MPNS Ch 32

Chapter 32

“Th-the, the situation outside is under control… isn’t it?”

The king, unable even to step beyond the threshold of his private chambers, summoned the Grand Duke inside — apparently without realizing what a disgrace this was for the ruler of an entire nation.

His face pale, he asked repeatedly until Yullan confirmed that nothing was amiss, the scene calling to mind a storehouse keeper cowering in hiding from a mere mouse.

With a bland expression, Yullan gave a perfunctory answer.

“Three giant Hiohkan attacked the palace.”

“Hi-iik—! H-Hiohkan, you mean…”

“A centipede-type monster with a thousand legs. The Yollok followed in their wake and also breached the inner palace.”

“Y-Yollok…! Huurk…”

The king was outright trembling.

Even a mangy cur would carry itself with more dignity than this, Yullan thought, sighing shortly before trying to calm him.

“They have all been exterminated, and their carcasses are being disposed of as we speak.”

At Yullan’s offhand reply, the king’s knees seemed to give way and he collapsed heavily onto the floor.

From a distance, the chief chamberlain — perhaps overwhelmed with gratitude — hurried forward to support the king, settling him onto a sofa in the corner of the chamber.

It was an extravagant piece upholstered in silk, embroidered with lotus flowers in gold thread.

Even as he sank into such luxury, the king looked the very picture of pathetic frailty.

“Wh-why… why have monsters entered the capital? In the capital there’s…”

“The holy barrier set by the Pontiff.”

“Y-yes, that’s right. With that in place, why…”

“It would be prudent to contact the bishops. For now, the threat has been cleared, so I shall take my leave.”

With that, Yullan deftly shifted the responsibility toward the bishops and bowed. The king was loath to let him leave, but Yullan had already turned his back.

He paid no attention to the stammered recitation of the Pontiff’s youthful name that followed him out of the chamber. Exiting the royal apartments, Yullan was joined by Benedict, who had gone toward the western forest.

“The Hiohkan had already been dealt with by Duke Turun. As for the Yollok carcasses, Marquis Griff’s trading company plans to handle their disposal.”

“Jikari was there?”

“Yes. He was in flight.”

It was unusual for the sharp-natured Jikari to leave his preferred forests far from the capital to live among songbirds at this time of year. But without asking further, Yullan gave a small nod.

“It looks like we’ll have to move the Subjugation Tournament forward. Send word to the four houses. We depart as soon as preparations are in place.”

“Has His Majesty granted leave…?”

“The old man’s half out of his wits with fear right now. A bit of smooth talking will do the job — and Duke Boltwick will see to that.”

Benedict, Vice Commander of the Black Thorn Knights, looked at his liege in disbelief.

Even five-year-old street urchins in the capital knew how much Raymon loathed Yullan — it was almost comical how, at times, Yullan placed such chilling trust in the man.

But then, perhaps it wasn’t strange at all. Only four people in the kingdom — one grand duke, two dukes, and one marquis — truly understood one another’s pain and the inescapable fetters of their fate.

No matter the enmity, those who shared the same curse developed some measure of bond. Whether Yullan mistrusted Raymon or Raymon hated Yullan, none of them could deny they shared the same fight — against monsters and against Nashiu’s curse.

Benedict thought it a peculiar relationship, but his mind turned inevitably to the prince they had just met.

The heads of the four houses had never gotten along when it came to claiming a platinum-haired, blue-eyed royal for marriage.

Once in a generation, a single child was born in one of the houses who could transform into a beast — but in families unwilling to ever relinquish their hold on power, even if their current head was not beast-born, they still schemed to wed into the royal bloodline in hopes of producing another beast-born heir in the next generation.

It was only a belief, of course — the beast-born child always appeared in strict rotation between the houses.

Even so, human greed had kept the four houses locked in generations of rivalry.

But in this generation, the heads of the houses, disgusted by the greed and scheming of past kings and by Nikiel himself, had made an unprecedented vow of celibacy.

Their personal loathing for Nikiel and his father’s avarice overlapped into a rare consensus: none would court the prince.

Still, the day will surely come when the madness becomes unbearable…

That alone worried Benedict.

The harsh northern lands of Iteren did not rely solely upon Yullan Balt — but without him, Iteren would fall.

The previous duke had exploited his subjects without mercy.

