MPNS Ch 52

Chapter 52

It was exactly ten minutes before the appointed time.

Nikiel, thinking it a good sign, took the basket from Paul’s hands himself.

Paul nearly fainted in horror, his voice ringing solemn as if in battle:

“Your Highness! I must carry it!”

Nikiel answered indifferently. It wasn’t heavy enough to warrant such fuss.

“You’re too small to carry all this.”

“Height and strength have nothing to do with it!” Paul squawked, face flushed.

But Nikiel ignored him entirely. Whether it was a servant’s burden or not, he carried the basket himself and walked on.

When it comes to food, no one can resist.

True to his Korean heritage, he believed the stomach was the surest way to win a man’s favor. Humming cheerfully, he headed for the domed entrance of the training hall.

Yet in truth, Nikiel hardly thought he could smooth everything over with a single meal.

The former Nikiel had caused Yullan far too much trouble, their animosity well‑known. Food alone would never suffice. But sincerity mattered most. Even wild beasts, if shown steady, harmless attention, learned to distinguish friend from foe.

So, Nikiel decided to think of Yullan as a wild wolf.

Not an inaccurate picture, he admitted to himself. After all, the man literally is one.

And thinking of him as such awakened a spark of affection. Even if he failed today, there was still time before the Subjugation Tournament. If he could at least lay groundwork for closeness, his instruction might be better for it.

But of course, things never go as hoped. At the gates, he was stopped.

Marshal Benedict Sommes himself appeared, face careful with apology, and forbade the basket’s entry. The gift—rejected before even passing the doors.

Nikiel stared, half annoyed, half exasperated.

“My lord… these are simple provisions, nothing more. Hardly weapons.”

He spoke plaintively, basket in arms. To see his carefully prepared peace offering struck down before even crossing the threshold was almost laughable.

Benedict wore the same strained look. Bowing, he said,

“Yes, Your Highness, we know. We are grateful beyond words. I heard too you sent a feast of delicacies to our barracks. For that, the knights thank you. But… our lord once gave a strict command…”

He faltered.

Nikiel regarded the red‑haired Marshal calmly. Behind him, other knights lined the entrance, clearly nervous, waiting by the confiscated basket.

He replied with composure.

“Very well. You must obey your superior. But then tell me exactly what command this was, so that I may at least understand.”

Benedict winced audibly. The duke’s rank may outrank a prince, but his subordinate plainly did not. To bar a royal entry was perilous enough—and to refuse explanation was worse.

He had expected at least a slap the moment he’d asked to examine the baggage. Instead, Nikiel had given it over without complaint. Quiet. Composed.

Too composed. That frightened him more.

Why… why is he carrying it himself?

For a noble, let alone a royal, to bear luggage himself was unheard of except in war.

Nikiel had only Paul with him. No entourage, no tail of attendants. Just the single steward at his side.

Benedict had actually stretched his neck when they arrived at the yard, waiting for the dozens of servants that never came.

This was Nikiel Ossinis—the man renowned for dragging whole courts of servants just to fan him, fetch cups, hold napkins. Whole salons laughed at his extravagance.

Yet here he stood, alone but for one steward.

And Benedict realized at last: Sir Allewyn hadn’t been joking, after all, when he’d reported the prince wandering alone in the woods. He’d thought it impossible—Nikiel, alone? But he believed it now.

Drawn from his thoughts, he heard Nikiel’s tone again, steady and polite:

“Marshal. Would you not explain?”

He bowed his head in surrender. He could hardly stand there shameless before such civility.

Trembling for words, he finally answered:

“…Do you recall, perhaps, the Feast of the Holy Blood, two years past?”

Recall it? Of course not. But Nikiel kept his face still, feigning thoughtful recollection. Playacting memory, hoping it would suffice.

That feast celebrated the tale when the god Solius himself shed divine blood to repel monsters, feeding it to them as offering; awed, they withdrew. It was commemorated at winter’s end with balls and festival.

Yes… I read that once, in a religious compendium. He grasped at that thread, keeping the mask of false reminiscence.

Encouraged, Benedict pressed on, hesitant but clear.

“And do you remember the glass of wine you offered His Grace at that ball?”

Nikiel smiled faintly, unwilling to confess ignorance.

Benedict grimaced.

“A cherry brandy… the scent was very fine. But—unfortunately, Your Highness, that cup had been laced with… stimulant given to kennel dogs. A… rutting agent.”

“…Stop.”

Nikiel cut him off, face blanching.

A rut‑drug for stud hounds? Seriously—? His stomach heaved. Of all the depraved things the real Nikiel had done, to slip animal rut‑medicine into Yullan’s wine—

No wonder the Duke hated him. To a man cursed to transform into a monster wolf under madness, what deeper insult than to be fed a dog’s heat draught?

The wonder was that Yullan had not killed him outright.

Nikiel’s face was pale as he forced words.

“Enough. Search my basket as you will. Or—if it pleases you—I shall taste every dish myself.”

“H‑Highness—!”

“Not for your thanks. Because you cannot be expected to trust me. So I will be my own poison‑taster.”

Benedict blanched now in turn. A royal, offering to test his own food! It was unheard of. Unimaginable.

But Nikiel reached calmly toward the neck of a waiting wine bottle—

And then, a low voice intervened.

“Enough.”

The voice was Yullan Balt’s.

Note

• Feast of the Holy Blood (성혈 축일): Religious holiday commemorating the god Solius offering divine blood to appease monsters.