MPNS Ch 47

Chapter 47

Yullan’s brow furrowed faintly. His voice came out in a low, ominous mutter.

“Fuck… tell me, has our dear Viscount been boiling and drinking siren throats?”

Siren (시이렌) — in this world, they were male mer‑creatures with clear, haunting voices, known to lure sailors into shipwrecks on reefs. Their looks were said to be far less pleasant than their voices, and if mocked for their appearance, they would shriek loudly enough to burst eardrums, then tear out their own gills and die in despair.

Hoffmann’s face flushed purple, on the verge of protesting again—

But the knights of the Black Thorn, who knew well what that ominous look on their Grand Duke’s face meant, did not hesitate any longer. They rushed in to stop him before anything terrible could happen.

Closest was Benedict Sommes. Like a groom calming a panicked racehorse by covering its eyes, he stepped square between Hoffmann and Yullan, forcing a brash laugh.

“Ha‑ha! Well then, let’s send those curs to the tribunal for royal insult, and in the meantime the Black Thorn will prepare for sparring, Commander!”

“What? Marshal, what nonsense are y—mmpfh!”

A few knights grabbed Hoffmann, cutting off his words, clapping hands over his mouth and slinging comradely arms around his shoulders to spin him away.

“Ohhh? What’s that, Captain? That those curs deserve a harsh punishment for insulting His Highness? Ah yes, we quite agree with you!”

“Mmph! Mmphhh—!”

His words muffled, Hoffmann was swept along by their forced “camaraderie.”

The other Guards, baffled, began fumbling for their weapons—

But the other knights were faster. They clapped hands over the Guards’ mouths as well, linked arms in mock fraternity, and even forced them into “handshakes” as though greeting old friends. In truth it was a quiet binding — gagged and restrained, the palace Guard could only goggle in confusion.

To the Guards, who had long thought the Black Thorns no more than country bumpkins hiding behind their wolf‑monster of a lord, the display was stunning. They had always sneered that true knights should preserve their honor — and that honor depended on bearing.

In their eyes, rolling daily in dust and mud, sweating like mercenaries, was beneath the dignity of knighthood. The kingdom had known long centuries of peace, after all; no foreign invasion in memory. Only monsters threatened — but lately, with four cursed lords born in the same generation, even monsters fell quickly silent.

So why break your body training for battles now handled by those beasts?

And yet when pressed body to body, the Guards could not resist. The sheer difference in power was frightening. They were subdued in moments — gagged, dragged, and tossed aside.

Meanwhile, the three men who had spat insults about Nikiel were already bound and gagged with rope in their mouths, being hauled off.

The rest of the Guards were quietly herded out of the yard and booted into the dust. Bruised at necks, wrists, and shoulders, they were nonetheless too shocked to resist.

When the yard was theirs again, the knights formed ranks before Yullan.

Their Grand Duke regarded the scene with cool indifference.

“Why meddle? I was about to kill them all.”

At that, Benedict squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them to answer with forced composure:

“Given that my lord commanded us to select a fencing master for the young prince, we felt it best to expedite the process. Ahem. Shall we begin sparring then…?”

It was a nonsensical excuse, but he said it anyway. Yullan’s golden eyes flicked to Benedict, then he nodded.

Lost ten years off my life just now, Benedict thought.

Those inattentive Guards nearly got themselves killed. And if they did, would they get a state funeral?

Not a chance.

The grim thought passed between the knights in unspoken glances.

Benedict was just about to announce the bouts starting with the first pair when Yullan raised a hand to halt him.

He gestured toward the place where the three foul‑mouthed Guards had been taken, and said coldly:

“Leave those ones alone. I’ll deal with them myself.”

“…Yes, sir.”

There was no stopping their lord. Wearily, Benedict signaled to a squire, who immediately bolted off to the tribunal hall.

Rumors soon spread: Yullan Balt had dragged palace Guards off without cause, stripped their ranks, and sent them to the frontier walls to labor like convicts.

As he ate breakfast, Nikiel listened as Paul whispered the story gravely in his ear. Nikiel only nodded.

“Well, he does have a rotten temper. Must’ve just felt annoyed.”

He thought of the Korean saying, when a pot leaks inside, it pours outside as well.

He’d been treated to Yullan’s foul moods himself; no surprise he’d be just as harsh to Guards in his own kingdom. The nickname Mad Dog of the North seemed well‑earned.

“No, Your Highness,” Paul protested earnestly. “His Grace does not punish his men without reason. That is why this rumor has struck people so strongly.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. Truly, one weeps to think of the sufferings of so august a lord.”

Nikiel’s tone was dry, but he waved it off.

To common citizens, the Four Heads were figures of reverence, respected even above the crown. Noble rivals might constantly scheme to drag them down, but to ordinary folk, they were heroes and saviors.

And so Nikiel played idly with his silver spoon, sipping cream soup.

He usually disliked foods that went down too easily, leaving him hungry after workouts — but the skill of the palace cook, Bendi, made refusal impossible.

He meant to take only one sip — but ended up scraping the dish clean. Then, stabbing a piece of roast teal, lightly seasoned for protein, he asked:

“So… has my fencing tutor been found yet?”

“Yes. Yesterday afternoon, Marshal Benedict of the Black Thorn sent word, asking if Your Highness wished to begin immediately. I answered, as you wished, that the sooner the better.”

“Well done. So when do I begin?”

“As soon as breakfast is finished, if you like. Your instructor is already waiting in the reception hall.”

“Already?!”

Nikiel shot to his feet, startled. To keep a teacher waiting — how shameful! Raised in a Confucian land, the thought pricked his conscience.

From of old, a pupil was not to step on even the shadow of their master — and now he had made one wait. To delay longer would be intolerable.

He hurried from the hall, Paul scrambling pale‑faced behind him with a napkin.

“Your Highness, your face is smeared with duck grease! And you haven’t even finished your grooming today! In such a state, how can you—”

“To keep a teacher waiting is the true offense! Besides, I’m handsome anyway — I’ll manage.”

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t Nikiel but “Nikiel’s body” that was beautiful — but it hardly mattered. His looks could pull off anything.

Even unwashed, unkempt for a month, his face still held the mournful beauty of pale melancholy. Why not use the advantage? Paul always worried too much.

Ignoring him, Nikiel bounded down the stairs toward the reception hall.

At the door, breathless Paul stumbled to his side. Nikiel jerked his chin toward the door. Knock, then announce his arrival.

At first, such courtly courtesies had confused him. But after devouring Anna Lark Prime’s Guide to Noble Etiquette and Imperial Protocol in the Old Tradition, he was quite accustomed.

Indeed, lately some said he seemed more proper than the “real” Nikiel.

At last Paul knocked, then called out:

“His Highness the Prince is come!”

Heart quickening, Nikiel waited as the door opened. Who would it be?

The Black Thorn Knights were all skilled — even their squires. Reading the original book, his favorite chapters had been of their battles against monsters.

They studied their prey, struck true, saved innocent subjects from peril, leading them into new life.

He had cheered every such tale. Righteous heroes, they had been.

Even the sourness of their commander, Yul‑something, had added to their charm. Having done his doctorate beneath a tyrant professor himself, Nikiel well understood how it was for underlings, suffering under the moods of a brilliant but vicious superior.

Even if his tutor were a newly minted knight only just granted his spurs, he would gladly train under one, and listen to their stories.

But when the door opened —

“We meet again.”

It was indeed a Black Thorn Knight — but not just any. It was their commander himself.

Yullan Balt.