MPSN Ch 3

Chapter 3

Staring at Yullan, I completely forgot about the blood trickling from my lips. In my life, I’d seen many beautiful women, but I couldn’t recall seeing many truly handsome men. You had to turn on the TV to spot their kind, and even then, faces like mine—which had been a few times called “handsome” in real life—were rare enough to know just how dire the state of street-level male beauty could be.

Except for that one time when a celebrity actor visited my college campus for a shoot, I’d never encountered a face like his in real life.

And as soon as Yullan entered, the room was so saturated with male pheromones it was overwhelming. It wasn’t even that he was trying—it just seemed to exude from him naturally.

His presence alone was so commanding that my frail, glass-like body was trembling.

‘He could probably kill a man with his presence alone,’ I thought—because there was no way to express it except like that. It was the feeling of confronting a very dignified beast. It felt as if a prince had barely managed to civilize some fierce predator, a creature with fangs like blades and claws thick as clubs, and then let it stalk the palace gardens in a gentlemanly manner.

Even amid the electric tension, I found myself unable to look away from Yullan’s eyes. Those emotionless, blue-black irises glistened as if obsidian had been set into them. Even as someone from Korea—a nation of black hair and black eyes—I had never seen such captivating azure-black.

‘So this is what it looks like when a man is truly, impossibly handsome,’ the thought floated through my blank mind, the same lost silence as when admiring a breathtaking landscape. Lost in my own stupor, I only came to my senses when Yullan—whose gaze had been fixed on me—addressed Paul.

“…Is His Highness in any condition to hold a conversation?”

Snapped back to myself, I realized his question was just short of, “Is this guy still crazy?” The look in his eyes was openly contemptuous.

I cleared my throat—“Ahem.” Paul, catching my cue, quickly pressed a linen cloth to my lips, giving me just enough time to regain my composure.

What was the correct courtly way of speaking again? I was an engineering major, so language had never been my strong suit; all I could do was try to mimic the kind of haughty speech I’d heard in historical period dramas.

“As you can see, I am unwell. And to enter a royal’s chambers without knocking—are my relations with Your Grace really so intimate?”

“…Your manner of speaking is strange.”

Yullan looked down at me, raising a single eyebrow. Behind him, Paul was shaking his head violently and making an “X” sign with his arms.

Is this not it? I asked with my eyes, and Paul nodded furiously, only for his expression to turn poker-faced when Yullan looked back at him—busying himself fixing my robe as if nothing had happened.

“Hm. I must have fallen asleep reading ancient texts last night…”

“His Highness… reading,” Yullan replied, his tone unidentifiable as either mocking or genuinely surprised. I wondered if even this was incorrect, closing and opening my eyes as if to reboot myself.

Whatever; might as well just say what’s really on my mind.

“All right, so why exactly did you come here?”

“…I came to receive your confirmation that you will not be participating in this year’s Hunting Tournament.”

Faced with my total lack of decorum, Yullan looked exactly as if to say, “Of course, what else could I expect from you,” with an expression betraying he never held out hope in the first place. What kind of life did you live, “Chin-kiel”? I screamed inwardly, but naturally, no answer came back.

Wait, so he came for confirmation I wouldn’t participate? My mind snapped into focus; the monster subjugation tournament was a major plotline in the original novel, marking the protagonist’s rise to glory and earning the loyalty of the house heads.

But here he was, requesting a clear withdrawal—I wasn’t sure what to make of it, and Paul’s face had gone pale, but I, delighted, gave a quick affirmative.

“Very well, I shall withdraw!”

I was more than glad; as much as going along with the novel and riding to glory by slaying the black dragon would be, in this world my role was less hero-in-training and more someone’s prospective bride.

Listening to how Yullan framed it, it seemed like the original story’s featured tournament was less about glory and more about a marriage market. Somewhere, the script had shifted.

‘Don’t underestimate the power of modern reasoning—I come from a world where we form hypotheses and back them up with experiments!’

I couldn’t help giggling at my own wit, grinning wide and flashing teeth smeared with blood. Yullan, watching me, then said to Paul,

“Clean His Highness’s mouth.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Paul answered promptly and set to wiping the blood from my lips. Watching Yullan—who’d come in radiating open hostility yet now seemed surprisingly attentive—I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.

He, for his part, stood as massive as a fortress in the middle of my room, treating the prince’s attendant as if my attendant were also his. Yet the behavior seemed less rude than intimately familiar, as if we’d always had this kind of rapport. Leaning close, I whispered to Paul,

“Are we close, him and me?”

