MPNS Ch 72

Chapter 72

“What’s going on?”

Finding the Prince’s Palace unusually busy from early morning, Nikiel called Paul to ask. He had started the day with light cardio, then taken a thorough bath—mere showering or quick rinses hadn’t cleared body odor. After jogging, he’d idly lifted a copper bar for weights; metal smell and bluish rust stained his hands, and seeing a page struggle to clean it later made him feel guilty. Next time he’d wrap the bar in a towel before lifting. Quitting workouts was never an option.

After Bendi’s breakfast, he sat on his sofa paging through a book, but hallway clamor bled into his room. The palace wasn’t usually so noisy. He craned his neck—too organized for simple ball prep.

Paul answered plainly:

“Consecrated iron furnishings arrived today from the Temple. We must handle them carefully.”

Consecrating iron—what did that even mean? Did they “bless it” so it wouldn’t rust? Such pointless fuss. “Holy” iron? To a modern mind, nonsense. Sanctified iron didn’t change Fe, atomic number 26, electron configuration [Ar] 3d6 4s2. Blessings couldn’t turn iron into titanium. Even if consecration reduced rust, oxidized iron could be cleaned with mild acidic agents—redox chemistry 101. Instead, medieval minds poured coin into temples and performed empty rituals.

But he couldn’t say that aloud. He remembered Lucien’s warning: meddling with blast‑furnace practice bordered on treason.

Raised in a democratic land of candlelight protests against corruption, “treason” didn’t come instinctively to him; yet he knew that in a medieval order, treason meant annihilation of one’s whole clan.

He reviewed what Lucien had said—Temple–Crown entanglement—and reached a conclusion:

People weren’t ignorant of blast‑furnace metallurgy; rather, the Temple held production rights over everything from weapons to household goods, and the king permitted it.

He had known something was off since being ordered to “marry off” a discharged army sergeant—dotard logic from the start. He mused, then asked Paul carefully:

“So Temple people are here now?”

“Yes. The clergy have come. Each year, they arrive with consecrated weapons for the Tournament and attend the ball.”

Paul added, face alight:

“This year the Grand Master of the Temple Knights himself has come!”

Nikiel stared blankly—no idea who that even was. Paul, sheepish, added:

“At the feast two years ago, Your Highness praised his striking looks and showed interest. You may not recall now, but he’s a splendid, manly figure—you will like him again.”

Nikiel, whose interest in men was near zero, simply turned away. He flipped pages feigning indifference to holy iron. Before Paul could drag him for the forty‑fourth fitting, Nikiel slipped from the palace again—his escapes now as easy as breathing.

He guessed where to find the clergy: the royal Solius temple within the palace, or the attached lodging hall. He headed there without hesitation.

“The Temple Grand Master is here?”

A furrow carved deep between Yullan’s brows. Benedict nodded heavily.

“Yes. Unlike other years.”

It was odd indeed. The Temple Knights, sworn to wield steel only under Solius’s grace, focused on proselytizing through war against infidels. They had no interest in monster‑hunts; they declared that the peasants’ suffering under beasts and the yearly toll had nothing to do with Solius. The Four Lords had never once hunted alongside Temple reinforcements. Yet now the Grand Master himself?

Ordinarily, a bishop or auxiliary bishop brought consecrated arms and wares, attended the ball, and returned. The Grand Master outranked such envoys—no man for menial errands.

The Temple’s reason for visiting at Tournament time was simple: to make money.

Twenty‑one years ago, an earthquake struck the eastern district of Ulukin. Remote and no noble’s fief, it caused no casualties—but a mountain collapsed, revealing a small cave once used as a private vault by a noble house annihilated early in the kingdom’s history.

The cave held luxuries; silks disintegrated on air, but much else shone intact. The Marquis Griffoux, lord of Ulukin, gifted the cave wholesale to the new king, who had just inherited the throne upon his father’s sudden death. Inside was a scripture: the testament of Brother Ikaim, a monk who evacuated about 300 villagers during the fall of the Black Dragon and died in the effort.

A scripture in Saint Ikaim’s own hand—a religious treasure. The young king sent it straight to the Temple. It contained this passage:

“When darkness arose, poison crept upon all iron. The Sun, in pity, commanded it to depart; and the taint that enshrouded metal fled.”

On the pretext of this line, the Temple monopolized the blast‑furnace. Not freely—consecration “donations” were budgeted; a portion was quietly kicked back to the king. State taxes thus became the king’s private purse. Under “holy authority,” Temple domination of iron was a royal–Temple joint venture.

In consequence, extant blast‑furnace practice was dismantled, hundreds of smiths died. Other nations, wary of Ossinis, appeared to abolish the method too; some still produced iron, but dared not defend smiths openly lest crusade follow.

Another royal motive: fear of the Lords’ might. The king knew his own weakness, so he gripped arms indirectly through the Temple to limit the Lords’ force outside monster‑hunts.

The hardships this imposed on the people didn’t concern him. Consecrated iron was so costly that farmers plowed with bronze tools, labor doubled.

“…Perhaps the oracle prompted this visit,” Yullan said. He recalled the oracle announced shortly after Nikiel lost his memory. He had intended to bar Nikiel from the Tournament—until the oracle came.

He considered oracles a political tool. Born cursed and hypersensitive to holy power, he felt each year the Pontiff’s sanctity thinning—from river to stream. If even the Pontiff waned, lesser clergy were worse. The Temple’s divine current seemed drying out.

Thus the “oracle” was a stage device to test, via Nikiel, whether such sanctity yet existed. The Grand Master’s personal visit fit that agenda.

Benedict nodded slowly, then added:

“But… Duke Boltwick has shut himself in for days—no one to greet the Grand Master’s party. It seems Your Grace must go yourself.”

Yullan’s brow arched. Boltwick, reclusive? The active “stag” rarely stayed home. He usually handled external matters while the serpent burrowed for months and the bird vanished to skies—Raymon was adept at politics.

For him to hole up now… had the recent frenzy driven him to smash his head into a tree and lose his wits?