MPSN Ch 7

Chapter 7

A prospective spouse? For whom, exactly?

While Nikiel furrowed his brows in denial of reality, the king, oblivious to his son’s expression, continued speaking.

“Of course, we have yet to formally exchange greetings with Grand Duke Yullan Balt, Duke Lucian Turun, and Marquis Jicari Griff, but since Duke Boltwick has come to the inner palace… Hey, child, are you even listening to me? My mouth is getting tired here.”

Naturally, Nikiel wasn’t listening to the king at all. His silent plea, expressed by banging his head against the marble floor, had clearly gone unheeded.

At this rate, should he just commit seppuku* right here…?

(*Seppuku: A ritual suicide historically practiced in Japan, referenced here humorously to express utter despair.)

Just as Nikiel was running through various scenarios to somehow express his objections to the king, a husky voice from across the table shattered his thoughts.

“Your Majesty, is not Prince Nikiel merely feeling shy? You haven’t changed at all—still so mischievous.”

“Hm, what mischief? … Are you truly embarrassed, my son?”

When Raymond spoke with a soft smile, the king rubbed his chin sheepishly and slyly asked Nikiel, as if his son would be incapable of such a feeling.

Did I just miss the perfect moment to kill myself because of that ridiculous line? Nikiel glared at Raymond. He vowed never to forget this grudge and planned to someday coax the man into becoming his subordinate, only to exact sweet revenge later.

For instance, forcing him to eat ten dry biscuits all at once without offering a sip of water, or making him play five rounds of foot volleyball under the blazing sun—petty but satisfying revenge like that.

Lost in such thoughts, something suddenly dawned on him: this wasn’t merely a breakfast gathering.

Don’t tell me… is this geezer introducing me to potential brides?!

It had already been a month since Nikiel fainted with his forehead against marble. The palace physicians had told the king his son was suffering from amnesia, and rather than mourn the memory loss, the king might have used it as an excuse to hurry along his son’s marriage prospects.

After observing him for some time, the king likely believed the once-tyrannical prince—who had collapsed like a lunatic before his father—was now living a reformed life, diligently walking in the mornings, curbing his bad habits, and maintaining a regular exercise regimen.

So here he was, subtly introducing some awkward bride and politely asking, How about marrying this one? The audacity was almost comical.

Worse than Professor Han!

That was Nikiel’s gravest insult. Professor Han had been Nikiel’s advisor—a bald man who never brushed his teeth after meals and guzzled instant coffee daily, and most importantly, treated Nikiel like a servant.

To say someone was worse than him was the harshest condemnation Nikiel could muster.

Thinking this, Nikiel concluded he had to escape this place immediately. Feigning a fainting spell was impossible now—his well-built muscles from recent training wouldn’t allow such convenient collapses anymore.

With no choice left, Nikiel roughly seized food from the hands of a servant who had been setting plates and began shoveling it into his mouth before the elders could even take a bite.

“Wait—who’s been starving the prince…?”

The king spoke in alarm, but Nikiel continued stuffing food into his mouth without pause. Across from him, Raymond observed with an incredulous expression, silently judging his antics.

What are you staring at? You don’t want to marry me either, do you? One day, you’ll thank me, kid.

Having emptied an entire plate, Nikiel spoke while still half-chewing.

“Father, I believe I have indigestion. Please allow me to excuse myself.”

“What…? Indigestion? But didn’t you just finish that entire plate…? No, fine. Go, Nikiel.”

Stammering in disbelief, the king waved him off with a sigh, seemingly understanding why his son had behaved so bizarrely.

See that, old man? If you don’t want rumors about the royal family raising a pig, don’t ever arrange breakfast meetings like this again.

Nikiel silently sent this telepathic warning, wiped his mouth haphazardly on the tablecloth, and rose from his seat.

The king and servants stared at him in astonishment, but that was all. Nikiel had always been eccentric; this was merely another display of madness in a different form.

Nikiel walked out lightly. Breakfast done, time for anaerobic training. Today was leg day.

Muttering “Legs, legs” under his breath, Nikiel headed straight for the royal quarters—until someone suddenly grabbed his wrist, forcing him to halt.

Who dares treat a prince this rudely?

Having lived as a commoner before, Nikiel was now thoroughly enjoying his role as a prince—120% reveling in it. He’d already forgotten how awkward it felt to be called “prince” when he first possessed this body.

He even referred to himself in the third person as “Prince,” a testament to how well he’d embraced the role.

Anyone who blocks the prince’s path will not be forgiven.

