Aspiring to Become a "Knight"! - 2
'Something's different about you.'
The moment Alfred faced Ian today, that's what he thought. The colorless version of Ian that he'd known until now was gone, and a new hue was being painted over him, layer by layer.
It wasn't that the person had been swapped out. It was simply that a blank canvas had finally been filled with color.
It was an incredibly abstract way to put it, but Alfred felt that was the only way to describe the Ian standing before him now.
'That time...'
Alfred recalled the previous night—the first and last conversation he'd had with Ian.
Ian de Logres. The young master of the Logres Ducal family, born with the family's Dragon Power.
But since he was the son of a concubine rather than the legal wife, even with that power, he could never become the heir. On top of that, Cassian was the most talented member of the Logres line in generations, leaving no room for him at all.
And that boy... had no color.
There was no unique hue about him that anyone with a pulse should have. He wasn't a genius like young master Cassian, but he wasn't a wastrel either. Just an utterly ordinary person—unremarkable in appearance, conversation, and actions.
And above all, he lacked agency.
The young master I observed got along adequately with everyone in the household but never expressed himself proactively. He learned the sword because the family head ordered it, and he trained in the family mana cultivation method because he was told to. He never refused what was given to him, but he never initiated conversation with anyone or gave orders to the servants.
At first, I thought it was just the wariness of a bastard son, but he showed no initiative at all. He only responded when spoken to. He only accepted what was offered without refusal.
An ongoing sense of wrongness clung to him. We were clearly having conversations like normal people, yet his responses felt like pre-programmed lines recited verbatim. That dissonance refused to fade.
But I pushed it aside. Even if he was colorless, he was still a member of the Logres family—nothing more than the son of the lord I served.
And just as I was growing accustomed to that unease...
"Chief butler, young master Ian is looking for you."
He called for me. Ian de Logres, who had never once sought anyone out before.
My steps felt heavier than usual that day, even though I was just heading to his room. Raising my arm to knock on the door felt like lifting a weight.
With his permission, I entered, and the first thing that reached my ears was his voice, murmuring as if to himself.
"Alfred should do fine."
That was all. Just those words: 'Alfred should do fine.'
Yet that voice carried an intense sense of wrongness—far stronger than anything I'd felt from young master Ian over the past twenty years. It was unmistakably his voice, one I'd heard constantly for two decades. So why did it unsettle me even more?
I wanted to demand what this dissonance was, what the wrongness he'd always shown me truly meant. But the words wouldn't come.
For a moment, I wondered if the young master possessed some superhuman suppressive force, but I quickly realized it was my own self holding me back.
I couldn't say it. If I did, there would be no going back.
Call it instinct—it screamed that much.
"Elder Alfred, I have a request."
This time, the voice held no such unease. So what had that previous wrongness been? And... did he just say request to me?
"Tomorrow, Ian de Logres will have a dream."
Suddenly, talk of dreams from the young master.
"And the me who harbors that dream will no longer be the current me."
Incredible words poured from his mouth, his face as calm as if we were chatting about the weather.
What did that mean? No longer the current him?
"What do you—"
He didn't wait for my response, as if my thoughts didn't matter. He just continued.
"But that will still be me, Ian de Logres. So please treat me as you always have, Elder. And if I make requests, help me within reason—as long as it doesn't cross any lines."
"Young master, you seem very tired right now."
I tried to dismiss it as sleep-talk. I wanted to.
Even knowing he was staring straight at me with his usual expression.
I couldn't comprehend his words enough to brush them off like that. I couldn't grasp the situation of this passive puppet, who'd lived strung up on stage his whole life, making a request of me.
But.
"Please ask about that dream. What dream the new Ian de Logres has embraced. I beg you, Elder."
He pressed on, ignoring my input entirely. Same voice, same expression as always.
But incomprehensible words. And the first request ever from the boy who'd lived twenty colorless years.
It all hit at once, leaving me speechless.
Unaware or uncaring of my turmoil, he suddenly extended his pinky finger.
A 180cm hulking frame proffering a pinky—it felt profoundly odd.
"And please keep what happens here a secret."
But my eyes were drawn to that single digit. He offered it lightly, like a child's casual promise—something easily broken with the flip of a hand.
It wasn't a contract or an order. Just a child's wish, one he could ignore without consequence. I could report to the family head, dismiss it as sleep-talk, and as a bastard son, there'd be nothing he could do.
Yet.
"Yes, this Alfred promises."
I hooked my pinky with his.
Perhaps because it was the first request from the boy who'd lived twenty colorless years.
Or because this promise, like mist, might vanish tomorrow—and it felt like his first and last.
Or maybe because the dream seemed ephemeral, destined to dissolve by morning.
After linking pinkies, I left as he smiled faintly.
And the next day.
As Ian had said, the colorless him was gone. Something inside that shell was being painted with a single vibrant color.
