MPNS Ch 26

Chapter 26

The commanders, who were meant to quell their madness through contact with him, nevertheless thought that they could never bear to be indebted to Nikiel, whom they openly despised.

This was because, like his father, Nikiel had a sly and manipulative streak; they were certain that he would use such a connection to bend the commanders to his will.

Thus, for the commanders, the sentiment was always quite literal — they would rather die than live relieved of their affliction by him.

Still, Nikiel had a rather foolish side, and there were aspects to him that made it difficult to view him as a purely evil man.

The real problem lay with the king behind him.

The king did not prefer to act directly or overtly.

His methods were always quiet and sustained.

Even if the commanders were to wash the madness out of themselves through Nikiel’s holy power, they would inevitably be caught in the political net the king had already spread.

Even if they distanced themselves from Nikiel at that point, once they had known what it was to live free of madness, they could never go back to life before.

Better, they thought, to never taste the sweetness of freedom from madness at all.

Among the direct heirs of the four great houses, the curse had an uncanny ability to pick out — among all those born in a generation — the child most suited to becoming head of the family. It was as if the curse knew, regardless of birth order, that the child would ascend to leadership in adulthood.

The curse clung to them from the time they were young, tormenting them persistently, as if urging them to “get used to it.” Even Raymon — whose sister had been the previous head — had suffered from inexplicable pains since childhood.

Thus, the children marked at birth grew up with a mild fever of madness simmering within them.

But that, until then, was only a preview. The curse of Nashiu, which had hounded them in secret, would, from the moment they were officially appointed head of their respective houses, carve itself into their very marrow, causing excruciating pain.

If it were a matter of only their own suffering, they could have endured it.

Because of the curse, which seemed to target those few righteous children unexpectedly born into families rotted by their pursuit of power, such children would inevitably rise to the position of head of house, almost by destiny.

Like lotuses blooming from mud — once they became heads, they were condemned to isolation amidst the devouring greed of their kin.

Even with nothing around them to love, successive heads went mad less from the madness itself than from the regret over what they had destroyed and would yet destroy because of it.

When they transformed into beasts in roaring fits, they were seized by the urge to destroy everything around them.

That destructive impulse was the very thing that constricted their beast forms like a vine. When they came back to their senses, they would see that far too many weaker beings had been injured or killed — and each time, it felt as though something innately human in them was splintering into pieces.

To overcome this madness, they had each done their best in their own ways. And now they were being told to cling to Nikiel?

It was unthinkable.

Thus, to avoid the indignity altogether, Lucien had hidden himself behind a pillar in the banquet hall.

Had he known that Nikiel — who had just humiliated Raymon — was roaming in that direction, he might have chosen differently.

A touch more unfortunate was Jikari. Normally, Jikari avoided all social functions like banquets, but on that day, he had been driven into a corner by the king’s subtly forceful insistence.

Under the pretext of his mutism, Jikari had always refused to attend any event hosted by the king. But as soon as he returned from the Subjugation Tournament, the king had seized him, forcing him to attend the feast.

Had he still been in his western Redal estate, or had he transformed and flown off somewhere, the king’s envoys would never have reached him. But upon returning to the capital, the king, as if lying in wait, had caught hold of him.

While relations between Raymon and Yullan were poor, Lucien and Jikari’s were not — yet neither could be called a friend, and Lucien felt no obligation to tell Jikari that the pillar he was hiding behind was the least conspicuous spot.

Thus, unlucky Jikari found himself facing a completely drunk Nikiel.

“Well, look who it is! The marquis!”

Nikiel beamed like a flower. His smile was beautiful — though the core beneath it was foul.

Jikari, expressionless, stared straight ahead. Unlike Lucien, who would evade with skill; Raymon, who could kill with words; or Yullan, who exuded such murderous intent as to make approach impossible — Jikari’s weaker social skills meant that once he appeared at such an event, he would often end up as Nikiel’s target.

