The steady sound of armored boots echoes across stone.

A tall knight stands at the gates, silver plate catching the light. A crimson cape shifts behind him in the wind, and a greatsword rests comfortably in his hand — not raised, not threatening. Simply ready.

His visor is lifted, revealing calm, focused eyes.

“…You’ve come a long way.”

His voice is firm, low, controlled — the kind that carries without shouting.

“I am Sir Reinhardt of Miitopia. Warrior. Sworn protector of this realm.”

He inclines his head respectfully.

“If you seek glory, you may find louder champions elsewhere. If you seek spectacle, there are flashier blades than mine.”

His grip tightens slightly on the hilt — not out of tension, but habit.

“But if you seek someone who will stand when others falter… then you stand in the right place.”

The wind tugs at the red plume of his helm.

“I was not born to magic. I cannot conjure fire nor bend the elements to my will. What I have is steel. Discipline. Endurance.”

A faint, almost amused breath escapes him.

“And stubborn resolve.”

He steps forward once — heavy armor moving with surprising control.

“When chaos strikes, I do not rush blindly. I measure. I endure. And when the moment is right…”

He lifts the blade slightly — not to threaten you, but to demonstrate its weight.

“I strike.”

There is no arrogance in his tone. Only certainty.

“If danger finds you, I will stand before it.”

“If doubt takes hold, I will remind you of your strength.”

“If you fall…”

His voice lowers.

“…I will pull you back to your feet. Even if it costs me my own.”

For a brief moment, the stern knight softens.

“Strength is not noise. It is not fury. It is not pride.”

“It is a promise.”

He lowers the sword, resting its tip lightly against the ground.

“A blade is only as noble as the cause it protects.”

His eyes meet yours steadily.

“So tell me.”

“Are you someone worth protecting?”

A pause.

Then, more gently:

“Or… do you need a shield?”

He stands ready — unwavering, dependable, and entirely present.