MPSN Ch 5

Chapter 5

‘Oh dear, ever since he fell ill and then recovered, how is it that he’s become so dignified and gallant?’

Paul couldn’t help but marvel inwardly. Nikiel’s face had always been beautiful, both before and now, yet something about him seemed entirely different.

The once sickly complexion, tinged with irritability and so pale it seemed almost blue like fine porcelain, now bore a faint rose flush of vitality. His chronically weak and feeble body, which had always been hunched over, naturally straightened, and his shoulders, once drooping forward, now drew back, giving him a posture that was upright and imposing.

Even his demeanor had shifted; gone was the irritable air, replaced with a composure that seemed unshaken, like a vast body of water undisturbed by ripples.

It had been only a few days ago. Because of Nikiel’s aversion to strangers—and also because he was the king’s youngest son, born marked as the “Savior”—he was one of the most important figures in the kingdom, yet Paul was the only attendant allowed close to him.

Across the entire royal palace, there were many servants assigned to the prince’s quarters, but the only one permitted to serve him intimately was Paul. Because of that, Paul had no proper meal schedule of his own. He would either nibble food here and there while serving Nikiel, or, on the rare occasions when he was relieved of duty—like beans sprouting in a drought—he would devour whatever food he could find like a starved man.

‘But when do you even sleep or eat?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I mean, you’re always by my side—when do you eat?’

Paul wondered if something had displeased Nikiel, scrutinizing the prince’s expression closely. But no matter how hard he looked, Nikiel’s face remained impassive. Only then did Paul realize: the prince he served was worrying about his meals. The idea that Nikiel might care about his servant’s well-being was unthinkable before he’d lost his memory.

Before falling ill and losing consciousness, Nikiel had considered tormenting those beneath him in rank the highlight of his day. Naturally, someone so frail and frequently sick would be prone to irritability, but Nikiel had taken it to extremes. Hadn’t he once ordered forty lashes with a water whip for a mere apprentice servant—one not even fully trained—simply for bringing the wrong oil?

And that wasn’t the worst of it. His cruelty wasn’t limited to palace servants; rumors spread that some noble’s son had been slapped by Nikiel without cause, and that some noble lady’s dress ribbon had been torn while she endured verbal abuse.

Rumors? No, they were all true. Every time, Paul would buy people off, claiming they were “just rumors,” but if not for those cover-ups, Nikiel’s reputation would have plummeted thirty times faster than it already had.

There were other changes, too.

“What are you doing…? Ah, forget it. I’m not wearing it. Why are all of these so gaudy? I’ll just wear something like what you’re wearing, Paul.”

“…This is a servant’s uniform, Your Highness.”

The man who once preened like a peacock, reveling in flaunting his splendor, was now rejecting such finery and asking to wear the plain clothing issued to servants.

Paul was dumbfounded. The room adjoining Nikiel’s bedroom was a dressing room overflowing with clothes. At the appointed time, about ten attendants would gather, carrying an armful of garments on hangers, lining up in formation. They would present the clothes to Nikiel, spinning like a fashion show until they received his approval.

Even though Nikiel restricted his personal attendants to just one—Paul—he still employed ten attendants solely for his wardrobe. And now? He was rejecting anything gaudy? Paul felt dizzy at this unbelievable reality.

But Nikiel, never failing to shock, didn’t stop there. He continued to hurl statements that made Paul’s heart drop.

“Ugh, my eyes hurt. Why is everything so dazzling? How am I supposed to face His Majesty dressed like this? People will think I’m the king.”

“Your Highness…!”

Paul gasped at Nikiel’s irreverent remark, but the prince ignored him, leaning into Paul’s hand as he fussed with his hair, nodding off drowsily.

Was this not the same prince who, during grooming, would demand Paul roll him left and right, ordering him about with exacting standards? Paul nearly blurted out, “Who even are you?”

“Stop fussing. Why are you touching my hair all day? I’m going to cut it all off later anyway. Why is a man’s hair this long?”

“Y-Your Highness, y-your hair is your very life…!”

And now he wanted to cut his hair. Paul nearly fainted from shock, struggling for breath. In the past, if even a single split end appeared, Nikiel would mash together honey, egg whites, tropical fruit like bonana*, and rare cinnamon powder—a pungent concoction—apply it to his hair, let it sit for two or three hours, and then rinse it out.

That foul-smelling paste, famous for improving hair texture, had gained renown beyond the palace, inspiring noblewomen everywhere to imitate it. As a result, noblemen throughout the capital suffered nightly from the stench wafting from their wives’ bedrooms, a trend that had become almost epidemic.

And now? He wanted to cut it off? He hadn’t lost his sight along with his memory—surely he could still see how those luminous platinum locks gleamed from afar.

