himself to dismiss it so—irritation pricked anew.

Nikiel drew another steady breath and spoke:

“These are nothing but ordinary provisions. The Duke has—”

“Extraordinary things have been slipped into ordinary meals before, have they not, my prince?”

…I told you, that wasn’t me. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion. Poor Bendi—he had only wasted his sweat.

Nikiel raised his head and told Paul, who stood fidgeting:

“Take it back to the carriage. Since he won’t receive it, we’ll not force it.”

“But Your Highness…”

“Now.”

Paul’s protest faltered. He had seen his master all morning running back and forth to the kitchen, overseeing every little packet. To leave it outside—he nearly wept.

But Nikiel only offered Yullan a flawlessly sweet smile, clear as drawn ink.

“Give it to the palace dogs, then. My dogs never doubt what their master feeds them. Only such loyal beasts deserve their master’s love.”

“Prince…!”

Benedict half-roared before he knew it, hearing the sting hidden within: comparing his lord unfavorably to dogs. But Yullan raised a hand to stay his knight.

“Enough. All of you, dismissed. Your Highness—this way.”

Expressionless, he cast Nikiel one more glance, then turned to stride past him.

Nikiel lingered half a moment, then followed after.

Left behind, knight and servant stood blinking. When their masters were gone, their eyes slid to each other and hardened.

Smug little princeling. Think a glare will cow me?

Typical northerner, always so petty…

Their silent curses never spoken aloud.

The irritation passed quickly. Nikiel was not one to stew in sour feelings long.

People called it patience. In truth, he simply disliked the ache of dwelling on resentment; finding no use in it, he forgot it fast.

So by the time he reached the center of the training hall, his bearing was smooth again, features even as ever.

In thin white tunic and beige breeches, he waited silently. Yullan, still not deigning to look at him, busied himself choosing a practice sword.

The broad back under the black tunic stretched taut across solid shoulder‑blades.

…How much do you bench? Nikiel wondered, lips twitching.

He had already resolved: Bendi would have vengeance. Not against Yullan, but someday Nikiel would make good what had been wasted. If the chef ever overheard, drunk perhaps on apple‑brandy, he would be baffled. Yet Nikiel thought it earnestly.

Beyond that, no grudges lingered. Why should they? Yullan Balt had always been consistently discourteous—it was nothing new.

If bribes were useless, sincerity must suffice. Nikiel’s true armor had always been diligence. He had worn it all his life.

Yullan tossed him a light practice sword. Nikiel caught it and turned it curiously. It was ashwood, almost a toy. Something a child might play with as their first blade.

“You’ve such light swords here in the palace?”

Odd to find such beginner’s tools in a yard meant for experts. But Yullan gave no answer—only jerked his chin, ordering without words.

Nikiel thought again what superb manners the man had, and adjusted his grip obediently.

“Relax your shoulders. Fix your gaze. When attacked, what’s the first point you must guard?”

“…The neck?”

Yullan nodded. Answer correct. The casual banmal of his tone hardly struck Nikiel—already absorbed in the moment.

The Swordmaster stepped up, tapped his elbow into place, nudged his stance wider with a flick of the practice sword’s tip. Silent instructions that could have stung as humiliation—yet Nikiel only brightened.

I might be talented after all…!

He had always been like this. Through all his years climbing Korea’s science elite, always top of the class, he had carried one conviction: that anything he studied quickly, he mastered.

Now, armed with a new handsome face, his self-assurance was trained not on looks but again on achievement. He was sure: even with his first grip, he could one day be a Swordmaster.

That childlike awe warmed his cheeks pink.

Yullan paused, watching, silent again.

Nikiel’s blue eyes glimmered, pleading to be taught the next lesson. The Grand Duke clicked his tongue and gripped his own blade.

The way he held it, calm and exact, shook Nikiel’s heart into reverence. Not of Yullan the man, but of Yullan the teacher.

Then the swordmaster moved. The air itself sheared with the blow, shrill hiss reverberating. The force rolled against Nikiel’s body though the strike had not been aimed his way.

“Incredible, Your Grace!”

Nikiel exclaimed, eyes bright as spring water.

Yullan glanced sidelong, his voice dark.

“Four hundred downward cuts. Today.”

“Oh, understood. …But you’ve dropped honorifics entirely, have you?”

“I don’t use them with disciples. If respect of titles is what you want, leave now.”

“Well, if that’s how my teacher is, I’ll take it as it comes.”

Nikiel grinned. Yullan’s brow quirked high, and a rumble echoed in his chest. But he said no more—only asked again, low:

“Four hundred. Can you do it?”

“Why else would I be here? I’ll start now.”

Nikiel’s grin widened. Yullan plainly had expected him to whine, to collapse at the number. Instead, Nikiel thought only one thing:

Footnotes:

 

• Downward cuts (내려치기): A classic fundamental in sword arts—endless repetitive vertical strikes to instill muscle memory.