MPNS Ch 54

Chapter 54

 

“Lat pulldown! Scapular stabilization exercise!”

Nikiel congratulated himself for having kept today’s workout simple.

He carried out every one of the 400 downward strikes faithfully, focusing on engaging the muscles around his shoulder blades each time he swung the practice sword. He had expected Yullan to give instructions coldly and then leave him alone, but instead, the Grand Duke remained at his side throughout all 400 repetitions, correcting his form with detailed instructions.

“Lower your shoulders. Spread your legs further. That stance is sloppy. Drop lower. Keep your core tight, stop swaying.”

The tone was frigid as ice, but it didn’t offend him. To Nikiel, it was no different than the harsh tone of a Pilates or gym instructor. In fact, he remembered trainers far more merciless back home.

‘Member—! Is this how you squat? Even my grandmother wouldn’t be this half‑assed! Is this a squat or is this a sit‑down?!’

Compared to that blend of mockery and Sparta‑style drill, Yullan’s jabs with his practice blade almost felt gentle. So Nikiel kept swinging in silence, sweat dripping.

By the time about a hundred strikes remained, Yullan finally spoke again.

“…Your stamina’s better than I thought. That wasn’t the case before.”

“Huff… it’s hard—hahhh—but manageable.”

His breath was ragged, sweat running freely, but truly he felt invigorated. Each swing tightened his lats and back, straightened his shoulders, lifted his posture. Adrenaline pumped his veins taut.

“Exercise is fun! Electric!”

His eyes shone bright in delirious clarity, thinking thoughts few normal people would.

He paused briefly to wipe his sweat, tugging up his tunic to mop his brow. It bared his stomach, cool air brushing against his abdomen.

“…What are you doing.”

Yullan had stepped close at some point, and now yanked the cloth back down. So hard he nearly tore the stitches.

Nikiel blinked wide at him, startled. Yullan only clicked his tongue.

From Nikiel’s flushed cheeks and warm skin rose not the old reek of roses he’d once doused himself in, but a fresher scent—like lotus blossoms in full summer bloom, mixed with green grass.

The fragrance dulled Yullan’s sharp senses, conjuring an image of a lotus pond in midsummer, still waters heavy with blossoms. He scowled darkly.

Because Nikiel’s scent was not just pleasant—it stirred animalistic urges. The desire to press teeth into his nape and lick the sweat from his skin. The pale muscles glimpsed under his lifted tunic gleamed like ivory, white, tight, tempting.

Heat pooled low in Yullan’s belly. He turned abruptly on his heel, shoulders rigid.

Nikiel’s voice came after him in confusion.

“Your Grace? Where are you going?”

“…Training’s over. You’ll finish the rest tomorrow.”

His words were clipped short, all he could manage. Covering his mouth and nose with a palm as though to block a poison gas, he strode quickly from the yard.

Nikiel was left blinking in bewilderment.

“…What’s that? Really had to use the toilet?”

He muttered under his breath.

Despite the abrupt ending, Nikiel returned to the Prince’s Palace in good spirits. He had managed three hundred of the cuts, and Yullan’s detailed corrections had given him a sense of real progress.

“All scholarship begins with foundations.”

Fencing might not be science, but Nikiel didn’t care. He only worried about sneaking the picnic basket back without Bendi the chef noticing.

On the carriage ride back, he leaned toward Paul.

“You should have given some to the coachman. Let’s eat the rest ourselves.”

“You usually despise eating late at night, Your Highness.”

True. Even the old Nikiel had avoided late suppers—for the salt bloat that ruined one’s figure. And modern Nikiel still kept those soldier’s habits: no heavy food after 7 p.m.

But he shrugged.

“Today I did plenty of cardio. Once in a while won’t kill me. And we can’t waste food, anyway.”

Words utterly unlike the debauched prince who once mocked noble youths at banquets—“Eat like that and your father won’t know whether to give the countship to you or a pig.”

Paul was quietly glad. Ever since his memory loss, Nikiel seemed a different person altogether.

So the three of them—Nikiel, Paul, and the coachman—ate ruined sandwiches from the basket, bacon wedged in with mustard and mayo, leaning out into the brisk autumn night. Passing half through the driver’s hatch, Nikiel gave even the coachman a share.

They rattled back to the Prince’s Palace cheerful.

But in the morning, what awaited Nikiel was hell itself.

“What the hell is all this?!”

“What else, Your Highness? From today, preparations for the masquerade ball.”

Paul, hauling bolts of cloth for the palace tailors, answered briskly.

Yesterday’s sore lats and legs from squats and lunges were nothing; the reception room was now carpeted in Ashinca silks, eastern satins, pearl‑starched laces, and jewel‑encrusted accessories. Dozens of identical blouses hung in shifting shades.

Nikiel groaned. Paul scolded furiously,

“You must try them all, so bathe quickly! Even a short wash will do—we’ve no time.”

Even Paul, who once declared a royal bath incomplete without perfumed oil soaking to the scalp, now urged mere showers in panic.

Nikiel grimaced, ran through the washroom, and did a soldier’s three‑minute rinse, toweling himself roughly.

Could I just… run?

Yes. That was the secret plan.

Quickly dressed and slipping on indoor slippers, he waited behind the washroom door. Exactly twenty seconds later, Paul knocked and entered.

“Highness, it’s time—…huh? Where did—”

Nikiel darted out, silently at his back, sprinting barefoot once the slippers clattered. He raced down the servants’ stairs to the kitchens and finally slipped them on again.

The cooks were startled as he burst in.

“Your Highness! Off to fencing so early?”

Chef Bendi greeted him warmly. Nikiel hushed him with a finger to his lips, winked, and escaped through the scullery door.

He darted across the palace garden, climbed out the outer wall itself.

“Best bet—the Royal Library.”

Of course there weren’t many places to hide. But alone among the shelves, with monsterology texts, he would pass this day.

So he walked lightly down the quiet path, twirling foxtail grass between his fingers, unbothered.

At the library doors, empty as ever, he pushed in. He remembered the layout by now, traced the shelves. There—one he had seen before, bound in great serpent hide.

Running his fingers over the scale‑leather, he noticed the shelf was hollow behind. He pushed the case, and with a grating sound it swung.

A hidden stack.

Nikiel’s eyes went wide with excitement.

Forbidden tomes? In the Ossinis Royal Library? His heart pounded. What secret books could possibly be inside?