King Arthur Won't Die by Accident

"Your Excellency! We've just received permission from His Majesty!"

The excited voices of soldiers rang out across the chaotic battlefield.

The leader of the cavalry—commanding hundreds of riders—nodded silently and raised his lance.

That small gesture immediately fired up the men behind him. They tightened their reins, their eyes fierce, weapons poised.

Then came the order:

"Open the gates!"

With a thunderous roar, chains rattled and machinery ground as the massive city gates lifted swiftly.

The instant the gates opened, the soldiers witnessed the most brutal side of war—blood and fire laid bare.

Yet the cavalry leader remained calm, radiating an imposing aura as he issued commands with cold detachment.

"Follow me! Kill them all!"

In a flash, the cavalry surged forward like a hail of arrows. Spears found their marks with ruthless precision, piercing Saxons caught unprepared.

The horses beneath them thundered faster and faster—lightning cleaving through the sky—tearing open a widening breach in the Saxon lines and driving straight for the enemy's rear camp.

The leader's face was stern, counting the kills—one, two, three, dozens.

No matter how tough the Saxons were, none could hold him for a moment.

The charge was ferocious.

At last, the enemy leader appeared before him.

Cavalry battle meant simultaneous charges and swift kills—victory was decided in seconds.

Steady aim, cunning tactics, and flawless timing would crown the winner.

This was a drill the cavalry leader had practiced countless times; fear and hesitation were strangers to him.

In an instant, the battle's outcome was clear.

As his warhorse neighed, its spear shattered the enemy leader's helm. Lamorak and his men smashed through the formation, circled back, and charged toward the city.

Today's battle was an indisputable victory.

"Glory to Britain!"

Lamorak reined in, raising his lance high before even dismounting, his voice rallying his men to thunderous cheers.

The soldiers roared in response, their cries echoing long after the clash ended.

"Sir Lamorak, your marksmanship is as deadly as ever—truly unmatched in this world," praised a soldier riding close behind, removing his helmet with reverence.

Lamorak merely nodded, withholding any reply.

What did unmatched skill matter?

He still hadn't earned a seat at the Round Table.

He remembered too well how, drawn by the allure of the Round Table's prestige, he once journeyed to Camelot—only to be struck from his horse by Sir Lancelot's blade.

It wasn't about skill with a spear or riding anymore.

It was the overwhelming gulf in physical ability.

The Knights of the Round Table were monsters among men—their raw power could crush even the so-called unrivaled.

Hearing others praise his unparalleled skill felt like mockery to Lamorak.

He shook off such thoughts and gave the order:

"Send word of our charge to Camelot. The enemy general is dead, and the Saxons will soon retreat. We can report our victory to the king."

Without waiting for a reply, Lamorak strode toward the city wall.

Victory...?

No one knew this knight—the unrivaled spear master who appeared indifferent—yearned to win more than anyone and desperately sought to prove himself.

A few years ago, shortly after the British dynasty's founding, the king had demoted nobles, stripping them of privilege and assigning roles by merit.

Lamorak was deemed unfit for governance and sent to the army.

This was a devastating blow to a prince once destined for the throne.

Perhaps it wasn't incompetence, but his sensitive lineage that barred him.

Lamorak harbored no resentment.

His eyes never left the Round Table.

Many dared not dream of such supreme glory—few dared even to strive for it.

But in Britain, it was possible.

Arthur had established a strict system to maintain order and morale—discipline enforced, soldiers presented as heroes to the people, conveying that military service was glorious and the fastest route to promotion.

Even Arthur himself obeyed this rule.

Win, achieve glory, and even a lowly soldier could rise to a Round Table seat.

But the war was nearing its end.

Lamorak pieced together fragments of Arthur's orders and decisions, inferring that the stalemate with the Saxons would soon break.

When the war ended, his path to the Round Table would all but vanish.

Anxiety etched on his face, Lamorak craved victory more than ever.

Today was not the first time someone volunteered to slay an enemy leader when caution suggested otherwise.

But—

Time.

The worry was nearly visible.

At that moment, his wrist's communication crystal blinked—an urgent message from King Arthur.

Lamorak started, quickly correcting his posture and channeling magic to connect.

Arthur's projection appeared, and Lamorak saluted formally, masking his unease.

"My king!"

"Enough formalities. You did well, Lord Lamorak. But I must warn you—be vigilant in the coming days."

"My lord, are you unwell?"

"What's wrong?"

"No, I might be mistaken, but your face looks flushed."

Ahem…

From the other side came a harsh coughing fit that lingered.

Lamorak noticed a few strands of silver hair at Arthur's temples, then fell silent, giving the king a dry look.

"Now, to business. There's been unusual Saxon activity recently, and I will soon take action. I'm sure you have guessed what this means."

"Yes."

"Correct. Autumn approaches, then winter. In the past, the Saxons would avoid large offensives in such harsh seasons—the situation there…"

Arthur's voice faltered.

Lamorak knew well.

The Saxons were on their last legs.

If Arthur didn't act soon, they'd pack up and surrender in a few years.

Fight?

What could they fight with?

-End Chapter-

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