The Hypocrisy of Romance Fantasy "Knightly Honor"
Kyle felt the barrage of hostile glares pouring down on him from every direction. Blood trickled from his left arm. A gash on his side lingered from where Roman's blade had grazed him, the blood slowly soaking into his clothes. But Kyle paid it no mind. Instead, he wiggled his blood-smeared fingers once more.
"Didn't you hear me?" Kyle grinned. "I said next."
His blatant provocation sent a ripple through the knight order's spectator seats.
"That mad bastard..."
"He turns Sir Roman into that and wants another go?"
"Even after taking wounds himself!"
The elder knight serving as referee approached Kyle, brow furrowed. His eyes held a complicated glint. The fight Kyle had just put on was far removed from a proper knightly duel. It wasn't honorable. It wasn't elegant.
But it was practical. Terrifyingly so.
The elder knight glanced at Kyle's wounds. Then he spoke politely. "Young Master."
"What?"
"Wouldn't it be wise to summon a priest for treatment first?"
Kyle snorted. "Treatment?" He glanced down at his left arm. Blood dripped steadily from his fingertips. The cut wasn't shallow. But it wasn't deep enough to hinder him either. "Not right now."
"If the wound reopens, it could affect your next duel."
"If it's bad enough to kill me, I'd have died already." Kyle shrugged. He jerked his chin toward Roman sprawled on the ground. "Besides, fighting that guy gave me some insights."
The elder knight's eyebrow twitched. Kyle twisted his lips into a smirk.
"Turns out trash like him is no match for me, even in this state."
His voice carried across the entire Circular Training Grounds. The knights' faces twisted in fury. A few nearly shot to their feet.
But Kyle wasn't done. "Strutting around yapping about honor, only to eat dirt after one hit. Pathetic, right?"
He chuckled lowly. "Isn't it hilarious?"
"That fucking—!"
"Even as the young master, that's going too far!"
"Don't insult Sir Roman!"
The knights' rage erupted. The air over the training grounds sharpened in an instant.
Meanwhile, priests cautiously ascended to the sands and supported Roman. He was unconscious, blood oozing between his broken teeth. They hurriedly checked his wrist and shoulder before loading him onto a stretcher.
Kyle watched impassively. Pathetic, he thought, utterly sincere.
The knights of this romance fantasy world. They looked the part on the surface. Flashy uniforms, gleaming armor. Disciplined postures, impeccable form. Attitudes dripping with honor and pride.
But when push came to shove, it was all shallow posturing. A fight was about breaking your opponent. Risking life and limb to smash each other down. Yet these fools sought pretty stances and noble excuses even then.
Men who wielded swords to kill and die, acting like performers on a stage.
If this were Grandfather's era in the North, they wouldn't be this rotten.
Kyle's gaze shifted to the upper seats. Former Duke Valgrim peered down with keen interest. He hadn't been repulsed by Roman's brutal defeat. If anything, he'd enjoyed the show.
And why not? Valgrim was of the generation that had forged the North. Back when monsters and barbarians swarmed from every side. Kill to survive. Seize to defend. Bathe in blood to endure.
For knights of that age, honor wasn't pageantry. It was survival. Killing foes. Protecting the liege's land. That was all.
But Roderick's era was different. A generation of inheritance. Born within walls already raised. Seated upon authority long solidified. They learned ceremony and face before the scent of blood.
So of course the knights turned out like this.
Fitting for the romance fantasy male lead's father. Kyle sneered inwardly at Roderick Hartvalt in the upper seats.
Roderick Hartvalt. Current Duke of the North. Father to the original male lead, Karon Hartvalt. He was strong. No doubt about it.
But not a pioneer. An inheritor. And inheritors often forgot the essence of what they received.
Roderick was the perfect example. Sensing Kyle's mocking gaze, his face hardened coldly. He ground his teeth. But in the midst of a public duel, he couldn't intervene recklessly.
Then.
"I'll step in."
A low voice rang from the knight order seats. One knight rose slowly. Dark brown hair. Straight nose. Immaculate uniform. Even the hand resting on his scabbard exuded disciplined poise.
Kyle narrowed his eyes at him. Baren Kreuz.
A name from memory. Baren Kreuz. Mid-level knight of the Hartvalt Knight Order. Slightly better than Roman in skill.
But what mattered more was who he served. Karon Hartvalt. Baren revered Karon as the future of House Hartvalt—the next Duke to lead the North.
To him, Kyle was filth. A rotten obstacle blocking Karon's path. A disgrace tarnishing the ducal name. Garbage to be swept away.
Baren descended from the seats and strode onto the sands. His steps were measured, gaze unwavering. As if stepping onto a stage of righteous justice.
Kyle burst out laughing at the sight. "Ha."
A short laugh, brimming with scorn.
Baren's brow twitched. "What is so amusing, Young Master?"
Kyle flicked the blood from his hand. "Just curious."
His lips curled. "Is knightly honor about getting stronger? Or crushing enemies? Or just strutting around like that?"
Silence blanketed the training grounds. Fury boiled from the knights' side moments later.
"Young Master!"
"Watch your mouth!"
"Don't mock knightly honor!"