“…I wouldn’t say so. But more to the point, His Grace is a swordmaster—he can probably hear anything we say at this distance…”

Startled by that, I glanced back at Yullan, who had heard every word. His face was set in an expression that said, “I couldn’t care less; your words are garbage unworthy of attention.” With his impassive face layered over palpable indifference, it was clear he had not the slightest actual interest in me.

“Hm, anyway, I will not be joining the hunting tournament. Now that Your Grace’s business is finished, you’re free to leave without a word—just as you entered.”

My voice came out far colder and sharper than I intended—like the crackle of ice—but I managed to keep my composure. In truth, outside of the petty grudges I held against professors who’d repeatedly rejected my dissertation, I wasn’t the type to hold real animosity toward people.

Yullan, whom I’d only met once, could offend me with his rudeness all he wanted; it rolled off me. But in this world, any immediate friendship with a house head would surely prompt the king to push for our wedding.

I was undoubtedly dead in my real body from cardiac arrest and would not be returning; but I had little desire to resign myself to sharing a bed with a man, just because that was the local custom.

It’s not like the thought of marrying a man made me want to retch—there are women in this world, after all, so why do things this way? Thus, I resolved to act abrasive at times, so as to keep myself firmly off Yullan’s list of preferred partners.

Luckily, it seemed to work—Yullan fixed me with a narrowed gaze, his Adam’s apple bobbing once before he gave a curt bow of pure obligation.

It was the most perfunctory bow imaginable, as if done solely from duty to royalty. His face was purposely unbothered, not even caring to hide his displeasure.

“I hope you do not change your mind. I know Your Highness to be fickle, but overall, your intentions are upright.”

“Your Grace!” Paul shouted in surprise, his face scandalized as if to say, “How could you say such a thing to my charge!”—even though he’d been just as disrespectful himself earlier. Rolling my eyes, I gestured nonchalantly.

“Paul, he’s not deaf. You’re the one who told me even an ant’s whisper would reach a swordmaster at this distance. Besides, Your Grace—I did say you could leave without another word, didn’t I?”

“…My apologies.”

Yullan, apparently caught off guard by my tone, arched an eyebrow, then nodded slightly before pivoting smartly on his right heel and striding out. I couldn’t help but think his step was the model for a military drill—‘Right face! Forward march!’—a paragon of military parade ground style.

As I watched in admiration, Paul griped,

“Why would you say you’re not joining the hunting tournament? Do you know what kind of event it is?”

“Why, what kind is it?”

I replied indifferently, prompting Paul to launch into a mini-lecture.

“Since Your Highness has conveniently forgotten, let me explain: The tournament is a grand festival honoring the great Solar God Solius, starting by daylight and culminating in a hunt to drive out the black dragon Nasiu—whom darkness nursed in its cradle. Every two years, it rotates among the northern, western, eastern regions, and here in the capital, Rashiris. This year, it’s being held in the forest outside Rashiris—an important event! Your Highness must attend!”

“Is it so I can ‘hunt’ for a husband?”

“That’s right, to find a—no, forgive me, Your Highness. I would never suggest such a thing.”

“But you just did.”

“I was only parroting back what you said…”

“Anyway. Then it really is about securing a marriage match, at Father’s instigation.”

Paul nodded with a sigh, looking like he was about to combust from anxiety over my withdrawal from such an important event.

Meanwhile, I felt a bit better. At least, with tournament participation deferred, I’d have time to adjust to this world at my own pace.

“…Hrk, hack, ergh—!”

“Your Highness… Are you all right?”

And maybe, with luck, I could figure out how to rehabilitate this wretched, chronically hemorrhaging body of mine.

Though I’d died of sudden heart failure brought on by overwork, I had actually been the ‘health evangelist’ of my research group back in the lab. I’d constructed a rational health algorithm, improved muscle mass, and established regular exercise habits in pursuit of a wholesome life. Despite all that effort, I’d still died young—but with one parent afflicted by heart disease, perhaps it was just genetics.

‘Even if my previous methods missed the mark, it’s got to be better than this decrepit body.’

I made a vow.

It was exactly one month later that rumors spread about the king’s mad youngest son withdrawing from all activity to begin a regimen of exercise to vent his frustrations.*

*Footnote: This is a joke by the protagonist, referencing how “hwabyeong”—a traditional Korean concept roughly translatable as “anger illness” or stress-induced malaise—might in modern times be managed through exercise rather than hysteria or fainting.