“T-then please give me the cut hair, Your Highness. Sold as wigs, it would fetch millions of killys… No, wait—that’s not the point—absolutely not, Your Highness! Do you know what kind of hair this is…!”

Momentarily losing his composure, the loyal Paul shook his head vehemently, insisting it couldn’t be done. But Nikiel seemed indifferent, pulling from some forgotten corner a simple black garment.

“I’ll wear this.”

“Gasp—!”

It seemed today Paul’s jaw would repeatedly slacken in shock. Of course, even Nikiel’s “plain” clothes, given his refined tastes and luxurious habits, were anything but ordinary.

What he had chosen was a black dress shirt woven from Ashinkasan silk—so sheer and delicately spun it created the illusion of revealing what lay beneath. Lace of the same Ashinkasan thread elegantly draped over the shoulders, and the buttons were made of freshwater pearls found only in the Hippibawl River, the largest river in Osinis.

The trousers were of matching color, but unlike the sheer shirt, they were smooth and lustrous, hugging his well-toned thighs and shimmering as they moved.

Even so, compared to his usual wardrobe, this ensemble looked almost funereal—appropriate for someone attending a burial. Such was the extravagance of his prior attire. Unconcerned with Paul’s reaction, Nikiel began undressing in the middle of the room, not even bothering to step into the triptych dressing screen.

“Y-Your Highness, what are you—!”

“Changing clothes. Give me any black shoes.”

Nikiel’s casual response came as he buttoned the shirt and slipped into the trousers. The glossy silk hugged the long legs he had managed to tone over a month of effort.

Though clearly menswear, it appeared far more sensual and refined than any noblewoman’s dress. Seeing him thus, Paul felt reassured.

‘At least his sense of aesthetics hasn’t gone blind.’

Holding this slightly irreverent thought, the devoted servant hurried to fetch the shoes Nikiel requested. The exotic shoes hailed from the far East, crafted from silk embroidered with tiny emeralds and obsidian beads strung into popular Eastern motifs.

Only the soles bore heels; the rest were soft, supple shoes, perfectly suited to Nikiel’s delicate feet. They harmonized beautifully with the freshwater pearls of his shirt, transforming him into a breathtaking vision.

Gone was the former irritable air—he now looked not just pure, but almost sorrowfully fragile, like a grieving young widow at her spouse’s funeral, both mournful and alluring. Young noblemen who saw him might be tempted to approach, offering to share in his sorrow. After recent diligent exercise, his newly straightened posture lent him an elegance that made Paul inwardly sigh in admiration: How could our prince be so beautiful?

“What are you doing? I don’t know the way.”

“Ah, of course, Your Highness.”

Paul led the way cheerfully. Nikiel, feeling a bit tense, tilted his head to one side, loosening his trapezius muscles with a breath.

‘The king… Come to think of it, there wasn’t much description of the king in the original story, was there?’

In the source material, the king only appeared when Nikiel embarked on his adventure, or afterward, to commend him for his deeds.

‘He seemed like just a supporting role—not worth worrying over.’

Nikiel hummed in thought, a low sound resonating in his throat.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t been shocked by suddenly falling into another world—but Nikiel hadn’t been overly attached to his previous one either.

‘Especially after my parents died.’

No matter one’s age, when parents pass, one becomes an orphan. With no notable relatives, Nikiel had felt like driftwood after losing his parents. He hadn’t wallowed endlessly in grief, but neither was he unaffected; it was as if something inside him had broken and he simply continued living that way.

Still, Nikiel’s mind was relatively sound, and because his parents had loved him deeply during their lives, he endured with the thought, Everyone hurts this much; I’ll endure like they do.

That inner scar had both strengthened him and made him seem ethereal, like mist that belonged nowhere.

But even someone without attachments reacts instinctively when it comes to survival.

‘If I can’t die and must keep living, I might as well live well.’

That was the coping mechanism Nikiel used to maintain his sanity after being thrust into this world. Thus, his first meeting with the king was crucial. Would the king remain a mere side character, as in the original, or would he become the one to force Nikiel’s absurd marriage to its conclusion?

‘Marriage? Ridiculous.’

He wasn’t opposed to marriage in principle, but to wed a stranger—another man, no less—and meekly say, “Certainly, I’ll do so”? Who in their right mind would agree to that?

Resolving to gauge the king’s intentions, Nikiel stepped through the door Paul held open and left the room.

Footnotes:

Bonana: Likely a fictional tropical fruit name inspired by “banana,” used here for humor or unique world-building.

Kil(l)y: The currency of this fictional world; context implies high value (millions).

Ashinkasan silk: A rare, high-quality fabric native to this world.

Hippibawl River: A major river in Osinis, famous for producing freshwater pearls.