MPNS Ch 65

Chapter 65

At that very time, Nikiel was thinking of visiting the forges and the armories—commemorating his meddling in the “blast furnace” idea.

By now in history they should have been working with iron ore, yet their weapons still gleamed bronze. Documents told him that every neighboring realm still used bronze, too. Iron deposits were not scarce—reserves were plentiful. They simply seemed not to know how to exploit them.

“Maybe it’s because this world doesn’t have coal.”

With only charcoal, one could never smelt high‑purity steel. But no—that wasn’t the heart of it. More fundamentally, it seemed the very idea of a blast furnace didn’t exist here.

“Strange. Why?”

While Nikiel walked, pondering the forge, elsewhere Raymon felt acute discomfort.

It was as though someone laughed at him, whispering beside his ear:

Yullan Balt has stolen what was yours.

The voice was like none he had ever known. It was language, yes, yet so alien it was hard to say it came from human lips.

Raymon clutched his temples. Just steps away from the Hunt Bureau, pain split his skull in two.

Yullan Balt has stolen from you. Take revenge. Bloody revenge.

The voice demanded something of him. And by misfortune—it spoke to Raymon’s oldest wound.

He remembered his long‑yearned vengeance. Vengeance for his sister.

He could never forget the sight of a great stag’s corpse, torn by hunting hounds, delivered to House Boltwick like a cruel joke. He and his sister Lia Boltwick had only each other in the cold family halls. And Yullan had taken her from him.

Yes. He had to avenge her. Bloody vengeance. But how?

How, how…?

By killing Nikiel Ossinis. Kill Nikiel Ossinis—strip the world of its so‑called salvation. Then Yullan, grieving, would destroy the world. The beasts, stripped of light, would rage loose, Ossinis drowned in blood.

Therefore—

“I must kill Nikiel Ossinis.”

The moment he said it, black smoke rose from beneath his feet, twining like thousands of vines, seizing his legs and crawling upward.

Raymon staggered. Where am I…? Still within the palace. I can’t lose control here…

Yes—still at the heart of the palace, steps away from his own bureau. If anyone emerged and saw him like this, he would gore them with antlers—whether a nameless valet or a colleague of five years. He would trample them under hooves.

And the stag that killed humans, its very spirit would rot. Then only destruction remained—for this world, and for him.

And the first kill must be—Nikiel Ossinis.

Balanced between sanity and chaos, Raymon could hardly discern who must die and who must live. Every nerve in his body screamed restraint, yet his mind was hammered, a voice inscribed: Go. Kill Nikiel.

“Gh—ughh…”

It must not happen. He would have to call a comrade—bird, serpent, even hound, anything—to restrain him.

If he kept walking this road, everyone in the palace would die beneath stag’s hooves.

So at least he walked faster, desperately.

But the black vines rose higher, devouring him to the hips. Servants on the path saw his state, paled, and ran crying.

Yes, run. Flee. He strained voiceless throat to urge them away, wanting his thought alone to drive them to safety.

And then—

“Urghhh—aaaahhh!”

Sound of tearing—his clothes split. He knew then his spine could not hold upright. His torso bowed until his palms touched ground—palms already reshaped into hooved forelegs. His back burned as if ripped apart.

Agony in his skull—a stake through his temples—then small antlers sprouted, growing and swelling like branches of a ten‑year apple tree, stretching taller in moments.

No. No—!

His reason muttered within. Who must you kill, truly? Who is the first?

Then another voice, not human, seared through, pressing words straight into his chest: That one.

Confused, Raymon gasped—when a clear voice cut through.

“Raymon…?”

It was Nikiel Ossinis.

Raymon turned, horns sprouting grotesquely. Those shocked blue eyes stared back.

Half‑transformed, half‑man, half‑beast, he could see Nikiel’s horror. Within him, the whisper screamed until it burst:

Yes! Kill him! Bring me that golden radiance! It was always mine!

Raymon bellowed—but his cry sounded only as the roar of a stag. Transformation was complete.

“Nikiel!”

The shout chased him, but Raymon thundered off the other way, hooves booming heavy enough to shake the ground.

Nikiel, startled, ran after, waving frantically at servants to clear away, shouting:

“Move! Don’t just stand there!”

He screamed at a trembling page, sprinting. The stag was charging for the forest behind the palace.

Good, Nikiel thought—at least fewer people would be harmed there.

He ran full tilt, though he could never hope to catch such an enormous beast at full charge.

“Shit. Won’t work.”

So he cut diagonally across the palace grounds. Beasts ran straight, blind ahead—if he ran a diagonal, he might reach the forest sooner.

Among trees, antlers would tangle. He might slow.

He sprinted, lungs burning. And all the while he asked himself:

What am I doing? What can I possibly do when I catch him?

Shouldn’t he summon Yullan? Lucien? Even the palace guard? Yet he could not stop running, subconscious urging him on.

Thus Nikiel entered the woods.

Now, by following the falling crash of giant trees, he could find the rampaging stag.

But what good if I do?

Still he ran, gasping, chasing the thunder. Even at times forced to slow to a walk, he pressed forward.

Servants fled opposite, squirrel chittered warning—but he only went on.

By now Yullan should be here. Swordmaster! He must run faster than this…

Cursing, Nikiel pretended to ignore rising fear.

The black stag was too large, terrifying. Yet he must at least see Raymon’s state, then seek Yullan.

And so, deeper.

Then—Crack, boom.

Before him, the stag smashed its head against a colossal tree—trunk thicker than any five men, centuries old. In the palace forest, innermost groves were filled with such giants.

The stag battered the trunk without pause, panting harsh. Its hide was black, its antlers black, gleaming even in dim filtered light.

Nikiel, half‑hypnotized, imagined reaching out to stroke that dark‑furred back. And then—the stag saw him.

Their gazes locked across the air.

His eyes—blacker even than his hide, darker than midnight sky itself.