King Arthur Won't Die by Accident

To the Humble King's eyes, dazzling light exploded like fireworks—brief, brilliant, and overwhelming.

Caught beneath the bombardment of the light cannon array—its beams spreading wider than the dragon's massive body—and shackled by chains and towering shields, the dragon could neither dodge nor escape.

A direct, crushing blow.

Its scales were shattered, wounds rending the hide in countless places. The colossal beast plummeted from the sky, slamming into the earth with such force it raised a choking cloud of dust.

Mortals—those "ants" so often despised by gods—had literally pulled the throne from the heavens.

The Humble King was no ordinary dragon.

He embodied the very concepts of death and disaster, lord of the island, channeling the planet's deepest magic. Possessed by Gaia's will, his strength rivaled the mightiest deities—even the legendary Nidhogg.

He was a god of death at the pinnacle of myth.

Yet this all-powerful king was brought low by mortal assault.

An astonishing feat—one that outshone the dragon slayers of legend.

"Success!"

"The Humble King has been shot down!"

"Charge together—finish him!"

"Glory to Britain!"

"Glory to King Arthur!"

Soldiers' cries rose like waves, merging with renewed volleys of light cannons and torrents of arrows.

Their relentless attacks crippled the dragon's self-healing, slowing the monstrous regeneration.

Lancelot, battered and bleeding, slipped forward under their cover and drove a sword through the wing membrane, transforming the grotesque dragon into a massive lizard, wings now little more than fragile skeletal frames.

No respite.

The soldiers unleashed their mightiest skills, relentless as waves of damage battered the beast.

Nearby, Kikyo efficiently purified the surrounding death aura, easing the strain on the fighters.

But the damage was fleeting—never accumulating.

Countless cannon blasts, spent arrows, and exhausted cavalry horses—all their resources nearly drained.

The demon dragon's body bore grievous wounds, but it could not be killed.

The soldiers were spent, their strength and means depleted.

They faced a grim realization: unless they delivered a single, decisive blow, the monster could not be destroyed.

The true ether thickened visibly around them, drawn in torrents from spiritual veins across the British Isles—even from the distant, hidden depths.

This vast wellspring of magic empowered the dragon's bloody body to recover—seemingly bringing the dead back to life.

Flesh, muscles, scales—all rebuilt by overwhelming magic.

A grotesque, nightmarish rebirth witnessed firsthand, repulsive and awe-inspiring.

The dragon's cold eyes flickered with a fleeting glimmer of relief as it observed the exhausted soldiers unable to breach its defenses.

But that human emotion quickly vanished, replaced by ruthless calculation.

Roar—

A terrifying bellow ripped through the battlefield as the deathly aura swelled anew.

The dragon's might was fully restored—perhaps even amplified.

With a mighty flap, it took to the air—unstoppable this time.

Were all their efforts wasted?

Perhaps not entirely.

At least the Humble King who returned to the sky no longer looked down on these "ants."

Humans were indeed formidable—skillful warriors capable of besting gods in certain ways.

But they were flawed.

Dependent on weapons, vulnerable once beyond reach.

Now regaining the skies, the dragon needed only to fly high enough to be untouchable.

Concentrate its energy, strike relentlessly.

Human defenses might hold once, twice, thrice—but what then?

Only if the island's energy ran dry, the planet's aid severed, could resistance hope to prevail.

So much for your struggle, humans.

A chilling aura swirled about the dragon as it gazed toward the battlefield's edge—where a golden beam suddenly pierced the clouds.

The Holy Sword of the Stars.

Had it struck the dragon upon its fall, while restrained by soldiers, the Humble King might have perished.

Too late.

Roar—

A radiant white light gleamed between the dragon's fangs.

"Did you miss your best chance because you refused to perish with your soldiers? Foolishness. Now all will be buried with you."

The Holy Sword of the Stars was fearsome.

Forged to annihilate worlds, it could penetrate a planet's core.

But such power demanded energy.

Human limitations prevented instantaneous unleashing of such magic—even when wielding the Holy Sword.

Power had to accumulate.

In stark contrast, the Humble King's immense body granted endurance beyond mortal limits.

As a phenomenon, energy overload was no concern—he could strike faster, repeatedly.

The latecomer could still be the early winner.

Judging by the beam's recent appearance, it lacked the energy to destroy a planet outright.

Still formidable.

If this were a Noble Phantasm, it would rate as an incalculable EX.

But the Humble King represented the planet's will.

His attack carried the attribute of rectification—a cosmic power to purge the world's enemies without restraint.

Rectification, in simple terms, is an end-of-the-world mechanism: when faced with a threat deemed hostile to the planet, this force aids in purging it.

Normally, the Star Holy Sword bearer should benefit from rectification.

But Arthur did not.

By forcibly seizing the Holy Sword, he was branded the planet's enemy.

Thus, no aid was given.

The irony was bitter.

The Star Holy Sword's wielder, meant to embody rectification, instead became Gaia's foe.

Meanwhile, the dragon—marked for destruction—wielded justice, poised to smite the sword's user.

Yet the facts stood unchanging.

Arthur, reliant solely on his magic, could never annihilate the Humble King in a single strike—he bore the power of rectification.

A cruel truth.

The moment of reckoning had come.

"EXCALIBUR!"

-End Chapter-

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