MPNS Ch 37

Chapter 37

The rise and fall of his throat was enough to express his anger in place of words.

Yullan looked genuinely angry — though Nikiel couldn’t imagine why.

‘Is he seriously this petty because I was “playing” with his subordinates?’

Given the way Yullan had never bothered to hide his contempt whenever they met, it was quite possible he disapproved of Nikiel associating with his knights.

‘Fine, but if that’s all, why the hell is he wrapping me up in his cloak like this?!’

Growling at both the Knights and the Guard, he had swept his heavy cloak around Nikiel’s entire body in one sharp motion. Nikiel began to wonder if Yullan suffered from some kind of anger management problem.

The match was ruined. The Guard looked baffled, while the Black Thorn Knights were plainly thinking — whatever it was — their lord was angry, and that was bad news.

Frowning, Nikiel spoke. Even voicing the question irritated him.

“Why are you angry? We were just in the middle of a match.”

He wanted to say something sharper, but restrained himself to a halfway polite inquiry. The reply, however, was utterly devoid of courtesy.

“Stop provoking me and keep your mouth shut.”

…What? Now Nikiel was truly astonished.

It wasn’t merely discourteous — it was the tone one might take with a squire, utterly looking down on him. Granted, as a grand duke, Yullan’s status and power were roughly on par with his own as a prince — but Nikiel was still a royal of the realm.

He might not be the crown prince, but he was still of the royal bloodline, so how could Yullan speak to him with such rudeness?

The only “concession” to form was that he kept his voice low enough that only Nikiel could hear it — but that did nothing to ease Nikiel’s irritation.

As if Nikiel’s anger were nothing, Yullan called out stiffly through his clenched jaw,

“Ullik!”

“…Yes, My Lord.”

“Dismiss them. The tournament’s canceled. And you — follow me.”

Oh, so now it’s just outright informal speech, is it? All right, you’ve picked the wrong day.

Nikiel stomped after Yullan as he turned and strode away from the arena first.

It wasn’t easy. His pace was so quick that Nikiel, a little disgracefully, had to huff and puff to keep up.

The man kept up that brisk stride down the corridor encircling the arena. Even pushing himself, Nikiel couldn’t close the distance — and it was starting to grate on him.

Determined to catch him and have his say, he followed until Yullan suddenly turned a corner.

Nikiel, not slowing his pace, swung around the same corner — and nearly crashed into a wall of a man.

“Uh—”

He pitched forward, his cloak flaring. If he fell like this, his forehead would smash square into Yullan’s chest.

To avoid falling into his enemy’s arms, Nikiel reached to grab Yullan’s forearm — but Yullan turned his body sharply, leaving him with nothing to catch hold of. Off-balance, Nikiel dropped to one knee with a thud.

“What the…! Your Grace! How can you just dodge like that?!”

The pain in his knee was nothing compared to the surge of anger. How dare he — a royal — trip in front of him, and instead of catching him, sidestep? Even without royal status, wasn’t it basic decency to steady someone about to fall?

Nikiel sprang up, glaring at him. His palms and knees burned where they’d scraped the stone.

Yullan, however, looked bored, answering with a flat face,

“I thought you were trying to grope me again.”

“Wh—why the hell would I grope you?!”

Nikiel’s temper flared to its peak. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this angry here.

And it was only natural — what if his knee had split open? What if there’d been bone damage? A torn meniscus from a twisted shin? That would mean no lunges or squats for over three months.

If you injure yourself carrying even a small load, you will not be allowed in the gym for three months.

One of the Ten Commandments of the weightlifter. Nikiel had just stared down a mortal peril — and regarded Yullan, now the prime enemy threatening that safety, with all the malice he could muster.

“And another thing — why have you been addressing me in familiar speech? Do I look like the son of some street rabble to you? My father is very much alive, and I am owed the honor due my station!”

“Honor due your station?”

Yullan’s lip curled in the faintest of smirks, as if the words amused him.

