King Arthur Won't Die by Accident

The Saxon squad froze when they spotted the British unit just ahead—a mere twenty soldiers.

After so many forced splits, they themselves numbered only around a hundred. If they clashed here—

The leading Saxon soldier's face instantly drained of color. Cold sweat burst down his forehead.

They were going to die.

But just as panic gripped their hearts, the British team stopped.

For two long seconds, they stared blankly at each other.

Then one British soldier silently stood up and drew a dagger.

Instantly, the air turned cold and tense.

A death match was about to begin.

And then—

The British team ran.

With solemn, determined expressions, they turned and bolted. They didn't look back. Their movements were crisp, clean... almost heroic.

"...Huh?"

The lead Saxon soldier blinked, utterly confused.

Wait, weren't they supposed to be the ones getting annihilated right about now?

"They ran?" one of the Saxons asked in disbelief. He looked around, half expecting to wake from a dream. "Shouldn't we be the ones running?"

"What do we do now?"

"...Do we chase them?"

The Saxons hesitated, then began a nervous pursuit—the most reluctant, awkward, and cowardly chase imaginable.

They still remembered how their comrades had been flattened by the British just days ago. No one actually believed they could catch the enemy, much less defeat them.

Honestly, they never expected to even see the British again.

They had planned to trail behind, just enough to pretend they were trying. Once back, they'd report that the enemy had moved too quickly and couldn't be caught.

But now?

Here was the British squad—resting in the forest like it was a picnic, not a retreat. No alertness. No wariness. Just... sitting there.

Don't tell me the British get tired and hungry too?

That might make sense—if the Saxons weren't far worse off.

They were starving. Exhausted. Some had fainted during the march. Compared to that, British fatigue was nothing.

The worst the enemy might suffer was psychological pressure—and they didn't even look stressed.

"Are we... actually catching up to them?" one Saxon murmured, eyeing a comrade sprinting ahead.

"What an idiot. Why're you rushing to die?" another scoffed. "You think you can take them in a fight?"

"Shut up. Can't you tell we've strayed off course?"

Yes—under the subtle guidance of a "clever" Saxon, the group had unknowingly deviated from the main path.

They followed roughly the same route as the British, but always kept a very safe distance—about two or three hundred meters.

Once this was pointed out, everyone sighed in relief.

As long as we don't actually fight, we'll be fine.

So the pursuit continued—at a carefully maintained distance.

But soon, something began to feel... off.

Not because they discovered an ambush.

But because the British squad really seemed to be fleeing—without traps, without hesitation, without turning back. It was as if they'd completely lost the will to fight.

That realization lit a fire in the Saxon soldiers.

They'd been drilled in the importance of morale.

An army with high morale could overcome impossible odds. An army without it would collapse like sand in the wind.

If the British had truly lost their will, then maybe—just maybe—they could be captured.

Captured British soldiers. That had never happened before.

Not once since the founding of the British Dynasty.

The potential glory was immense.

The Saxons shouted with renewed excitement, gradually steering themselves back onto the correct path.

Soon after, they caught sight of the enemy's retreating backs.

Unfortunately, they had no bows or crossbows. All they could do was sprint after them.

Up ahead, the trees began to thin.

There were fewer obstacles now. The terrain was opening up.

This was good.

Once in open ground, the Saxons—superior in both numbers and equipment—wouldn't need to fear a frontal clash.

But then—

A deafening crash shook the forest.

And most of the Saxon squad vanished.

The ground beneath them collapsed. A massive pit opened up, seven meters deep. Those in heavy gear tumbled in helplessly. Armor and weapons clanged and clattered as soldiers struggled to move, much less climb out.

And before the ones who remained could react—

The British returned.

From behind, they shoved the remaining Saxons straight into the pit.

"Damn it—it really was a trap!"

In retrospect, so many things hadn't made sense.

Why had such a powerful British squad run away at the first sight of them?

Why had they moved so lightly, yet always stayed just out of reach?

Why did they match the Saxons' pace perfectly—slow if they slowed, fast if they sped up—never widening nor closing the distance?

It wasn't chance.

It was a performance.

A psychological game.

They knew something was off. Their subconscious minds had sensed the trap.

But they chased anyway.

Because they wanted to believe it wasn't a trap.

Because they wanted to live.

"It was always going to end this way."

The Saxon soldiers moaned in frustration. Some struggled weakly to climb out—but none dared to protest.

Because they knew.

They knew this strategy didn't come from ordinary soldiers.

The British knights were strong, yes. The Round Table was legendary.

But a scheme like this—one that so casually toyed with morale, instinct, and pride—could only come from one person on the entire British Isles.

And just then, a British soldier stepped up to the edge of the pit.

He looked down coldly at the writhing mass of Saxon troops below.

"That's enough. Stop struggling."

"You should be grateful. His Majesty showed you mercy—he trapped you instead of killing you. You know we had plenty of chances. There was no need to go to this much trouble."

"Our king wants you alive. Not dead Saxons. So don't waste this mercy."

His voice was calm. Flat. Almost kind.

"Your fate was sealed the moment this war began."

From the moment Britain revealed its full power—crushing Saxon morale...

From the moment the Humble King issued cruel, irrational orders...

From the moment these soldiers—driven by fear—scrambled for armor and shields...

From the moment they chased the British for a military achievement they barely believed in...

It was already over.

They were prey.

This was the trap.

There was no need to fight it anymore.

The soldier's voice lowered.

"You wanted to live. That's why you chased us."

"You knew it was a trap."

"You knew you'd be captured."

"But you still came—because in your heart, you wanted to survive."

"It's not easy, I know. For a soldier, staying alive is the greatest wish."

"Give up. You've achieved your goal."

And that broke them.

The last shred of resistance in the Saxon soldiers dissolved.

All across the forest, the same thing was happening.

This wasn't a graveyard for the Saxons.

No—

It was their only place of survival.

-End Chapter-

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