King Arthur Won't Die by Accident

After ending his communication with King Arthur, Lamorak wore a complicated expression.

It wasn't that he looked down on the Saxons. After all, they had once cast a shadow over the entire British Isles, overwhelming the local powers. But now, things were different. The gap in equipment, training, and tactics was enormous. That was a fact—unchangeable and absolute.

How could the Saxons, who had nothing left, possibly overcome Britain's well-fortified cities and elite troops?

Impossible.

He ran the simulation over and over in his mind. The result never changed.

The Saxons would lose. This city would remain an impenetrable stronghold.

Was the king overthinking things?

It was a question Lamorak couldn't help but entertain.

But when he climbed the city walls and laid eyes on the battlefield, the sight before him shook him to the core.

The Saxon army, despite having lost its general, had not retreated. Instead, they had launched an even more frenzied assault. Without armor to shield them, they charged the city walls again and again, heedless of the arrows raining down. They climbed over the bodies of their dead comrades, inching ever closer.

The siege ladders of corpses grew higher and higher, impossible to stop even with concentrated defense.

It was tragic. Brutal. Inhuman.

It made no sense.

Why were the Saxons, who once fought simply to survive, suddenly acting like this?

"This is impossible… This shouldn't be happening… Why—why are they like this?" Lamorak stared at the grotesque spectacle in disbelief.

It was as if a grotesque flower had bloomed before him—watered by blood, nourished by corpses, blooming wildly and reaching toward him.

Such willpower, such cruelty, such madness—could that truly come from human beings?

If even he, a seasoned knight, was shaken—how could the others remain calm?

The defenders stood frozen, unable to move, paralyzed by what they saw.

Then, a Saxon soldier clawed his way to the top of the wall, bared his teeth, and drove a blade into a British soldier's chest.

A scream rang out.

Lamorak snapped out of his stupor. He unsheathed the B-rank Holy Sword at his waist, poured magic into it, and leapt to the top of the wall in a single bound. With one mighty swing, he cleaved through part of the corpse-ladder, buying the defenders precious seconds.

"What are you standing around for? If you don't want to die here, grip your sword! Draw your bow! Don't stop until every last enemy is dead!" he roared.

His voice shook the soldiers awake.

But the fear in their eyes didn't vanish. They followed his orders, yes—but it was clear they were deeply unsettled.

Can we really win? Against an enemy this mad? An enemy that outnumbers us by so many?

That question—so unthinkable just an hour ago—now crept into every soldier's mind.

Lamorak noticed this. His face darkened.

He couldn't dispel their fear with words. What he needed now was an overwhelming victory—something to remind them that this city would not fall.

…Wait. Why had that thought just occurred to him?

The answer came to him instantly.

He no longer believed in the city's absolute safety.

He—Lamorak, the spear knight—was beginning to believe the city might fall.

Arthur's warning echoed in his mind.

"When people are driven into despair, they seek hope. When trapped at the edge of a cliff with no way back, they abandon fear and push forward."

That… was exactly what was happening.

Since the British Dynasty was founded, the Saxons had launched countless failed assaults. It had become common knowledge: British cities cannot be taken.

But now, the Saxons had realized that simply lingering on would lead to slow, inevitable death. So they stopped waiting for winter to kill them. They stopped fearing defeat.

Instead, they searched for a breakthrough.

And that breakthrough… was this city.

They needed a victory—any victory—to justify continuing the war. To restore morale. To prove that survival was still possible.

But the great cities of New Britain were built far too well. Even if the Humble King took the field personally, there was no guarantee he could breach them.

So the Saxons had only two options: the city guarded by Lancelot… and this one, guarded by Lamorak.

Compared to the mighty Sword of the Lake, Lamorak was clearly the easier target.

Thus, there was never any other outcome.

The Saxons would throw everything they had at this city.

Arthur hadn't been exaggerating. He had foreseen this long ago. That's why he had ordered the evacuation of civilians and left specific instructions for Lamorak.

"…Damn it. Cavalry, assemble at the gates. We're charging out!"

Lamorak couldn't let morale drop any further. He had to show the soldiers what strength looked like.

"Kill!!!"

The cavalry charge, with Lamorak as the tip of the spear, struck like a thunderbolt, shattering lines of Saxon infantry. They drove a wedge into the enemy formation again and again.

And yet…

Even that wasn't enough to halt the Saxon advance.

Still, it was enough. When Lamorak looked back at the walls, he saw his men fighting harder, with clearer eyes and louder war cries.

Their spirits were rising.

But—

"The Noble Phantasm is released:

[Chariot of Boudica, the Wheel of Protection Without a Vow]."

A shrill neigh echoed across the battlefield.

Suddenly, the Saxons surged again. Their strength, speed, and endurance all rose dramatically. Lamorak's formation, already stretched thin, began to waver.

And then she appeared.

A red-haired woman, standing atop a twin-horse chariot, charged directly at Lamorak.

The British cavalry that stood in her way were thrown aside, trampled, or cut down like wheat before a scythe.

In mere moments, the chariot was upon him.

She raised her sword and swung.

Lances are superior to swords in cavalry combat—longer, deadlier, more suited for charging.

But before Lamorak could even strike, her blade released a bolt of magic that exploded upon contact. His defense shattered, and he was thrown from his horse.

The world spun.

And then—her voice.

"…I'm sorry. I really… I'm sorry."

There was no triumph in it. No gloating. Just quiet sorrow, and guilt.

Lamorak blinked through the pain and dust, raising his eyes to the rider who had felled him.

He froze.

No… That's impossible.

He knew that face. Every Briton did.

Her statues stood in every city. Her portrait hung in every military hall. Warriors revered her. Citizens prayed to her.

A symbol of faith. A goddess of war.

Queen Boudica.

-End Chapter-

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