It was a dangerous expression — handsome, yes, but more in the way of a predator’s allure than anything reassuring. In the dim corner of the empty corridor, the gold in his eyes gleamed, making him seem like a beast watching from the darkness.

The high ceiling echoed their voices, Yullan’s low tone coming back from the walls even deeper and more ominous.

Nikiel forced himself not to startle at the sudden shift in atmosphere.

‘God, this bastard’s good at the intimidation game… Don’t flinch. I’m the prince. I’m the prince.’

Steeling himself, Nikiel stood silent under Yullan’s gaze — until the man gave a brief, derisive laugh and growled like an animal,

“When you go around rubbing your cheek on men’s shoulders like a common catamite, you didn’t seem so concerned about propriety.”

“What… what—?”

So much for his composure. A catamite? He’d never been insulted like that before — and all for taking a wrestling stance? He was too stunned to even form words.

“With your whole body oiled, as if you’re inviting someone’s touch.”

Yullan flicked a finger against the edge of the cloak Nikiel was still wearing. The heavy fabric gave a small sway — but it was as if the tap had knocked the wind out of him.

For a moment, Nikiel wondered why he was even standing here having this conversation. The words were so absurd they actually calmed him down. Wiping the indignation from his expression, he lowered his brow in composure.

The change gave the impression of a flowerbud opening. Pale honey-blond lashes dipped, throwing a half-shadow over blue eyes like cold spring water.

In an even, almost flat tone, Nikiel said,

“Even if I am a catamite—”

“……”

“—I’m still Your Grace’s prince.”

“……”

“If I’m nothing but a catamite, that makes you the Grand Duke of catamites.”

To Nikiel, it meant nothing deeper — a borrowed grade-schooler’s logic, turning the insult back on the insulter, “Takes one to know one.”

But it seemed Yullan heard it differently. His brow arched slightly, one eye narrowing as he spoke — and the words from his finely-shaped mouth were unexpected.

“…They say you lost your memory after facing a demon — and yet I see you can scheme a bit.”

Oh, for— Nikiel forced himself to swallow the fresh surge of irritation.

In truth, neither the Nikiel of The Golden Bough of Sans Brillant nor Nikiel before falling into this world had any power. He’d had no special talents or gifts. The only unique thing was his holy power — and even that, the original had been too vain and foolish to put to use with the heads of the houses.

Yullan Balt, by contrast, was the kingdom’s Military Governor and first line of defense in the North. His duchy of Iteren could likely outmatch many small kingdoms if it became independent.

By personal ability and by birthright, Yullan Balt was objectively the stronger figure. A platinum-haired, blue-eyed prince was born only once in a generation and had no claim to the throne — such a prince was bound instead to marry one of the four heads of house.

So even if Yullan insulted Nikiel in private, there was nothing to be done. Since he clearly did not covet Nikiel’s holy power, he had no reason to curry favor.

But if Nikiel backed down here, he would lose forever in the dominance games between men. Their stations might be roughly equal, and Yullan’s actual power greater — but Nikiel was a battle-tempered graduate student from a notoriously grueling natural sciences program.

Natural sciences doctoral candidates were strong — because even after graduating, the only thing waiting for them was running a fried chicken shop. To know that, and still claw one’s way to a degree, meant nothing remained but sheer grit and obstinacy.

On top of that, Nikiel was inured to constant hazing. After two years under one professor for his master’s and three for his doctorate, he was recognized as “one of the tough ones” even by the ivory tower’s own.

Meeting Yullan’s mocking look, Nikiel shrugged off the cloak, baring his torso in one swift motion.

The man who, Nikiel thought, would never show surprise, actually froze. That alone was perversely satisfying.

Yullan ground the words out between his teeth.

“Are you completely insane? What the hell are you doing?”

“Take your cloak back. I don’t care for Your Grace’s charity.”

“At least pretend to have some shame. You’re betrothed, for gods’ sake—”

“…What?”

Nikiel frowned. Had he just heard something utterly shocking?

Yullan sighed and brushed back his fringe. Golden eyes glinted with impatience as he looked at Nikiel with open disdain. Then he spoke.