MPNS Ch 42

Chapter 42

 

Noticing the undeniable changes in his body after his exchange with Yullan had left him despondent, Nikiel began devising countermeasures.

“If it’s come to this, then the only thing left for me is training. Exercise — I’ll channel my frustration into exercise.”

His determination toward physical training burned even hotter. With more muscle came more testosterone. And testosterone, he believed, wouldn’t permit him to develop desire toward men. Nikiel put his faith in hormones.

Yet even in the midst of all this, there was another matter he had to address: learning self‑defense for the upcoming Monster Subjugation Tournament.

Holding a massive bronze sphere for twisting lunges, Nikiel pondered who might actually serve as a proper instructor for such training.

He had once gone to survey the training grounds — only to be reprimanded and given sharp warning by Yullan. That alone had soured him on going back.

“Maybe I should ask Raymon… Rude as he is, he was also the one who first mentioned the prophecy. He might at least assign me a tutor.”

The thought seemed sound. Instead of blundering around wasting time, it would be better to appeal to Raymon. He had invoked prophecy to force Nikiel into the tournament — so Nikiel should be able to invoke obligation to demand instruction in turn.

That morning, Nikiel cut his training short but conducted it in high intensity, then wiped himself off clumsily. He completed a military‑style three‑minute shower, soaping both hair and body together with a single bar of fragrant soap. If Paul ever caught him treating bathing that way, disaster was sure to follow.

Shooing off the oncoming attendants who tried to help him with his hounds, he twisted and wrung out the water from his hair and set about preparing to find Raymon.

Paul was away that day — lobbying the Chief of the Imperial Household to acquire allocations of the finest silk from Ashinca, one of Ossinis’ tributary nations.

Nikiel wouldn’t know quality silk if it hit him, but the “true” Nikiel apparently refused to wear clothing from anywhere but Ashinca.

Glossy, soft, and light, Ashinca silk had swept Ossinis high society some years ago and had never fallen out of vogue since.

Perhaps that explained why every garment attendants brought him felt so unnecessarily smooth.

But if he lingered, he’d risk running into Paul, tense and irritable from scheming bribes until his very fingerprints blistered. And if Paul saw the prince with damp hair, surely he’d lecture him. So Nikiel bolted from the Prince’s Palace like a mischievous child escaping the household.

Leaving the palace, he toyed idly with a foxtail stalk as he headed toward the main compound.

Unlike the other three lords gathering in the capital for the tournament, Raymon was the only Head based permanently there — one of the greatest nobles of the city.

His post was Lord Marshal of the Hunt. The royal forest that ringed the palace was immense — larger than two and a half provinces combined, thick and labyrinthine enough to lose oneself forever without a guide. It was the natural fortress of Ossinis.

The royals spent late summer and early autumn enjoying the hunt within it, and upon petition from the noble society sometimes hosted great hunting tournaments there too. These tournaments, held at the end of autumn, often served as meeting‑grounds for young heirs and heiresses seeking connections.

The Hunt Marshal thus commanded the forest and, beyond that, presided over the kingdom’s monster‑subjugation tournaments.

It was a lofty office, ranking sixth in precedence among palace posts.

The reason Raymon of Boltwick oversaw the forest was obvious — he was, in truth, a great reindeer.

The palace forest belonged to him. As long as that beast guarded it, no monster dared enter. True, under the curse of the Dragon’s Madness, when he transformed into a stag he lost all sanity. But precisely for that reason, monsters sensitive to danger could never come close while he resided there.

The holy protection of Rasiris, the capital, formed the kingdom’s first shield. Boltwick’s reindeer, Raymon, formed the second. Thus House Boltwick had for generations been the wardens of the palace woods.

“If I recall correctly… in the original story, whenever Raymon felt on the verge of losing himself to madness, he would voluntarily retreat into the forest and transform into a stag.”

Such was the forest’s size — vast enough for one man to throw himself into solitude.

To oversee it, Raymon came daily at dawn to the administrative wing of the palace, whose offices lay beside the training grounds. Familiar with this route, Nikiel now turned his steps there.

So it was, as he walked, that a sudden sound prrroo‑oo broke the air — a bird call. A hawk, slightly larger than a pigeon, wheeled over his head.

