MPNS Ch 34

Chapter 34

That, at least, had to be prevented.

The petty business venture he had been discussing with Viscount Lumin was no longer of any importance.

“Y-Your Highness… there appears to be some misunderstanding.”

Gaspar forced himself to speak at last. For now, it seemed best to placate the prince, to explain that his intentions hadn’t been to mock Nikiel, and to diffuse the situation.

However — for whatever reason, Nikiel was not so easily handled today.

“A misunderstanding? And what misunderstanding would that be? Is it that you presumed, in your arrogance, that my memory would hold nothing of you but the displeasure inspired by that ridiculous mustache of yours? Or is it the misunderstanding of insulting a royal in broad daylight, here in the very heart of the palace?”

“R-Royal insu… Your Highness, please—”

The moment the words royal insult fell from Nikiel’s lips, Gaspar felt his entire insides begin to quake.

He had assumed that if he bowed and murmured something like, There’s been a misunderstanding. That’s not what I meant. You’re being too sensitive. Next time, let’s meet on good terms. Forget about today, then, given Nikiel’s tendency to judge people more by their bearing than their words, the prince would not pursue the matter too harshly.

But Nikiel’s reaction was far from what he had expected. To utter the charge of royal insult aloud, here in front of Yullan Balt’s right hand — the Vice Commander of the Black Thorn Knights — meant that Gaspar could be arrested on the spot without a word more.

The weight of a royal insult declared directly by a royal was immense. It was one of the gravest crimes, paired alongside high treason in the realm’s security laws.

Conviction meant, at minimum, the stripping of title and confiscation of lands. A man could arrive at court a high noble in the morning and leave that very evening as a penniless commoner.

Gaspar’s heart now began to tremble in earnest. At this point, neither Viscount Lumin nor business dealings nor anything else could enter his mind.

“Your Highness, that was not my intention… I beg you, show mercy just this once—”

Any excuse and plea for forgiveness were chopped to pieces before they left his tongue. His mind — capable of only short circuits at the best of times — could not even string together a coherent appeal. Even that absurd mustache of his was quivering.

It wasn’t my intention, but I’m truly screwed. If I’m reduced to a commoner, the lady of the house will never spare me. Please, just once, mercy — no, damn it, why has that worthless Nikiel suddenly gotten clever? Either way, I’m doomed.

Those were the only thoughts Gaspar’s mind could produce — and even if he selected the “best” among them for an apology, it seemed impossible that it could salvage the situation.

Then, a white hand came to rest — like a miracle — upon his plump shoulder, only to withdraw just as quickly.

“A jest.”

“Your Highness…”

Gaspar’s ashen face flushed red at once. The thought that he was being mocked made the heat rise all the faster. Nikiel gave a faint, amused smile at the sight of his reddened face.

“What’s this? Is the Count the sort of man who cannot take a jest as a jest?”

“…No, Your Highness.”

“No? Good. Then I’ll be on my way. Come along, Ollarii.”

Nikiel turned on his heel lightly. Behind him, the count and the viscount could only watch his retreating figure, as if a whirlwind had just passed them by.

From that day forward, a rumor circled the court — the “fool prince” had given Count Gaspar a thorough setdown.

Because of the untimely monster attack, the palace remained somewhat unsettled for several days. Paul, seizing the chance, wanted to put a stop to Nikiel’s outdoor exercise — but he could not prevent the prince from vanishing like the wind every morning.

“Your Highness! Please! At least wear a hat, the sun is harsh today!”

“You wear one if you want!”

He even chased after Nikiel with wide-brimmed hats in hand, but thanks to his steadily built-up endurance, Nikiel could easily outpace him. Laughing, he would make his escape.

There was no time to hunt for hats. He wanted to use the palace’s current state of distraction to prepare for the upcoming Subjugation Tournament.

If he tagged along out of sheer greed without any preparation, he would only end up in needless danger — acquiring the dreaded “nuisance character” label. If this world truly was that of The Golden Bough of Sans Brillant, most novels followed that sort of trajectory, and it was best to be cautious.

