The Patriarch's Test of Chivalry

Ever since possessing this body in this world, I hadn't even caught a proper glimpse of the family head, let alone stepped foot in his room. I had to head straight to the banquet hall right after returning from Dreamland, so there hadn't been any time to talk. In Ian's memories, things seemed pretty straightforward, but now that Donnesia had shown up and the past got rewritten, those memories were no longer reliable.

Shit, the memory updates weren't patching properly. Still, thinking back to the game's illustrations, I remembered him having short-cropped hair and a striking jawline beard. That's how he looked in Ian's memories too—not some romance-fantasy Northern Duke type, but more like a grizzled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠old frontier lord straight out of a regular fantasy novel. If Cassian grew some wrinkles and a beard, he'd probably look like that. In one word, total general vibe.

More importantly, why the hell did this old man summon me? Did word of my duel challenge to the Second Prince somehow reach the patriarch's ears? That'd be a bad end for sure. The family was one of the five pillars, always playing neutral in court politics, quietly guarding the North, building up public favor... and then his own son lays hands on imperial blood? That cracks the goodwill they've stacked up.

From the emperor's perspective, watching this duke climb on that goodwill, it must've been satisfying—until the duke's brat touches his kid. Now the emperor has the perfect excuse to make an example out of them. In short, a massive headache for the patriarch. He sent me to the banquet to make a face and schmooze, but I came back with a gauntlet slapped on my mug instead.

Still, that's assuming the worst-case scenario. It could be something trivial. Only me, Isabella, Angelica, and the Second Prince know about that mess—and none of those four seem like the type to blab. No way they'd stir up shit after we wrapped it up all nice and clean. Angelica's the wildcard since I can't read her mind, but whatever.

Lost in those thoughts, I arrived at the patriarch's door before I knew it. My arms felt like lead today. I really don't wanna go in.

Knock knock.

"It's Ian."

"Enter."

Even his voice alone radiated massive testosterone. Naturally gravelly, so who the hell knows if he's pissed or not. I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Inside was an office, thick with cigar smoke mixed with musty wood. The fire wasn't blazing, but the snow outside reflected the sunlight, keeping it bright enough. Bookshelves crammed with tomes lined the walls. At the center of this drab room sat a desk piled high with papers—and behind it, someone buried in paperwork.

He exuded veteran soldier vibes: short black hair, neat jawbeard, and a single scar across his left eye completing the face. Smaller build than me, sitting in his chair, yet he loomed like I had to look up at him. Overwhelming presence.

Marshall de Logres. The original owner of this body's father and patriarch of House Logres. Level 87, a Sword Master in the superhuman realm. Unlike Alfred, whose prime had faded while stuck in the office, even with some decline from desk work, that number was insane. Every time the continent's strongest ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠debate flared up at the Gald Cup, his name always topped the list—the highest I'd seen yet.

But he wasn't alone.

"You've arrived, Young Master Ian."

Alfred stood to the left, reviewing documents. And on the other side...

"You're here, Ian."

The protagonist himself, Cassian de Logres, lounged in the guest chair, skimming papers.

Patriarch in the center. Alfred on the left. Cassian on the right. No escape. I'd seen this scene often in the game, but that was with Donnesia. Now, as Ian, there was zero of that Pinkfong wholesome vibe. Through Ian's eyes, the office felt downright frigid.

Silence hung heavy, unbroken except for rustling papers and scratching pens. The only voices were Alfred's when handing over docs. Not some harmonious Northern Duke family from a romance novel—this was like a fantasy clan's cold war between patriarch and heir, staring each other down.

The patch is seriously fucked. Where's the romance-fantasy in this? Damn, maybe I should've brought Donnesia.

Cassian de Logres. Logres's legitimate eldest son. Dawn Star Academia's male lead and the Northern Duke position character.

In the Donnesia route, he's more a supporter than protagonist. But I remember him taking an unusual path here: harem. The guy who builds a harem in a romance fantasy? Cassian. Exclusive maid, childhood friend and sword instructor knight lady, and eventually even the barbarian chief's daughter—this era's true alpha male.