As he turned around with that thought, he promptly slammed his forehead—hard—into something. What he had mistaken for a wall turned out to be someone’s solid chest.

Who the hell stands in the middle of the hallway without the prince’s permission?!

Before he could finish the thought—

“You’re still as reckless as ever. Anyone’s skin will do; you practically drool and fling yourself into their arms.”

Excuse me, what?

Nikiel blinked, stunned by the absurd remark. Before he could retort, pain shot through his wrist—the grip holding him was crushingly strong.

As Nikiel winced at the near-bone-crushing pain, the man holding him muttered again, voice low and edged.

“So, today you’ve foregone those gaudy, cheap clothes, and instead doused yourself in some intoxicating perfume to seduce men, hmm? I was worried your mind had gone astray after hearing you were unwell—but you’re the same as ever. My vulgar little prince.”

Of course, the one mocking him so was Raymond—the same man who’d smiled so warmly throughout breakfast. His face still looked kind, eyes as green and vibrant as summer ash leaves, warm enough to seem genuinely concerned for Nikiel’s well-being.

But Nikiel had lived too hard a life to be fooled by appearances. He was simply dumbfounded.

Does this kingdom not have any laws against lèse-majesté* or something? How is it that a duke can…*

(**Lèse-majesté: A crime of offending the dignity of a reigning monarch or royalty.)

The thought reminded Nikiel of Raymond Boltwick’s status. In a kingdom with so few high nobles, there were only two dukes—heroes akin to founding fathers.

Meanwhile, Nikiel—cursed by four houses and infamous for his past debauchery—stood in a politically awkward position, despite holding the key to breaking those curses.

So being a duke means you can treat a prince—especially one far from the throne—like this, huh?

Straightening his posture, Nikiel tightened his core and aligned his spine. In any confrontation that wasn’t physical combat, maintaining a dignified stance was crucial.

With a graceful curve of his lips, he spoke,

“You seem rather spirited yourself, Duke.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, even without grabbing my wrist in the middle of the corridor, I wouldn’t have refused if you’d simply asked to speak with me.”

Nikiel smoothly pulled his wrist free as he said this.

Perfume to seduce men? Seriously? I told Paul to fetch something modest and clean-smelling—lotus, even—not this nonsense. The audacity.

Nikiel tilted his head slightly, lowered his gaze, and cast an expression of disdain toward the taller man. His platinum lashes fluttered like butterfly wings with each blink.

Raymond exhaled sharply, almost like a scoff. Well, well, his expression seemed to say.

“So what you’re implying, Your Highness…”

It sounded less like a reindeer and more like a carnivore growling.

“…is that I was the one clinging shamelessly to you, rather than the other way around?”

He stepped closer, voice dropping to a murmur as he whispered to Nikiel. The polite smile once plastered on his face had long since vanished.

His eyes were unsettling—nearly unhinged. He kept glancing at Nikiel’s freed wrist with barely veiled thirst, like a parched man yearning for a single cup of water.

Did someone spike his breakfast with drugs? His behavior was unreasonably brazen.

Even as Raymond intruded into his space, Nikiel didn’t flinch. He’d endured far worse from Professor Han and still graduated with his Ph.D. unbroken.

Besides—

He looks way younger than me. No way I’m intimidated by some kid.

Back in his world, Nikiel had been in his thirties; Raymond couldn’t be more than six years younger at most.

When you were in diapers, I was already reciting the zodiac signs.

(Not that this world even has those zodiac signs, but still.)

Raised in a Confucian society, Nikiel found great reassurance in seniority. Without a trace of hesitation, he met Raymond’s green eyes—clear and brilliant as emeralds embedded in silk.

Had it not been for the masculine bridge of his nose, Raymond’s gentle eyes and delicate features would have earned him endless teasing for being “pretty.”

So what, being handsome means you get to disrespect your elders?

Nikiel narrowed one eye and sneered.

“Since you asked, honestly? You look like a thug, Duke.”

“……”

“If you like me that much, submit a formal audience request. Don’t go grabbing people’s wrists in hallways.”

Nikiel pressed a hand lightly against Raymond’s chest and pushed. Even with the soft touch, Raymond stepped back easily, too stunned to react.

Nikiel smirked, the kind of grin that said, I’ll let you off this time, kid.

“Who knows? Maybe next time I’ll even humor you.”

With that, Nikiel casually patted Raymond’s shoulder and resumed walking down the corridor.

He half-expected Raymond to chase after him and grab his shoulder, but no—only his own footsteps echoed in the hall.

Nikiel quickened his pace, careful not to look like he was running, and exited the corridor as fast as dignity allowed.