Nikiel, delighted, cried aloud:

“It’s you!”

The bird pulled broad circles in the air, tighter and tighter until at last it swooped into his arms. Nikiel, ready with outstretched arms, laughed and gently hugged it in welcome, waiting until it folded its wings before closing his embrace.

The hawk chirruped, seemingly glad to see him.

“Hey, want to hang out with me today? I’ve got a meeting with one nasty‑tempered bastard, but afterward let’s go back to the palace together. I’ll get you some lamb.”

It wasn’t as though he could be sure the bird understood, but Nikiel went on speaking. The hawk, with its round pupils and storm‑gray eyes, tilted its head in puzzlement.

Finding it adorable, Nikiel grinned wide. Then, staring at his smile, the bird leaned in and pressed its head firmly against his chest.

For so small a creature, it pressed surprisingly heavy. Nikiel glanced down at the hawk cuddled in his arms with curiosity.

“What’s up? You want something? You mean that spot, the brush over there?”

He couldn’t quite tell, but somehow it seemed to be nudging him toward the edge of the path, toward the scrubby thickets. Nikiel silently let himself be guided.

Such a clever bird, he thought.

To express itself with such subtle nudging — perhaps there was prey hidden in the brush? Willingly, Nikiel pushed deeper, brushing aside the foliage.

After twenty steps, when nothing had happened, Nikiel looked again at the bird nestled meekly in his arms.

“So… this is where you wanted me? What is it?”

The hawk only stared up at him with its gray eyes, then rubbed its beak slowly against the nape of his neck.

“What… was all this just because you wanted to play with me?”

The feathery nuzzle tickled up his neck; Nikiel, laughing though shoulders hunching, tried not to drop the affectionate bird in his arms.

Yet even as he supported it, he felt… something other than tickling. An odd, almost shivering sensation.

Alarmed at the feeling, he tried to pry it off.

“That’s enough—”

“……”

But still nestled, the hawk somehow spread its wings wide, pressing down firmly on his shoulders. Startled, Nikiel lost his balance and toppled backwards.

“Uagh—!”

Only the softness of the grass kept him from real hurt. But Nikiel was too shocked to notice.

Even as he fell, he clutched the hawk tight, protecting it. Attempting to rise, he found the creature once more forcing him back with its weight, pressing him prone.

“What are you doing? Don’t you know lying in autumn grass carries the risk of scrub‑typhus?”

But just then he noticed — wasn’t the bird larger than before…?

In his arms, wings spread, it was now broad enough to blot out the daylight.

Once more it lowered its head — this time rubbing its beak slowly, almost languidly, along his throat.

Surely, its beak carried its pheromones — which it now seemed to be deliberately smearing onto him.

But I’m not even its mate. Why is it doing this?

Baffled, Nikiel tried to push it away — yet at the same time, a strange sensation welled up inside him.

“Ughhh…”

His body betrayed him. His chest tingled, his lower belly grew heavy, heat flushed to his face.

The gentle feathers along his nape tickled unbearably. His hands trembled against the hawk but could exert no force, while the bird itself gave not the faintest sign of being moved.

Straddled across his upper abdomen, the raptor seemed suddenly immense. Pigeons were never this strong — what was happening?

“Wait—”

But now he dared not even open his mouth, for fear some breathy sound would escape.

All this, just from the hawk rubbing its beak at his neck?

This damned body. Now it even reacts to a bird? Truly, “slut among sluts” suits me.

No matter how he tried to deny it, the weight in his belly left no doubt. To feel such a thing, broad daylight, from a pet bird in play? He panicked.

Truthfully, it was not sexual arousal at all, but the euphoric sensation of his holy power being siphoned away. Yet for a man like Nikiel — no experience in true romance, always buried in research — the resemblance between that sensation and arousal was close enough that he could not distinguish them.

Wherever the hawk touched, his divine power drained away, leaving ecstasy in its place.

If he had understood the nature of that feeling sooner, perhaps he might have realized far earlier the suspicious truth of this strange bird’s identity.

Footnote:

Scrub‑typhus (쯔쯔가무시 in Korean) is a mite‑borne disease associated with autumn grasses. Nikiel’s thought reflects a soldier’s pragmatic awareness of environmental hazards.