MPNS Ch 60

by berry

Chapter 60

By Nikiel’s temperament, it was an incomprehensible situation.

He had always made an effort to ignore those he disliked. If he pushed himself long enough, one day he would succeed—eventually, no matter what the other did, his heart would naturally dismiss them. He refused to waste energy on hatred. He lived guarding himself most of all from letting anger or sorrow become his master.

That was why his interest in Raymon simply switched off, like a power lamp shunted dark. Raymon, watching Nikiel’s expression flatten with alarming speed, felt some warning light go off in his own mind. It felt like something dreadful had just happened, though he couldn’t define what.

Unknowing, Raymon found himself holding his breath as he stared into Nikiel’s suddenly cold blue eyes.

Lashes quivered, veil of gold, lowering to hide the eyes. The bright purity he had shown laughing with squirrels—gone from his lips.

Cheeks once rosy, like dried petals brushed on with bloom, now shadowed with severity. The sharp line of his nose and the bones of his brow no longer softened—they seemed edged like weaponry, reinforcing a will.

Raymon let out a short gasp before he even realized.

Nikiel acted quicker. With his ashwood sword he pressed aside Raymon’s forearm, voice flat as steel:

“Step aside. This **** will leave of his own accord.”

And he walked right past.

Something in Raymon’s chest snapped. Suddenly anxiety, unease, urgency bloomed like wildfire. He bit down on his lip, his own composure unraveling. He moved without thinking, blocking Nikiel’s path again.

“…I spoke out of turn, Your Highness.”

It made no difference. Nikiel walked on, already decided—once he chose dismissal, no words could bind his ear.

This time Raymon’s hand caught him, beseeching. Even his hesitation carried desperation. The rage that had burned him earlier was gone—replaced by a plea.

From the moment he had seen Nikiel on that autumn night path, he had felt a thousand emotions flame and flicker away, too fast to catalog. He was overwhelmed, caught in kaleidoscope upheaval.

Raymon Boltwick, who had never lost composure before anyone, forgot entirely that this boy was supposed to be a danger, a pawn to be watched—and the words left his mouth:

“I beg your pardon. Allow me to ask forgiveness, my prince.”

That, at least, was sincere. Even now, Raymon understood—he was behaving like a pitiful man, demanding fidelity from someone with whom he held no bond at all. He had demanded chastity as if it were his right.

He had no time to reflect on why before he found himself clutching Nikiel’s wrist, desperate to hold him. Through that grip surged an odd rush of pleasure, but he hardly noticed, too busy searching Nikiel’s expression.

Nikiel looked at the hand gripping him, sighed.

Why does this keep happening? Wherever I go, someone grabs me by the wrist… what reason could there possibly be?

Since waking in this fictional world, Nikiel had made no lofty goals. He clung to one saying: a sound mind in a sound body. Through exercise, he fought the anxiety and dread that gnawed him—the fear of falling, displaced into this strange place. He used training to forget.

Yes, discovering fresh knowledge of monsters was joy. But sometimes, very sometimes, he couldn’t help but ask what he was doing here at all.

I don’t long to return… but—

Perhaps it was worse, not feeling anything at all. If he were to wake tomorrow back in his old world, it would be fine. If not, it would also be fine. No family awaited there—his parents long gone. There was no one left whose worry would make his absence heavy.

Yet a tension lived—if he died here, who would even remember his true name?

“Ah—!”

Just then, agony struck. A headache so sharp his knees buckled.

“Your Highness—!”

Someone’s voice rang distant.

He couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t stop the nausea crashing up his throat. He felt himself retching, perhaps already spent, stomach emptying.

And then someone caught him. Arms, firm, steady chest. His mind went blank.

A dream…

Nikiel thought, staring at black scales larger than his own head. Too big for any serpent, too odd for a lizard. They looked like the scales of a dragon from legend.

Strangely, Nikiel knew. Knew with absolute certainty—they were dragon scales. He could picture every ridge perfectly.

The scales shifted in the dark, gleaming like moonlight on midnight waves. Nikiel gasped.

From afar, the hated sun was rising.

And a voice he had never heard whispered, mocking in the dark:

Your name is Nikiel Ossinis.

No—I am—my true name is—! Yet in his mind, the voice pressed: See? You remember nothing. You are Nikiel Ossinis. No other name will be carved upon your grave.

Then another voice, familiar, shoved him gently from behind:

You foolhardy soul. Do you know where you’ve come? Truly fearless. Yet your beast, too, loves you for it.

Warm lips kissed his cheek. Affectionate, soft.

Nikiel nearly wept.

The voice teased again:

I am glad to see your face—but don’t descend so recklessly again. Or next time, I will take it to mean you wish to lay my eggs here in this abyss.

Jesting, yet fond, it shoved him. Nikiel plummeted downward—or was it upward? Fallen or airborne, he screamed—

“—!!”

And woke. Breath bursting, heart hammering.

The memory clung like nightmare, heavy, vivid. He mouthed words, shaky from recall:

“…Nasihu Ossinis…”

“Your Highness—!”

The door flew open. Paul entered, face wet with tears.

Seeing Nikiel upright, he bolted out of the chamber yelling, “His Highness has awakened!”

A physician, Nikiel thought. But when Paul returned, shaking, he cried:

“You were asleep two whole days!”

“…I was?”

Nikiel blinked dumb, not yet restored. Paul leaned forward, hesitantly:

“Do you know me, sire? Am I ‘Perl’ or ‘Pul’ or ‘Pal’—which is my name…?”

“…What nonsense. Paul, of course.”

Nikiel’s blank look struck the man speechless. Then Paul dropped to his knees, clasped hands, face skyward in prayer:

“O Solius, thank you! I feared—you had reverted, lost your memory, turned back into the old Highness…”

…He must’ve hated serving the ‘real’ Nikiel to death, Nikiel mused, shaking his head.

Aloud, he asked,

“What happened?”

“Two days ago, Duke Raymon carried you into the palace in his arms. Said you collapsed in the grove. I told you—we should’ve taken the carriage!”

“…Ah.”

The memory stirred—Raymon’s startled face, catching him as he fell.

He must’ve been… shocked.

Nikiel scratched awkwardly at his cheek, sighing.

“Send my thanks to the Duke’s house. Tell him I awoke thanks to his aid.”

“It’s already done, sire. The duke’s envoy had been stationed here, awaiting word. The moment you woke, he rode off.”

“…What? Already—then what…”

Nikiel realized with dawning dread: when Paul had run outside shouting, he hadn’t summoned a healer—he’d notified Raymon’s waiting messenger.

Paul explained: the envoy had hovered through the two days, ready to sprint the moment news came. Head throbbing again, Nikiel pressed fingers to his brow.

“…Good grief.”

“Well enough. Just fetch me food.”

“Oh, yes, Your Highness—you must be starving, I’ll bring it right away!”

Paul bobbed his head and hurried out.

Left in silence, Nikiel muttered to himself and stood.

“…Why house the envoy here? What insolent words does he wait to spit next?”

If Raymon himself came, he would sneer, as always: ‘Forever bedridden, aren’t you, Your Highness? Weak little slut.’

Truth or not, Nikiel had no stomach for it. His tolerance was nil, fresh from waking.

So he fled.

The Prince’s Palace was easy to escape—few servants, and by now Nikiel had perfected slipping away, dodging Paul’s fashion fittings.

And that was how, as always, Nikiel bolted into another escape, slipping unseen from his own halls once again.