Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 670: Reynald Vale (3)

What is a knight?

When this question is asked, what could be an answer that one would give?

Would it depend on the person answering? Their experiences?

Or is it some sort of universal definition?

Lucavion sat in silence for a while, gazing at the edge of his blade—not for its sharpness, but for the reflection. It wasn't the steel he was trying to see. It was something beneath it. Something that should've meant more.

'What is a knight?'

The question hovered in his mind, deceptively simple.

'A title? A rank? A damn costume to parade around in?'

He chuckled under his breath, the sound dry and bitter.

'Depends who you ask, doesn't it?'

To a noble, a knight is a convenience. A decorated sword that follows orders. A glorified soldier with a name stitched into silk, ready to be thrown at the enemy, or perhaps paraded through the capital to make the House look noble and just. A dog, leashed in etiquette and expectation, barking when commanded.

But is that what a knight is… to a commoner?

No.

To them, a knight is something else entirely. An ideal. A myth come to life. A savior on horseback, gleaming in armor, standing between the people and the beasts that would devour them. The last hope when the guards flee. A symbol.

'And to a child?'

Ah, to a child—a knight is the first dream.

The sword in the bedtime story. The voice that says "I'll protect you" and means it. The hero.

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. A faint breeze rustled through the camp, stirring the embers of the dying fire.

'So, which one is it?' he mused. 'The sword or the shield? The symbol or the servant?'

It all depends on the one telling the story.

Because like every title in this twisted little world—knighthood isn't universal. It's a mirror.

And mirrors always show what you expect to see, not what's truly there.

You ask a noble, they'll tell you a knight is obedience wrapped in steel.

You ask a child, and you'll hear about dragons slain and princesses saved.

You ask a commoner… maybe they'll talk about the man who stood when no one else did. Or maybe they'll spit at the ground, remembering the one who didn't.

Lucavion exhaled slowly, the soft hiss of breath mixing with the breeze. The fire crackled—low, tired, much like the thoughts running through his head.

'But there's something more to it, isn't there?'

He lifted a small twig, tossing it into the flames. It hissed, curled, and vanished into ash.

'It's not just what a knight is. It's what people want them to be.'

That… that was the crux of it.

'Humans. Gods, they're complicated. They don't just live—they hope. They need to hope. It's stitched into them like marrow in bone. And that hope... it always turns into expectation.'

He leaned back slightly, gaze drifting up toward the stars barely visible through the canopy.

'They hope for peace, so they expect protection. They hope for fairness, so they expect justice. And when the world refuses to give them those things… they demand a face. A voice. A figure they can see standing for them.'

He glanced at the fire again, his eyes dark, unreadable.

'That's why they protest. Why they raise their voices against rulers who don't listen. It's not chaos they crave—it's recognition. To be seen. To be heard. To matter.'

He flicked a small stone toward the flame, watching it roll to a stop beside the blackened coals.

'And what better symbol than a knight?'

He could see it, clear as memory: a lone figure standing in front of a terrified village, bloodied but unbowed. A sword in one hand, a banner in the other.

'A knight… for the commoner… is a kind of hope made flesh. A protector who doesn't wear silk gloves. Someone who doesn't just write laws, but bleeds to uphold them.'

Lucavion's tone softened—just slightly, just enough.

'Wouldn't that be a good representative?'

Lucavion's fingers brushed the hilt of his blade—not in preparation, not in instinct. Just habit. A tether to something grounded.

He tilted his head, eyes half-lidded.

'So then…'

His voice was quiet, like thought made audible.

'Wouldn't a smart ruler notice that?'

A pause. No answer, but the silence itself agreed.

'A smart ruler. A clever politician. Someone who doesn't just crave power, but understands how to hold it—how to shape it.'

His lips curled—not in amusement, not really. Something sharper. Colder.

'If they saw the way the people look at that kind of figure—the knight who shields, the one who bleeds—what do you think they'd do?'

He didn't need to finish the thought. He already knew.

'They'd use it.'

A bitter scoff.

'Of course they would. If you understand the game, you don't fight the symbol. You own it.'

He tapped his fingers once against the hilt, sharp and rhythmic.

'You elevate them. Give them a title, polish their armor, set them on a stage. You make them kneel publicly before your throne and call you their king. And suddenly, the people think they're being heard. Protected. Represented.'

He leaned forward, a faint glint in his eye that wasn't quite anger—but something far more dangerous.

'But it's a leash, isn't it? Dress it in gold and call it honor. Put a collar on the dog and whisper that it's a crown.'

His tone lowered.

'A knight the people trust? That's a dangerous thing. If he's real, he's a threat. So you clip his wings. You reward him. Parade him. You bury the edge of his blade under obligation.'

Lucavion's smile returned—thin, unreadable.

'Or, if you're especially cunning… you build one yourself.'

His voice dipped to a near whisper.

'A manufactured knight. Groomed for the stage. Appears when the crowd is loudest. Fights just enough to win their faith. Speaks just enough to echo their fears. And behind it all… remains obedient.'

Lucavion's gaze slowly lifted, the cold brilliance of his thoughts fading just slightly as a shift in the ambient mana brushed across his senses—like ripples in still water. He turned, boots grinding faintly against the fractured stone beneath him.

Beyond the flickering edge of the safe-zone's barrier, a group emerged—wounded, spent, but still standing. The barrier glyph flared, runes crackling with static light as the protective dome expanded to accommodate the incoming figures.

Leading them—

A boy, broad-shouldered and bruised, dragging another candidate across the threshold, his sword still trembling faintly with leftover enchantment.

Lucavion's lips curled. freewebnøvel.coɱ

'Ah. There it is.'

And here he was—sweat-soaked, blood-streaked, and standing just close enough for the illusion to begin.

A soft voice slipped into his thoughts like wind through a keyhole.

[Oh… another group is coming now.]

Lucavion didn't respond immediately. He watched the group cluster together beneath the stabilizing dome, collapsing in exhaustion. Cheers were audible even here, faint echoes drifting in from the edges of the city. The crowd was responding. Just as expected.

[Lucavion?]

He tilted his head, the same half-lazy motion that always veiled his intent.

"That's right," he murmured, gaze never leaving Reynald. "They've arrived."

A pause.

[Then… why are you smiling?]

His smirk widened, though the sharpness in his eyes dulled none.

"Why?" He adjusted his collar absently, glancing down at his reflection in the shattered stone.

"Someone I've been meaning to meet just stepped through the door."

His coat shifted slightly as he stood from the stone slab, brushing the dust off with idle grace. The cat leapt down, trailing after him with a flick of its tail as he stepped closer to the barrier's edge. Each footfall was slow. Deliberate. Like the start of a waltz he'd danced a hundred times before.

'The Bastion,' huh?

He watched as Reynald looked up—felt the faint spark as their eyes met across the distance. No recognition in the boy's gaze. Only exhaustion. Unawareness. That would change.

Lucavion's thoughts sharpened.

'The pawn of the Crown Prince…'

His hand settled on the hilt at his side—not drawn, not threatening. Just waiting.

'Let me remove another one.'