“……”

Even when Nikiel called to him, Jikari neither answered nor looked his way. But the drunken Nikiel paid this no mind and rubbed his forehead against Jikari’s shoulder.

From behind the pillar, Lucien — still in the early stages of a brandy freshly drawn from the oak cask and not yet mellow — froze in shock.

It was the first time he had seen such contact from Nikiel.

Like a pimp guarding a young boy’s virginity for sale, Nikiel’s father had forbidden any such physical contact between his son and the commanders.

Nikiel had obeyed that rule well — it was his only key, after all. And yet, here he was, initiating contact.

Jikari’s eyes also widened like never before. Even for Jikari, who often bore the wild, unreadable expression of one long raised among wild birds, he now resembled a startled, lovable boy.

As Jikari’s build was slightly larger and his height matched Nikiel’s closely, Nikiel only had to lower his head a little for his forehead to brush Jikari’s shoulder.

Nikiel began to rub his forehead there, intending to hug him.

‘Adorable marquis, come, embrace m— ugh!’

But the attempt ended with a loud thump, as Jikari shoved Nikiel away.

Nikiel flailed, losing his balance slowly, but Jikari made no move to catch him. In the end, Nikiel landed square on his rear on the marble floor.

With a look as though he might vomit, Jikari left the spot.

Before the drunken Nikiel could shout, Lucien called over a passing attendant to retrieve him — then went after Jikari.

“Why did you push him like that? You could have just avoided him without giving him the chance.”

Lucien caught up to Jikari behind the palace gardens. Jikari clutched the trunk of a cherry tree, retching — then, eyes bloodshot, said:

“Strange… his aura. Nausea. The moment he touched me.”

Knowing well Jikari’s habit of speaking like a carrier pigeon, giving only objects without predicates, Lucien’s brow furrowed sharply.

Nausea? From touching holy power?

Until then, Lucien had held a private hope — that Jikari had fled in a rush because he’d been swept into the ecstasy of contact with holy power.

For the hereditary records of the commanders were unanimous on the subject of it:

“The feeling of being enveloped head to toe in thousands of soft wings.”

“As though one’s body were immersed in a radiant golden tide.”

“Euphoria, fulfillment, a primordial peace, a relief so intense it brought tears.”

The metaphors were endless. Only the next generation of commanders would truly understand the suffering they endured in life — and yet, they had all recorded, clearly, that they felt rapturous liberation.

And now Jikari was saying he felt like vomiting?

Lucien could not help being slightly disappointed. Raised in the wild, Jikari had sharp instincts — and if he felt that from Nikiel, the other commanders would too.

But why?

Nikiel had both blue eyes and platinum hair; Bishop Sollius himself had attested that overflowing holy power suffused his entire body.

The temple, though under the kingdom’s protection, was an arrogant institution that considered itself the true sovereign over the royal family. There was no way they had issued a false certification under the king’s persuasion.

Lucien had left the banquet disappointed.

Yet afterward, when Nikiel nearly died and recovered, strange reports began to circulate:

“The wild wastrel’s finally come to his senses.”

“This coward, who would hide behind a woman’s skirts if her husband came with a cudgel, now walks around in proper attire.”

“He even attended an audience with the king without wearing the perfume oil from those flowers with aphrodisiac properties.”

“He’s even reading books, apparently.”

Rumors were rampant. But Lucien believed them only halfway.

Nikiel had awakened after surviving a brush with death; such events could change a man, sure — for perhaps a month or two at most.

Thus, he had thought Nikiel’s encouraging changes would not last long.

But then a fledgling bird came into his lab, screeching nonsense:

“Changed — that — holy power — ecstasy.”

“Stop saying ridiculous things. And can you not see the sign that says no flying indoors? It’s there because of Griff.”

“Extreme liberation — pure aura.”

The bird continued chirping away. Lucien did not believe it — he thought the fledgling must have gone mad after flying into a forest swarming with birds in heat, gorged on hearing mating songs all summer.