In that stony land, where farming and livelihoods were already meager, the people staggered under excessive taxes, and more and more fled in the night.

Since Yullan’s ascension, Iteren had entered a remarkable period of prosperity — thanks to the crafts he commissioned from the monsters he hunted, sold throughout Ossinis.

Thus, Yullan Balt needed stability — not for himself, but for his people. And he knew it.

Benedict stared at the mountainous back of the man before him, sighed quietly, and followed.

Nikiel’s nature, at root, was introverted. Not shy, but introverted: he spoke his mind when he had to, but if left alone, he would not start a conversation.

Some introverts grew more talkative out of nervousness when with strangers; others grew quieter still. Nikiel was the latter.

Thanks to that, the only one suffocating in this atmosphere was Allewynn.

“Y-your Highness… Though the monsters have been subdued, perhaps it would be best to remain within the palace for the time being…”

“Understood.”

Perhaps his words were too much like nagging in his attempt to make conversation — but Nikiel replied simply, without fuss, as though it were of no particular concern.

That left Allewynn frozen again, at a loss as to how to break the awkward mood on the walk to the Prince’s Palace — cursing Yullan for saddling him with this errand in the first place.

The Nikiel he remembered was nothing like this.

If anything, he used to fawn over His Grace with abandon…

Now Nikiel seemed almost austere — so much so that there was no opening to speak. He no longer resembled the man who had once shamelessly flirted with the heads of the houses.

Born to the highest station yet consorting with stablehands — that had been the consensus on Nikiel.

Now he looks like he’d leave even the king himself frozen out in the cold if he tried to make conversation.

Allewynn had seen Nikiel at banquets attended alongside Yullan. The aristocracy scorned him.

A scion of Ossinis, born with holy power, yet shunning all rightful uses of it in favor of lust and degeneracy.

They would praise his beauty to his face, wanting to touch him — yet behind closed doors, they belittled him as nothing more than a high-born courtesan.

That, at least, had not changed.

While walking back to the Prince’s Palace, they encountered two inner-court nobles — Count Gaspar and Viscount Lumin.

“Your Highness, why are you out walking the inner palace grounds on so turbulent a day?”

Count Gaspar spoke without offering a bow or even giving his name to a royal.

Though framed as concern, his tone was thick with condescension. The subtly pedantic phrase he’d chosen seemed calculated to brand Nikiel as “the foolish royal who wouldn’t even grasp this much.”

Smiling beside him was Viscount Lumin, one of Gaspar’s toadies — undoubtedly brought along for the entertainment of watching whatever Gaspar intended.

It was petty behavior, unbecoming of a noble.

Allewynn felt a flicker of anger but decided it wasn’t his place to act.

Nikiel had been treated this way among the nobility for so long that it was nothing new — and truth be told, he had never been the keenest, often failing to fully understand the insults in their words.

It was only his good instincts that let him detect the contempt in their tone or their eyes. But when clever nobles grew subtle — lacing insults with honeyed voices and spring-breeze smiles — Nikiel’s uncertainty would have him smiling back, rendering even that instinct useless.

His father never reproached the nobles for this treatment, nor sought to broaden his son’s awareness.

In the neglect of his father and the aristocracy’s snubs, Nikiel’s unease had grown into an unshakable inferiority — all while never truly grasping the insult.

Allewynn assumed nothing had changed.

Until, that is, Nikiel’s crisp pronunciation sliced the air like frost.

“And just who are you, to block the way of a royal without giving your name? Given I do not recognize your face, I doubt you are my one and only father — or His Holiness the Pontiff — so tell me, by what right do you bar my path?”

“…Pardon?”

“Guards! Ollarii! This man has obstructed a royal’s way. Arrest him for lèse-majesté!”¹

It took Allewynn a moment to realize that the bizarre word “Ollarii” referred to him — but then he hurried forward, seizing Count Gaspar’s plump arm and twisting it behind his back.

“Hhhk! Y-your Highness—!”

His spiral-twisted mustache quivered pathetically, the shock plain on his face. It was clear he hadn’t anticipated this turn — his features now mottled with surprise, humiliation, and the shallow fear of having his arms restrained.

¹ Lèse-majesté: The crime of violating the dignity or authority of a reigning sovereign. Here Nikiel invokes it formally against the Count.