MPNS Ch 59

Chapter 59

 

“Ah, so you’re gathering acorns. Are they good? I like acorn jelly myself. After hiking, nothing like a plate of seasoned dotorimuk with a bowl of makgeolli… Granted, drinking after exercise isn’t great for hydration, but it tastes so good. Me? I loved the hill behind my university—Gwanaksan. The ridges are a bit rough, but these days they’ve built whole walking trails…”

Nikiel strolled with a squirrel perched on his shoulder, idly swatting at weeds with his ash‑wood practice sword.

Despite his education and maturity, in nature Nikiel became almost childlike, pure as an elementary schooler. His love for animals was clean, untainted—and without realizing, he babbled to them as though they were classmates, pouring out trivial stories, oblivious that anyone might be watching him.

He only felt like he had found a friend who shared his wavelength.

…What nonsense is he muttering?

Raymon Boltwick, meanwhile, was preparing for the coming Monster Subjugation Tournament. After readying tasks at the Hunt Ministry, he intended to mark the palace forest with his scent.

No beast was bold enough to invade the king’s woods guarded by a giant stag, but after the recent breach, caution was required.

By rubbing the pheromones of a male elk from his nape onto the trunks, he signaled ownership: as long as his scent remained, even while he was away for the tournament, the forest would stay safe. At dusk, when monsters were most often spawned, he set out.

On his way, he found Nikiel walking toward the training yard.

…So, reports were true—he’s been training under Yullan lately.

His agents said Nikiel seemed resolved to attend the tournament despite Yullan’s earlier opposition. Raymon could not guess how Yullan had changed his mind, but it suited him. Prophecy required Nikiel’s presence—only then would divine power protect the combatants.

If he defied the oracle, the Pontiff would deny sanctification prayers, and knights without sanctification, beginning from the rearguard, would be slaughtered by monsters.

Yes, Nikiel’s presence was a risk—but more important was that all be wrapped in the shield of divine power.

With these thoughts, Raymon found himself trailing the boy unthinkingly. Nikiel didn’t notice, still humming, still chatting away with the squirrel:

“No, no, you have to share. And in winter, remember, your body temperature will drop—so you must cuddle together and hibernate in the same burrow. Eh? Even with an enemy? Life comes before pride. Just hold on tight and sleep. What good is dying nobly of pride? Don’t be a fool.”

Heavy philosophy for a lecture to a rodent. Nikiel continued, nagging: eat more fats to fatten up, don’t steal from other trees, by the way had they seen a certain hawk recently? He reassured the flock he had been feeding the eagle so they wouldn’t be targeted.

Raymon’s brows twitched.

What kind of conversation is that?

And then, the squirrel on Nikiel’s shoulder met his gaze.

“……”

“……”

Their eyes locked in air. A short silence.

Then, something uncanny: the squirrel ignored Raymon entirely, leaning instead into Nikiel’s nape, rubbing at his earlobe and hair affectionately.

That pathetic scrap of fur—!

Raymon felt an unexpected surge of fury, as though being mocked. As if the squirrel were saying, “You can’t do this, can you?”

His chest tightened with absurd jealousy. A stag’s nostrils flared invisibly.

Nikiel laughed, tickled.

“Stop that—it’s tickling! Fine, fine! Come play at the palace sometime. There are dates, and chestnuts. Bring your friends too.”

And in Raymon’s ears, the squirrel’s boast sharpened. “You’ve never been invited, have you?”

But then, borne on the drifting air, Raymon caught a scent—a scent that blasted him with rage.

The great stag’s pheromones flared darkly. The squirrel trembled, fur bristling, then launched from Nikiel’s shoulder and fled.

“Hey, friend—what’s wrong!”

Nikiel spun in confusion, looking around—and that was when he finally saw him.

“…Duke Boltwick?”

The name dropped, and Raymon smiled. Sweet as spring wind, a smile that always fooled most—but the air froze like ice around him.

Nikiel blinked wide, struck speechless by the contradiction: warmth on the lips, rage behind the eyes.

Why is he glaring at me—out of nowhere?

Ordinary courtiers never noticed Raymon’s mask. His smiles were flawless. Yet Nikiel, without effort, pierced straight through it, seeing the blue‑white flames of fury beneath.

Raymon’s anger was directed—precisely—at him.

But Nikiel thought nothing of reading it; he didn’t realize no one else could.

And Raymon did not realize that Nikiel had seen through him at all.

They stood in ignorance, still apart from what this meant.

Then Raymon, still smiling sweetly, bowed impeccably and intoned:

“Your Grace’s loyal servant, Raymon Boltwick, at Your Highness’s command.”

It was the perfect courtly address. Nikiel was forced to respond in kind, tautly:

“…Good evening, Duke.”

The stag‑lord’s smile only deepened, sickly beautiful. The sweetness did nothing to lessen the dread Nikiel felt prickling his spine.

Gods, terrifying. What’s with that grin…

Regardless of his thoughts, Raymon stepped closer, long strides heavy, and asked in honeyed voice:

“I hear you’ve become quite close with the snake brat of late?”

The term made Nikiel blink once—then clarity dawned: Lucien. He meant Lucien.

But how did he know? He asked aloud:

“How would you know that?”

“Because, fuck, Your Highness, the stench of snake on your body is so thick I can barely breathe.”

Nikiel froze. The words were spoken smooth as silk, threaded with a sweet smile—but in the middle, vulgarity cracked like a whip, striking his ears violently.

“Did… did you just say ‘fuck,’ Duke…?”

“Better you answer my question. Have you been with the snake?”

The tone was formal, refined—the words were poison.

Normally, Nikiel’s temper would have spiked—What the hell? Who does he think he is? But the sheer pressure of the stag’s pheromones writhing around him made him nod without thought.

Raymon’s scent cloaked the clearing—pheromones of a vast beast furious over his trampled territory.

Nikiel, attuned unusually to animals, had always been able to understand them with all five senses: including scent. He could read their emotions from the pheromonal cues invisible to others.

But Nikiel had no idea he possessed this. So he simply breathed deep, oblivious.

The stag’s pheromones wrapped his lungs, searing. He was inside the domain marker of a lordly beast and didn’t know it.

Nor did Raymon perceive the truth: that Nikiel could feel his anger this directly.

Fuck—why does this burn so hot?

Raymon seethed. The stink of snake was smeared thick on Nikiel’s shoulders, his chest, even across his thighs. These were no playful traces—these were the pheromones a male serpent released after successful mating.

How had the recluse serpent lord, indifferent to all, come to leave such a claim upon him?

“Thought he might truly changed,” Raymon hissed through his smile, “and yet here you are whoring again.”

The insult snapped out, inevitable.

Nikiel, stunned to silence till now, narrowed his eyes at last. This—this bastard hadn’t just followed him, he’d come purposely to sneer. Anger boiled sharp and swift.

Footnotes:

• Makgeolli / dotorimuk: Traditional Korean rice wine and acorn jelly, with seasoned vegetables; a culture‑specific food memory that contrasts with fantasy world.