Baren's face iced over. But he suppressed his anger, lifting his chin to maintain dignity.
The elder knight's expression grew peculiar watching this. He eyed Kyle—or rather, pondered his words.
What was knightly honor?
The question stirred ancient memories. Valgrim's era leading the North. When survival trumped flair. When those shouting honor died first before monster fangs.
Complicated light flickered in the elder knight's eyes.
Similar reactions stirred in the upper seats. Valgrim stroked his beard, eyeing Kyle with amusement. As if eager for what the bratty grandson might say next.
Roderick was different. Disgust hardened his features. Every word from Kyle shook the knight order's authority and the order he'd built.
Kyle stared straight at Baren. "So."
He asked, "You're challenging me?"
Baren gripped his scabbard tighter. "Yes."
His voice echoed across the sands. "I can no longer stand by your arrogance and despicableness."
Flames ignited in Baren's eyes. "On my honor as a knight, I will correct that vile attitude of yours."
Kyle regarded him silently. Baren took another step.
"And the cowardly tricks you used on Sir Roman won't work on me."
Suddenly.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Kyle applauded. Slowly. Mockingly.
Baren's eyebrow twitched. The knights stared in confusion.
Kyle nodded as if genuinely impressed. "Guess I underestimated knights after all."
His voice boomed for all to hear. "Sorry about that."
An unexpected apology. Baren faltered briefly, then hardened. "Too late."
He said coldly. "You've insulted the knights' honor. You'll pay the price."
Kyle nodded again. "Yeah. Guess so." Then he grinned. "I really had no idea."
"Idea about what?"
Kyle raised his left arm. Blood dripped from his fingers. "Who would've thought knightly honor..."
His eyes flashed coldly. "...meant ganging up on a battered, wounded guy like me."
Baren's face stiffened. Kyle continued admiringly. "I figured knightly honor was just showy poses, pretty words, flashy sword swings—pure aesthetics."
He laughed. "But no. It includes the practical side too: spotting a wounded foe bleeding out and jumping in to crush them."
The entire training grounds froze. Color drained from Baren's face. The knights' fury stalled.
He wasn't wrong. Kyle had taken wounds fighting Roman. Blood flowed from his arm and side. The elder knight had urged treatment.
Yet here was Baren, stepping up right after. Invoking honor to demand a duel.
It looked ridiculous to anyone watching.
Baren ground his teeth. "You demanded the next opponent first, Young Master."
"True." Kyle admitted readily. "I did."
He nodded leisurely. "Not blaming you."
"Then what are you saying?"
"What else? Praise, obviously." Kyle beamed. "Smart call—targeting my injuries to smash a wounded fighter. Brilliant, right?"
Baren's eyes wavered. Kyle pressed on with a grin. "Guess I had a narrow view of knightly honor."
His bloody lips twisted. "It's not just facing the strong head-on. It's seizing the moment when they're hurt and finishing them. Exploiting weakness! Brilliant! So noble!"
"Young Master!"
"Deny it if you can." Kyle's voice chilled. "You challenged a wounded me. On your knightly honor."
Baren fell silent. Kyle clapped slowly once more.
Clap. "Truly splendid."
Clap. "So pragmatic."
Clap. "The epitome of knightly spirit."
Sarcasm dripped from every word. Baren gnashed his teeth. Confusion swept the knight seats.
They wanted to rage, to hurl curses. But rebuttal escaped them.
The "knightly honor" they preached so proudly? Kyle's words exposed it as indefensible.
In the end, they'd bite if the chance arose. Exploit wounds if they appeared.
If they did it, honor. If Kyle did, despicable.
The romance fantasy knights' hypocritical double standards. Kyle had pierced their nauseating pretense dead-on.
Then.
"KRHAHAHAHAHA!"
A booming laugh exploded from the upper seats. Valgrim. The former duke clutched his belly, roaring with mirth that shook the grounds.
"You've got a sharp tongue, boy!" Valgrim bellowed, grinning at Kyle. "Stabbing those rotten faces—feels damn good!"
Several elder knights' expressions shifted oddly. Especially those from Valgrim's era—their gazes toward Kyle softened. Not just disgust. Not mere loathing. Complex emotions stirred, dredging up long-forgotten truths.
Roderick caught the looks. His face iced over. This couldn't stand. Kyle's barbs were unraveling the knights—from Valgrim's laughter, no less.
Roderick gripped the armrests. "Begin the duel."
A low, sharp command. The elder knight paused, then bowed. "Understood."
He retreated to the center. "Prepare yourselves."
Baren drew his sword. Shing—cold steel sang. Aura bloomed along the blade, blue and steadier, more refined than Roman's.
Baren leveled it at Kyle. "Steel yourself, Young Master."
His voice was low. "I won't be careless like Sir Roman."
He lowered into a cautious stance. No reckless charge like Roman. He'd seen how Kyle dismantled his foe.
Who knows what dirty trick he'll pull? Stay sharp!
Baren circled warily, eyes locked on Kyle.
Kyle watched him. He shook his bleeding left arm lightly. Pain stabbed from his side.
But Kyle grinned. "Good."
Blood-red light gleamed in his eyes. "Now it's getting fun."