King Arthur Won't Die by Accident

The British army had grown serious, and their attack efficiency soared. In a short time, they had routed the Saxon army.

But today was different.

Perhaps the Humble King sensed that the deaths were accumulating too quickly. Perhaps Lancelot's performance was simply too exaggerated.

Whatever the case, the king's strikes today were far heavier than before. As the British gained momentum, Lancelot suffered wound after wound—until finally, he slipped up during a clash.

A single swipe from the Humble King's claw sent him flying.

The talons tore through armor like paper—armor that even artificial holy swords couldn't scratch.

A torrent of blood followed.

It was, without question, the most serious injury Lancelot had suffered since becoming Chief of the Knights of the Round Table.

Just one clean blow, and he was critically wounded.

"The Chief is seriously injured!"

Kikyo reacted instantly. She shouted to alert the surrounding soldiers, pulled her bowstring to full draw, infused it with maximum magical energy, and fired—to intercept the Humble King, who was already moving in pursuit.

"Rescue Sir Lancelot! Everyone, retreat immediately! Drop your burdens and move light—no hesitation!"

The command came swift and absolute.

To a priestess like Kikyo, the lives of her soldiers were worth far more than any battlefield victory.

Fortunately, the fifth seat of the Round Table still carried immense prestige. Although the order sounded irrational, the soldiers obeyed without a second thought.

They dropped their gear and ran.

Not just shields and armor—they even abandoned heavier weapons like halberds and lances without a shred of hesitation. Some even tossed their swords, fleeing with nothing but a dagger in hand.

To the Saxons, it was a surreal sight. The British, who had appeared so invincible just moments ago, now fled in disarray.

Was this really the same army that had nearly crushed them?

Still, one had to admit—even in retreat, the British maintained strict formation. Their movements were coordinated, almost like a drill. Some Saxons even felt... envious.

How nice would it be if we could retreat with dignity like that...

But there was no time to daydream.

Gear first!

If they didn't grab it now, it would be gone.

Didn't they see? Even the beasts in the front row were trying to wear two sets of armor at once.

The British army was much smaller than the Saxons. Naturally, that made their equipment even more valuable. Whoever grabbed it owned it—such was the rule of the battlefield.

Not even the Humble King could change that.

So Saxon soldiers surged forward like starving wolves, elbowing and punching one another to claim even a single shoulder guard.

"My King, should we pursue?" a guard asked cautiously.

The Humble King narrowed his eyes.

"Rather than call it a retreat... it looks more like they want us to follow them," he said.

He hesitated.

Logic—his vast knowledge—told him that pursuing a fleeing enemy into unknown terrain was a trap. There were surely ambushes waiting. Any commander would see that.

But...

If the British really took this chance to escape, abandoned this city, and hid in the new city... then Arthur would have no reason to come.

And if Arthur didn't come, he would have no choice but to mount a full-scale siege on the New City—a daunting, costly task.

No. There was no room for hesitation.

No matter how many Saxons it cost, these two knights had to die here.

"Pursue them. No one escapes. Drive them back to the city—that's where they belong."

His voice was cold, merciless.

And when a few soldiers dared disobey?

He killed them on the spot.

That was all it took to restore order. The looters fell into line, and the army moved.

The British ran fast—but the Saxons weren't so slow that they couldn't keep up.

Soon, the pursuit crossed the city gates.

As the Humble King had feared, the city was empty—completely. The British never intended to return. They were escaping.

And then, the chase reached the forest.

That's when things changed.

The British had not bothered to cover their tracks. It was easy to see which direction they fled. But once they reached the woods, the army fractured.

First into two teams. Then those two split again. Then again. And again.

Dozens of splinters, all vanishing into the dense foliage.

The Humble King didn't hesitate.

"Split your forces. Match them man for man. Surround them and eliminate them all!"

An insane order.

The Saxon soldiers were stunned.

The British army was small, yes—but they were elite. Well-equipped, well-trained, and terrifyingly strong. Even without armor, they had superior skills.

In this forest, those advantages only grew.

Heavy armor? Worthless here. It snagged on branches and weighed them down.

Long weapons like halberds and lances? Useless in tight spaces. Worse than useless—they got in the way.

Whatever edge the Saxons had in numbers or loot, it meant nothing now.

Any clash in this terrain would end badly for them.

But the Humble King didn't care.

He used force to drive them forward.

One step back—and his dragon claws would pierce your heart.

Better to die to the British than to your own king.

All they could do now was pray that the British really were fleeing, rather than luring them into an ambush.

Otherwise, all of them—after surviving the chaos of the battlefield—would die in this forest.

A beautiful graveyard, but a graveyard all the same.

With grim faces, the Saxon soldiers pressed forward, trembling with each step, splitting off again and again as ordered.

"Hey... you think the British are waiting to ambush us just ahead?"

"Don't be scared now. We're soldiers. We follow orders. What else can we do? You want to get executed instead? Our deaths are fine. But if the king's mad, our families die too."

They trudged onward, more like condemned prisoners than pursuers.

One soldier clutched a British shield in both hands—something he'd looted earlier. It was the only thing keeping him calm.

If only I had armor too, he thought. A sword, something... anything.

But all he had was the shield.

It was British-made—he knew it had to be high quality. But still, he was scared.

"By the way... who's even in charge of our squad?" he asked, shrinking behind his shield.

"Officer? Dead. Crushed by the British."

Another soldier shrugged.

"Just leave it to fate. If the king says chase, we chase. If we meet the enemy, we fight. If we don't... we just keep chasing. Not like we have a choice."

The soldier gave a bitter smile.

Then suddenly—he froze.

There was a noise.

The group tensed, raising their weapons, creeping forward step by step.

They pushed aside a massive leaf—large enough to cover a grown man—and peered through.

There, just a few meters ahead, sat a British squad.

Resting. Drinking water. Wiping weapons.

For a moment, no one moved.

Both sides locked eyes, blinking.

What a coincidence.

We met... on a narrow road.

-End Chapter-

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