That's why barbarians don't turn hostile in the Donnesia route's late game. Cassian seduced the chief's daughter, stopping their imperial invasion without bloodshed.

Of course, without Donnesia, he'd go to the academy and turn into a pure devoted guy fixated on the heroine. In a way, it's a relief he didn't go—means no future barbarian wars. With them as allies, the final boss fight gets easier.

But that's not the issue now.

Scritch scritch scritch. Fuck, this is driving me insane. The endless pen scratches were making me lose it. They drag me here and just do their own shit in silence?

Can't complain, though—these guys could shove whatever they want down my throat. Two superhumans, one half-step. Monsters who could rip me apart with a pinky. When you're weak, you shut up and take it. What else can I do?

Then—

Scritch... thunk. The pen stopped.

"Ian."

A thick voice hit me like 100% testosterone.

"Yes, Father."

"I heard about yesterday."

No way.

"A duel with His Highness the Second Prince? You really went out with a bang."

Sure enough, my biggest worry blew up. Shit! We're fucked! It reached the patriarch after all! But how does he know? Which bastard snitched?!

"No need to rack your brain. His Highness told me himself."

Fuck, the Second Prince was the snitch! We were cool, right? All wrapped up clean. And he backstabs like this? My back soaked in cold sweat, throat dry as I swallowed.

Gonna get dragged to the imperial palace like this?

"Well done."

"...Pardon?"

What the hell did this guy just say? Not ripping me apart?

Surprisingly, praise slipped from his mouth.

"I don't know why you challenged the Second Prince."

He glanced at me, then back to his papers.

"But you beat him and gave him enlightenment, straightening out that wastrel. No scolding for that."

"You're not angry?"

"Why would I be?"

His bored gaze shifted back to me from the papers.

"You triumphed over the Second Prince, handed him awakening, fixed the brat. What is there to rebuke?"

"But the family..."

"The house has been gambled with countless times already. No need to fret now."

Huh? What bullshit is this?

"More importantly, Ian, I didn't call you for that."

He spouted nonsense and resumed work.

"Alfred told me. You want to be a knight."

Alfred, Second Prince—why's everyone so nosy about my dreams?

"A wandering knight, unbound by Logres or the imperial house. Romantic answer, sure."

The pen paused.

"As Alfred said, it's beyond fantasy—delusion. The romances knights spun are centuries buried."

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Then let me ask."

He locked eyes with me, no more papers.

"Why chase that delusion?"

Interview time again. Superhuman gaze. Crushing pressure like no lies allowed.

My Dragon Power resists status ailments, but he's the Logres patriarch—he knows it inside out. That's why he confidently hit me with it.

What he didn't notice: I wasn't relying on Dragon Power alone. Source being a Sword Master meant imperfect resistance, but enough headspace to think.

Honestly, since coming here, I had no clue what "knight" really meant. Best examples? Rescuing Donnesia, helping Isabella. Dig deeper: challenging that goblin? The Knightly Stars are just dopamine-junkie voyeurs who want me to eat shit.

Haven't seen a proper knight since arriving. So I thought: Use those peeping pervs as negative examples.

"Because the knight I envision is one who harbors such delusions."

"Harbors delusions?"

"Yes."

Deep breath. Oil up the tongue.

"You said knights' romance era is long buried. So let me ask: If you strip chivalry from a knight, what's left?"

"......"

"Strong? Uses aura? Mercs are strong too, use aura. What sets knights apart?"

"Loyalty to a lord, perhaps."

Not the patriarch—Cassian, processing papers silently, jumped in. Not sarcasm; genuine curiosity.

But.

"Ian and I are talking, Cassian. Don't interrupt."

"Soldiers have lords too."

Nice one.

"Why ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠call them knights? Horse-riders? Then what's the difference from cavalry?"

"So you're saying to be a knight, you need that chivalric delusion?"

