King Arthur Won't Die by Accident

The loss of a city and six thousand soldiers sent shockwaves through the northern front.

This was the first defeat in the history of the British Dynasty.

Of course, most city defenders took no blame for it.

After all, the fortifications of the new cities were nearly impregnable. As long as commanders remained vigilant, even if the Saxons launched another fanatical assault, breaking through the gates would still be nearly impossible.

No—the one who truly had cause to worry now wasn't guarding a new city.

It was the last remaining old city.

Just as many had predicted, the next target of the Saxon army was the city defended by Lancelot.

This time, the Saxon forces were smaller.

But the man leading them was a far more dangerous opponent.

The Humble King—Vortigern—had entered the battlefield.

Finally, the White Dragon revealed himself.

On the first day of battle, without warning, a pillar of blinding white light fell from the heavens and pierced the city wall.

The barrier breached, the Saxons and British clashed in brutal melee—no more defenses, just blood and steel.

The Saxons had the advantage in numbers, and their massive battle formations gave them the edge in group skirmishes.

But in terms of individual combat prowess, the British were vastly superior. Outfitted with elite equipment and tempered by years of grueling training, they held their own against enemies five times their number.

This wasn't the surprising part.

The real strangeness lay in the duel of high command—in the clash between Vortigern and Lancelot.

The Humble King stepped onto the battlefield in the guise of a decrepit old man. Gray hair, one arm missing, a grotesque scar cleaving his head—he looked every bit the picture of ruin.

And yet, this broken man completely overpowered the leader of the Round Table.

By the end of the first day, Lancelot was wounded in several places.

That alone was unthinkable.

After the strengthening of Britain's faith, Lancelot had ascended to near-divine power. While he might not match Gawain or Skadi in sheer destructive force, in overall capability, Lancelot stood above all. If the Round Table's ranks were reshuffled today, Lancelot would claim the top.

He had become a knight comparable to the gods.

Yet he was losing.

In a straightforward duel, he was being defeated by Vortigern.

No—that's not quite right.

He was being spared.

Had the battle continued that day, Vortigern could have slain him. But just as Lancelot reached the threshold of collapse, the enemy suddenly retreated.

The next day, the duel resumed.

And again, Lancelot, though patched up with healing potions, received new wounds.

Then came day three. Day four. Day five.

The pattern continued.

Vortigern had no intention of swiftly taking the city. He wasn't seeking a clean victory.

He was slowly torturing Lancelot, drawing out his suffering, worsening his injuries day by day, waiting for him to collapse—or for Arthur to intervene.

The reason was simple.

Among all the cities of Britain, only the one defended by Lancelot lacked the reinforced magical infrastructure of the new cities. Everywhere else, thanks to Camelot's divinity as the central node, Britain's lands were woven together by a powerful, seamless barrier.

It could defend, counterattack, suppress.

If properly commanded, even Vortigern would be brought to his knees by it.

So there was only one way to win.

Kill Arthur.

If Arthur died, the core of the British Dynasty would unravel. The flow of false history would collapse. Even if some smaller distortions remained, they could be corrected—or simply tolerated.

But Arthur would not leave Camelot lightly.

That was the dilemma.

And Vortigern's solution?

Lancelot.

Arthur was a holy, wise king. He wouldn't watch his most trusted knight be tortured to death without acting.

Even if Arthur chose to prioritize the greater good and stayed put, it would still weaken the faith-based barrier. The magic woven into the kingdom relied on belief—and the death of a Round Table knight could shake it. Diminish it.

Vortigern was baiting the trap.

If Arthur came, he could be killed.

If he didn't, the shield around Britain would begin to crack.

No matter what happened, Vortigern would profit.

This was why he refused to kill Lancelot. Why he refused to take the city.

He wasn't after territory.

He was after the king.

But then, on the sixth day—

As the sun rose, a change came.

This time, Lancelot wasn't alone.

Beside him stood a woman with a bow in her hand.

More British troops had arrived.

Reinforcements.

"Hmph. So the fifth seat of the Round Table—Kikyo—has arrived. One more knight doesn't matter. It only improves my bargaining power." Vortigern said coldly, striding forward with that same corpse-like calm.

And then—

Sword-light, holy arrows, and waves of magic clashed violently with streaks of white death.

The real battle had begun.

Far from the front lines, deeper into the Saxon homeland, two squadrons of ten thousand were waging their own war.

But not a war of swords and sieges.

A war of fire.

Under the command of Gawain and Gareth, vast swaths of Saxon territory had been set ablaze.

This was retaliation.

A mirror of what the Saxons had done to Britain.

Their goal wasn't to slay soldiers. It was to burn granaries, torch homes, and turn every corner of the Saxon rear into a landscape of ash and smoke. Fear would spread from the hinterlands to the front lines, poisoning morale.

This was psychological warfare.

You see, the Saxons didn't have massive fortress cities like the British.

Their settlements were villages, towns, scattered tribal strongholds—none of which could withstand the wrath of cavalry armed with military-grade holy swords.

With most of their forces committed to the front, the Saxons had left their rear vulnerable.

So vulnerable it was laughable.

Even the so-called war fortresses, once breached, were full of nothing but the elderly, women, and children—none of whom dared raise a hand in defense.

You Saxons aren't afraid of death, are you?

Then by all means, go die on the front lines.

But don't suddenly remember your wives, your children, your parents—don't hesitate when death finally knocks. That would be boring.

You trampled over your own dead to scale our walls. You became ladders made of corpses.

Don't let us down now.

Live up to your own propaganda.

And don't worry—our British soldiers have very high moral standards.

They only burn things.

Nothing else.

If the Saxons refuse to believe that… well, that's their own problem.

What? You're saying Britain has no martial ethics?

Please. That's an old British tradition.

If you don't like it, you're welcome to leave the game.

"Hahh~ Finally finished my share for today…"

As night fell, Gareth sat by the fire, grumbling as she stretched her shoulders with exhaustion.

"Seriously, I don't want to keep doing this kind of work."

If the world knew that the Knights of the Round Table were spending their days burning unarmed villages, what would happen to their legend?

"Don't worry," Gawain replied, polishing his holy sword without lifting his eyes. "Saxony is just a transit point. Our mission here is almost over."

He smiled faintly.

"Next stop—Rome."

All of this—every flame, every shattered home, every sobbing civilian—

Was for the king.

-End Chapter-

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