MPNS Ch 71

Chapter 71

Nikiel thought it strange.

Hadn’t someone been developing the blast furnace method? He was sure the notes on Lucien’s desk had been about a blast furnace. While Nikiel sank into his own thoughts, Allewyn, assuming the prince hadn’t understood, kindly elaborated.

“As Your Highness knows, only iron items consecrated by the Temple may be used by the kingdom’s people. Whether weapon or tableware, it makes no difference. We train with bronze ordinarily, but at this season consecrated iron weapons arrive from the Temple.”

Which meant the Temple controlled Ossinis’s military power and everyday life alike. If even the knights’ arms were under its thumb, then every other iron‑dependent good was doubly so.

Nikiel finally recalled when Raymon had shifted his plea—saying an oracle had descended and asking the prince to join the Subjugation Tournament. Raymon, it turned out, was watching the Temple’s mood. The Temple’s influence across Ossinis was greater than expected.

That thought birthed another question. He had read that other nations in the western continent also used bronze—what did that mean? He’d also read that few countries adopted Solius as a state religion; Ossinis was practically alone in that. It was puzzling.

Wiping sweat with the silk handkerchief Paul had packed, Nikiel handed the wooden sword to Allewyn and smiled faintly.

“Mm. Suddenly I have a stomachache. Good Allewyn, might we end here today?”

“Gasp—Your Highness, your stomach hurts! Shall I fetch a physician—”

“No, no. Must be I slept with my stomach uncovered and caught a chill. It’s chilly of late, isn’t it?”

“With your stomach… uncovered…”

Allewyn, thinking who‑knows‑what, flushed scarlet at once. Nikiel ignored it, slipped on an embroidered silk vest over his training tunic—Paul’s compromise for “please wear something over that”—offered a brisk farewell, and left the yard.

“Your Highness—!”

He ignored the call behind him and set out to find Lucien. He needed explanations.

The Ministry of Magic, where Lucien would be, wasn’t far from the training hall—but not close either. Normally he would avoid notice and take quiet paths, but he was in haste now and didn’t even think to hide. Courtiers bowed at his passing; he hadn’t time to bow back.

At last, reaching the place where Lucien might be, he told the guards at the door,

“Inform Duke Turun that I am here.”

But as he spoke, someone took his hand, raised it, and kissed the back, murmuring,

“No need, Your Highness. I came to receive you myself.”

Nikiel’s eyes brightened. How did he know I was coming? Lucien smiled into those clear, intelligent eyes.

“I am no hound, but my nose is quite keen.”

Nikiel nodded; as a serpent who shunned bright light, Lucien would have keen scent. He scratched his cheek.

…The smell must be strong today. Paul was right—I need a proper bath, not a quick shower. Fifteen, twenty minutes isn’t cutting it.

As he fretted over sweat from sword practice, Lucien spoke again:

“Pardon me, Your Highness.”

Here we go—another express ride. He remembered being borne to the top‑floor window in Lucien’s arms. Today was the same. Lucien ignored stairs entirely, rising to the tower’s top window and setting him down safely.

Nikiel tilted slightly to slip inside—wide enough for any grown man to duck through—and Lucien followed right after.

Like he owned the place, Nikiel climbed the familiar stairs. Lucien chuckled softly behind him. Curious why, Nikiel nonetheless said nothing—this was not the moment. Together they entered Lucien’s laboratory again.

When the door shut at the duke’s back, Nikiel, voice more urgent than intended, asked,

“Is the Temple monopolizing the blast furnace?”

“…Your Highness.”

Lucien’s face tightened—not with annoyance at an absurd question, but with the pained concern of one watching a child step where they mustn’t.

Seeing that expression, Nikiel knew he’d struck true. Lucien did not show his hand easily, though.

“The one who left notes on my work last time—that was you, wasn’t it, Your Highness.”

Nikiel stiffened. He should have known he’d be found out—but he had half forgotten he was playing the amnesiac, and that he’d jotted reduction formulas.

Since arriving here—aside from the absurd “fate” of being married off to four men as large as doorframes—he had adapted with shocking speed. Where other modern transplants might lament, “Great, transmigrated into a book. Should’ve stayed illiterate instead of reading so much,” Nikiel had simply begun exercising. True, his body had been too ruined to think straight—so he trained to restore a sound mind in a sound body. But somewhere along the way he simply… kept training.

That quick adaptability had let him forget his amnesia act. He cleared his throat and feigned innocence.

“That was just… scribbles. Meaningless.”

Lucien looked down as though willing to let it pass. Nikiel gave a mild smile and pressed,

“So—tell me. Does the Temple truly monopolize the blast furnace?”

Lucien’s reply sank low, like swallowed iron.

“…The Temple releases consecrated iron only in exchange for donations. But it is His Majesty who permits that arrogance.”

What? Nikiel’s eyes flew wide. Not only the content, but the fact that Lucien would criticize his own father before him. He stammered,

“You… speak ill of a father before his child—”

“Even alley urchins know the Lords are disloyal to His Majesty.”

True enough… Nikiel nodded slowly. He heard Lucien sigh, low.

“Moreover, I hold evidence of Your Highness’s treason.”

“…What?”

There was only one person he would call “Your Highness.” Evidence of treason—against him? Nikiel stared, teacup‑wide eyes.

Lucien glanced down at him. His face held a slyness that banished any notion of “pure young scholar”—and it suited him disconcertingly well.

Huh… wasn’t he supposed to be a gentle, upright youth? A sickly magician‑alchemist trying to live well? Yet that sharp, fishy smile fit him like a second skin.

As Nikiel stared, momentarily entranced, Lucien bowed his head slightly. Silver‑fine hair like spider silk spilled forward. A good scent rose—faint serpent pheromones oddly alluring.

“Researching the blast furnace is, under current law, high treason. So the one who handed me the key clue to the blast furnace—Your Highness—is likewise complicit in treason.”

“How does that make any sense!”

Distracted by the scent, Nikiel had reacted late, then squawked. Treason? He cared nothing for the throne. Lately his interests were solely monsters and sword lessons—upright pursuits. Treason?

Lucien’s eyes crinkled; he began to laugh despite himself, struggling to keep it in.

“…Are you making sport of me, Duke?”

“Never, Your Highness. How could a lowly beast mock you?”

The instant he called himself a beast, a voice flickered through Nikiel’s skull:

You must remember me. Pity the wretched beast who carries even your memories, and remember.

The voice vanished as quickly as it came. Nikiel blinked, then, as if nothing had happened, grumbled,

“Smooth words. But Duke, no matter how you twist them, I’m not so easily turned. I asked why the Temple monopolizes the blast furnace.”

Lucien’s face tightened, then he leaned to the prince’s ear and whispered like sharing a secret:

“I cannot tell you yet. But give it a little time—then I will come to you and explain it myself.”

“……”

“Would Your Highness grant me that chance?”

The request slid soft as a serpent’s tongue. Nikiel groaned, then nodded. He was stubborn; wringing more out of him now seemed futile.

In the end, he learned little that day. But a few days later, he understood why Lucien had deferred his answer.