"Exactly."

"Sophistry."

He clicked his tongue.

"Knights are called knights because they always were. Chivalry's a later invention."

"Why?"

"No one truly lives for others."

Back to papers.

"Fight impossible foes for good, reach the stars? That's saint territory. Think that exists in reality?"

He's right. Pure good vs. impossible odds to the stars? Saints and heroes, not knights.

But.

"The chivalry you chase is just later generations projecting wishes—a pretty empty dream."

"That's why we dream it."

Thud.

"Dream it?"

"So what if it's not real?"

No reason to stop chasing a bubble-dream.

"If it's not real, all the better."

"What?"

"I'd be the first and only true knight."

Abandon impossible dreams and there's no romance. Because it's impossible, you run toward it.

"There's an Eastern saying: Martial without justice is mere violence; justice without martial is impotence. That's why together they make wuxia."

"......"

"Same for chivalry. Knight without chivalry is just a lord's weapon; chivalry without knight is pointless idealism. Only one with both—harboring that chivalric delusion—is a true knight, in my book."

Suddenly, the patriarch stopped working. Forgot the pressure, just stared.

"You think you'll reach it?"

"Of course."

I nodded.

"Because I'm a Logres."

"Is that so. A Logres, huh."

He nodded, eyed papers, picked up pen.

"You can go."

Pretty anticlimactic. Was that what he wanted? Or something else?

He clammed up post-that, just scribbling. No clue if he heard me.

Whatever. Priority: ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠GTFO.

Escape this suffocating hellhole!

"Then, I'll take my leave, Father."

"Go."

I bowed quick and bolted.

***

"Father, I'll step out briefly."

Cassian followed Ian out. The patriarch eyed the door his sons left through.

"Reminds me of you in your youth, my lord."

Alfred's comment drew a smirk from the patriarch—tinged with absurdity.

"Even the great Alfred grows senile."

"Is that so?"

"How's that kid me? I don't spout hot air."

He lit a cigar, deep drag, white smoke wafting dreamlike. Staring at it, he continued.

"Surface plausible, half lies. Rest just puffed-up bluster."

Ian's tale: half false, half true—but laced with lies in that confident dream. Alfred pondered why no immediate call-out.

"Then why not call his lie right there?"

The patriarch rebite the cigar.

"Alfred. What do you think sparked Ian's duel with the Second Prince yesterday?"

Another drag, exhale.

He'd told Ian he didn't know—but he did.

"For the lady of Eterna."

"Pardon?"

Staking everything for one person.

Alfred blinked.

"The lady was about to get slapped by the prince, so he grabbed his wrist and challenged him."

"That's..."

"Madman, yeah."

All for one woman. But that's why he couldn't call it a lie on the spot.

Pure affection in love. Pure good to right wrongs. Face unbeatable foes. Harbor the dream, reach the stars.

It evoked that.

"Doesn't it remind you? Staking all for one, against the impossible."

"......"

"Fancy words or not, Ian already showed it in action."

Drag, exhale, grin.

Still, unknown. Could end as bluster. Or forced action.

But.

"Someday his chivalry will transcend bluster, become his truth—self-made."

"You believe Young Master Ian can pull it off."

"Don't you?"

Shook his head.

"Then..."

"Just wait."

Grin held, cigar in mouth.

Will Ian become a knight? Or fade to delusion? Future's business.

Predicting now? No fun.

So he waits.

"Waiting for his dream to turn real—that's a father's privilege."

Out of the office, a few steps down the hall, and I could finally breathe. Crazy—using aura on a level 10 is overkill. Lucky it passed without issue.

Now, check the Oath of Chivalry reward.

Then—

"Ian."

That thick voice spun me around instinctively. There stood Cassian, face blank as in the office. Something to say?

He approached steadily, lifting something.

A sword.

"Take it."

Sudden sword gift. What? Seppuku?

Grabbed it reflexively, staring clueless.

"A gift."

Cassian muttered.

...Huh?