Just as he'd foretold—that today's Ian de Logres was not yesterday's—the young master before me now was no longer colorless.
And that persistent unease? Cleanly vanished.
As if everything had finally fallen into place.
'But that will still be me, Ian de Logres. So please treat me as you always have, Elder.'
I would treat him as always. Everything was back in place.
…….
But.
His speech, his mana—nothing outwardly different from the colorless Ian of yesterday.
Yet from this newly colored him, I felt a new unease.
So what had happened to the old colorless one? Had he been filled in to become this? Or had he vanished?
Thus.
"Young master, do you have a dream?"
I asked about the dream of the now-colored young master.
It was also the first and last request the colorless one had left me—and now, I was curious too.
What dream had restored his original colors?
And his dream was.
"I want to become a knight."
A knight. His tone trembled slightly, but that's what he said.
A knight. He wanted to become one.
"I want to become a knight."
I laid out my dream like that. Ignoring Alfred's words without knowing the penalty's nature would be a bad move.
After all, those Knightly Stars judges were watching everything I said.
I didn't know their tastes, but I had to say what they'd like.
Looked like cramming for a lightning test, but no choice.
My future aspiration: knight.
To uphold chivalry, I first had to aim for knighthood, right?
The gauge at the bottom had increased.
"A knight, hm."
Alfred stroked his mustache, mulling over my words.
"Do you wish to join the Drake Knight Order?"
Drake Knight Order. The Logres family's direct knights, right?
Decision point.
To guess the right answer, you have to read the questioner's intent.
But nodding here felt like it wouldn't please those Knightly Stars.
What kind of knight would they approve of?
Just joining a knight order? Is a bodyguard serving one lord a true knight? Or someone blasting sword aura across the battlefield alone?
Would those uphold chivalry?
I shook my head.
Alfred's eyes narrowed.
"Then the Imperial Knights?"
"That's not it either."
It rose again.
The bottom gauge didn't say if it was right or wrong. It just kept growing.
"Then what...?"
What kind of knight did I want to be?
I recalled lines from webnovels and knights in Dawn Star Academia.
Even with only 29 loops.
I'd met countless knights in this world.
So my conclusion:
"I want to become a Wandering Knight."
"A Wandering Knight... you say?"
Wandering Knight. Like Don Quixote.
Alfred stared at me blankly.
Can't blame him.
"Planning to run away from home?"
Wandering Knights were ronin knights—ones who left their domains without a lord, roaming freely. Homeless vagrants, basically.
"No? Why would I run away? Leaving home means suffering."
"Young master, forgive me, but that doesn't add up."
Alfred closed his eyes, pinching his nose in exasperation.
The gauge had dropped to 12.4%. As if saying that wasn't it.
Impatient, huh. Hold on—I haven't even oiled my tongue yet.
"A wandering knight can be a ronin, but a ronin isn't necessarily a Wandering Knight."
Wandering included roaming, but not vice versa.
If wandering was aimless drifting...
"A Wandering Knight roams not just to wander, but to break free from obligations and pursue their own chivalry."
Edliryeong—experiencing everywhere.
Visiting countless places.
Meeting countless bonds.
Accumulating countless experiences.
Until reaching the stars someday.
That was my vision of a Wandering Knight.
So I said,
"I want to become a knight. One who dreams the impossible dream of Sword Master, smites villains to right wrongs, loves alongside women, and charges toward those unreachable stars. That's my dream."
That was.
"Nothing but delusion, young master."
I shook my head, denying his dream.
The era where knights cried chivalry, swung romance, and penned tales of valor was long buried in the past.
Today's knights were mere weapons bearing the name—fighting for honor, sure, but mostly for themselves.
Sure, Sword Masters like that could uphold their convictions, but only because they were strong enough.
Such delusions get crushed and devoured by the world.
But,
"Then I'll just turn that delusion into reality. Who am I? Ian de Logres, son of the Northern Duke."
"………."
Ian de Logres declared it boldly. Brazen or confident? Hard to say.
Clearly bravado. His legs trembled faintly.
Yet.
'Tomorrow, Ian de Logres will have a dream.'
The feel of that pinky lingered, too vivid to extinguish his fancy.
So, thus.
"I see. Then this Alfred will support your dream, young master."
Rather than snuffing it again, I chose evasion. Just bowed my head.
'Just falling for it once.'
I had words to say. His dream was obviously vain delusion.
But I didn't deny it. He'd asked to be treated the same as his colorless self—that was our promise.
I finished my bow, grasped the doorknob.
This time, I turned it.
Still, a pity.
I hadn't asked him.
That fact gnawed at me.
Did the colorless him harbor the same dream? Or a different one?
Even knowing it would end like this.
I'd never asked about his dreams.
Thus, regret lingered.
Like the touch of that pinky promise we'd shared.