King Arthur Won't Die by Accident

"We can't win against the British Dynasty!"

"King Arthur won't even punish us. If we surrender, we can become citizens of the British Dynasty!"

"The king doesn't care about our lives at all."

"After all… his name is Pendragon."

"Jack was captured by the British and now lives as one of them. A few years ago, he even came back as an envoy—to trade grain with us!"

"If we keep resisting, we'll all die!"

In recent days, rumors like these had spread like wildfire through the Saxon ranks. Morale plummeted.

After all, they followed a tyrant king who, time and again, ordered retreats just as the city was within reach. They had committed everything to this war—food, manpower, supplies—cutting off nearly all routes of retreat.

And what did they get in return?

They stood on the battlefield while their families in the rear starved and burned.

Whenever word came from behind the lines, it wasn't encouragement—but despair.

What war? What conquest of Britain?

Even if they had resolved to die for victory, what was the point, if they couldn't protect the people they were dying for?

Doubt, frustration, and fear bloomed like a rot within the Saxon army. Soldiers whispered of surrender. They resented the king. They questioned the war.

And when resentment spreads... and royal authority is questioned... law breaks down.

But King Vortigern was no longer the man he once was.

Compared to the collapse of morale or the fragile state of the battlefield, the Humble King now acted with one goal alone: fulfillment of will. Not ambition. Not conquest.

Just the correct outcome.

It wasn't strategy. It wasn't vision. It was divine instinct.

The will of inhibition—the surface consciousness of the planet—had no need to consider human emotion. It could not fathom the rebellion of ants. The cries of humanity were beneath the attention of the gods.

After all, the Age of Gods had made it clear: humans submit. Humans worship. Humans obey.

The gods never ask permission.

But now, have they truly understood humans?

Even humans do not fully understand themselves. But one truth is clear—there is no species more contradictory, more unpredictable, more resilient.

On the morning of the eighth day of the siege, the cruel game changed.

The torture of the head and fifth seat of the Round Table abruptly ceased.

The Humble King turned his wrath inward.

Any soldier who disobeyed an order—executed.

Any who dared to incite discontent—executed.

Any who even thought of retreat—not only executed, but their entire clan slaughtered.

The tyrant's decree was swift.

The consequences swifter.

Within hours, the murmurs stopped. The doubt vanished. Not because it was resolved—but because fear silenced it.

No one dared speak. No one dared look the king in the eye.

No one even acknowledged messages from home—afraid that bad news might trigger grief… which might lead to hesitation… which might lead to death.

And not just their own.

Their families, too.

This brutal turn of events quickly reached the ears of Britain's leadership.

"What an iron-fisted tactic," Lancelot muttered, bitter admiration in his voice. "No wonder my king sees him as a worthy adversary. With this, Saxony's internal collapse is held back—for now."

Arthur, seated on the throne, frowned.

That is called a tactic?

Perhaps it could be seen as an iron-blooded policy. It might suppress dissent… temporarily.

But it was only delay, not solution.

Suppression without resolution would lead to inevitable eruption.

"My king," Arthur murmured to himself, resting his chin on his hand. "You really are no different from Rome—simple-minded in the worst way. With a little push, you've already achieved the three classic signs of national collapse: the persecution of the good, lawlessness, and tyranny."

The old Vortigern—that king—might have found a better way.

But what now resided in that body was not Vortigern.

It was a vessel for inhibition. The will of the world.

And such a thing had no interest in understanding the creatures it sought to dominate.

It did not need their understanding.

It only needed their submission.

"Sir Lancelot," Arthur said, turning to his knight. "As head of the Round Table, what's your view on the situation?"

"My king!!"

Lancelot suddenly shouted, startling the room.

His face was a swollen mess of bruises and scars. He looked nothing like the perfect Knight of the Lake—more like a battered common soldier.

Yet no one laughed. No one mocked.

He had endured endless beatings for the past week, refusing to fall, refusing to surrender. Everyone could see it.

...Even if some people whispered that the real pain came not from his wounds, but from being so long away from Arthur's royal kitchen.

That was the true torment.

So naturally, when he finally saw his king again, he became emotional.

Arthur sighed.

"Sir Lancelot, once Vortigern and Lucius are dealt with, I plan to march on France. Would you like to serve as commander-in-chief?"

Though phrased as a question, Arthur's tone left no room for refusal. It was less an offer and more a reminder: now is not the time for jokes.

But Lancelot was even more excited than before.

"Truly?! France is to be blessed by the radiance of our king?! What glory! Rest assured, my king—I will clear the path ahead and bring France beneath your banner!"

Arthur blinked.

"???"

Such filial devotion.

He wondered if the King of France would personally chase Lancelot down with a kitchen knife after hearing that.

"Ahem. That was a joke. Let's be serious now."

Arthur straightened.

"Keep stalling the Humble King a few more days. Once the people's repressed anger and pain reach their limit, their collapse will come swiftly. It'll reduce our losses when the time comes to end this."

The fifteenth day of the siege.

Half a month of relentless battle.

Both the British and Saxon forces were exhausted.

Especially Lancelot and Kikyo—though as a ranged fighter, Kikyo escaped most of the Humble King's wrath, thanks to the city's barrier. Lancelot, however, had been battered daily. His healing potions no longer worked. His entire body was one massive bruise.

He looked like he'd gained weight, when in truth, his body had just swollen.

And yet… whenever Arthur appeared, he stood straighter, eyes gleaming.

Nothing could dim his energy.

The upper ranks could only nod in solemn agreement.

Sir Lancelot. Truly thick-skinned.

In the past few days, aside from the main siege force under Vortigern's direct command, the rest of the Saxons had splintered into small groups, likely trying to ambush British merchants for supplies.

Unfortunately for them, Britain only traded with Saxon tribes—and with war raging, that trade had been cut off.

In the end, the Saxons resorted to hunting rabbits and other wild animals just to survive.

Yes, this was forgiveness.

They were not starving yet—but they were close.

After all, Britain was a small country. It had already been completely mapped and secured. There was nothing left for the Saxons to take.

But today was different.

The army attacking the city was not led by the King of Beasts.

It was Britain who had taken the initiative.

They had gone out of the city to set an ambush—before the enemy even arrived.

-End Chapter-

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