Though he could not yet hunt monsters himself, he at least wanted to learn some form of self-defense. For that reason, after finishing his morning exercises, Nikiel paid a surprise visit to the Royal Guard’s training grounds.

He intended to inspect the state of their weapons, pick something he could use, and learn from the soldier whose main weapon it was.

Adding muscle mass isn’t the same as practicing martial arts, but hey, may as well try.

Thinking such, Nikiel strolled toward the training hall, searching for the armory.

Inside, he found not even an ant. He had imagined such a place would be under tight security, and the emptiness made him glance around in disbelief.

Since he so often ditched his attendant Paul, Nikiel’s only proof of identity was his platinum hair and blue eyes — unique in combination, even if each trait alone was common enough in Ossinis. Still, he thought there might be guards who wouldn’t recognize him and might interrogate him. He had come prepared for that, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. It felt as though everyone had gone on holiday.

Then, from somewhere nearby, came a loud cheer. It was so close it startled him.

“What, did they catch me sneaking around?” he muttered, glancing about in mild alarm.

On closer listening, it seemed the voices were coming from deeper inside the building. As his steps brought him closer, the shouting grew louder — the acoustics of the coliseum-like building naturally magnifying sound toward the central arena.

Nikiel walked toward the racket and, sure enough, found himself at the round central stadium.

Whatever they were doing to cause so much commotion, it had to be exciting. The cheers filled the space entirely. Passing through the brick-domed entryway, the noise became even more raucous.

“Whooo! Beat them!”

“Don’t lose, Black Thorn!”

“Go, Guard! Loser buys ten casks of cider!”

“What’s ten casks gonna do?!”

And as soon as he stepped around a column, he understood what had drawn such roars. The Royal Guard and the Black Thorn Knights appeared to be holding a match.

It was not an official martial tournament — perhaps more of an Ossinis sport. On the raised circular arena, the contestants clutched at each other’s belts, straining and grappling. It looked much like traditional wrestling… or perhaps close to judo.

Bare-chested, slicked with olive oil, the two men on the platform circled warily. Judging from the flow of the bout, it was some kind of barehanded combat sport, halfway between wrestling and judo.

Nikiel found himself mildly intrigued by the heat of the crowd. Moving out from behind his column, he approached one of the spectators standing in the ring of onlookers and asked,

“What’s this match called?”

“What? You don’t know Sitata?”

The man who answered wore the thin black tunic and matching beret that marked him as a Black Thorn Knight, a simple gold-stitched emblem on his chest — easy to tell apart from the Royal Guard’s beige tunics and berets, which bore the same kind of embroidery.

Having slipped away from Paul for his morning escape, Nikiel was dressed in ivory tunic and beret.

Though unadorned with gold thread, they were of the highest-quality Ashinka silk blend, finer than the Guard’s working uniforms.

But the man, caught up in the excitement of the match, seemed not to notice the quality; he appeared to take Nikiel for just another member of the Guard.

Having gotten his answer, Nikiel turned back to the arena. In the original’s setting, the Black Thorn Knights and the Royal Guard were mortal rivals.

He doubted they were holding this Sitata match for the sake of “amity.” With their mutual resentment, there was little point in friendly competition.

Watching the worked-up knights and guards, Nikiel asked the man beside him again,

“Is there a prize for this match? I must have stepped out on an errand just before it started, so I didn’t catch the announcement.”

The man turned toward him with an irritated frown. Slight differences in attire marked him as a squire serving the knights.

Nikiel’s own subtle differences from the Guard’s uniform must have made him seem a fellow squire, for the man still answered him in familiar speech.

“They’re saying the prize is the tail spine of the Hiohkan we caught yesterday. Doesn’t your lot tell its squires anything? Guards really don’t give a damn about their underlings.”

It wasn’t aimed as a personal insult, so Nikiel didn’t take offense. Without replying, he turned his gaze toward the table at one side of the arena where the prize sat.

It really was a Hiohkan’s segmented tail.

They’re giving a Hiohkan’s tail as a prize? What kind of lunatic thought that up?