King Arthur Won't Die by Accident

The sixth year of King Arthur's reign.

During this time, Camelot had flourished, rising into an era of prosperity and rapid development. Its magic technology had advanced so swiftly that it now rivaled even the most legendary kingdoms spoken of in the Age of Gods.

And buried deep within the heart of the castle was a terrible trump card.

A weapon—silent, unmoving, and patient.

A turret designed to simulate the energy output of the Holy Sword of the Stars. Its destructive potential was so great it could pierce the core of a planet in a single strike.

Its name: Arrow of the Star.

An ironic name, really.

A so-called "arrow for the heavens," yet its overflowing magical energy was always aimed at the world below—at the planet beneath their feet.

And that was just one part of Camelot's growing power.

The Knights of the Round Table had also gained a new member in recent years.

Morgan le Fay's son—Gareth.

Like Gawain, he had been born through artificial means. A construct of magic, a child of design. But unlike his brother, Gareth's growth had been strictly limited under Arthur's orders. There were to be no magical enhancements, no longevity spells, no artificial reinforcements.

He was allowed to grow as a normal human child.

And because of that—he was weak.

Far weaker than Gawain, at least in terms of raw power.

When Gareth joined the Round Table, he only barely managed to defeat Kikyo and take the final seat. In truth, even that outcome had been predetermined.

Gareth hadn't won through strength. He had won because he was supposed to win.

Still, compared to him, many far more powerful knights had tried—and failed—to join the Round Table.

In fact, Camelot's rising reputation drew in high-profile warriors from across the land. Even knights who had once appeared in the histories of the Type-Moon timeline—like Lanmaroc and Geraint—had sought audience with Arthur, hoping to earn a seat among the Twelve.

All of them were rejected.

Why?

Arthur had his reasons.

For one, none of these knights had made any outstanding contributions to Camelot.

And second—they couldn't defeat the current Round Table members in single combat.

Of course, Arthur wasn't about to take chances.

When it came to screening these ambitious warriors, he didn't hold back. He sent out Lancelot, wielding the Holy Sword of the Stars, and Gawain, empowered by his full triple-sun-noon buff. Just to be safe, he also had Merry and Merlin cast several layers of absurdly over-the-top enhancement magic.

There was no way anyone could win.

So why was Arthur so insistent on keeping these powerful knights out?

Simple: identity, interest, and loyalty.

Who were these people, really?

Many of them were lords, kings, or princes in their own right. Even if they bowed their heads in the short term, their blood, their titles, and their ambitions made them a threat in the long run.

Arthur didn't want nobles in the Round Table. Not because of snobbery—but because their loyalties were ultimately elsewhere.

Friendship could be feigned. Oaths could be broken. Loyalty was always second to interest.

And interest? Interest never lied.

So rather than risk betrayal, Arthur eliminated the possibility from the start.

Five years after the Round Table's founding, the only new member was Gareth.

And Arthur didn't regret it at all.

"Honestly, I like the way things are now," he murmured, smiling as he looked at the bustling chamber before him.

Even though the political climate had been grim—especially after the latest council of British kings—the Round Table itself remained cheerful. The heavy mood from earlier had already lifted, scattered like smoke.

Gareth was complaining to Gawain about his preference for lances over swords.

Lancelot was arguing with Kikyo, demanding more archers for his unit.

Skadi was trying to teach Manaka how to act cute. (Manaka, blissfully unaware that the killer whale girl was draining Arthur dry on the daily.)

Artoria and Kay were chasing Merlin and Merry around the chamber, trying to stab them again.

A dysfunctional, chaotic family—but a family nonetheless.

Morgan stood beside Arthur, arms folded. "You know, we could let some of those knights in. I'd be happy to keep them under control for you."

"No, Sister," Arthur replied softly. "Whether it's hypnosis or mind control—once a knight loses their inner drive, they lose their strength. Without that obsession, what's left? A weapon with no edge. Better to leave them as they are. One day, they'll serve me—but only as ordinary knights, not members of the Round Table."

"Well then," Morgan chuckled, "we'll do it little Arthur's way."

She didn't press the issue.

For her, as long as Arthur was happy, nothing else mattered. Power, ambition, control—none of it held meaning compared to his well-being.

And in truth, she understood now.

She had come to terms with the past.

She had seen what it meant to be king.

So many had dreamed of Arthur's throne, imagining only its glory. But none of them saw the price—the burden that multiplied with every choice, every expectation, every sacrifice.

Morgan had once envied Arthur.

Now, she just wanted him to live well.

She shook her head and banished the stray thoughts. "But still… was it really okay to reject all those trade requests earlier? Without grain, the northern kings won't survive the Saxon offensive this year. And if the Saxons win… won't they march on us?"

"Don't worry, Sister," Arthur said with a serene smile. "It's all under control."

Earlier that day, during the meeting of the kings, Arthur had unilaterally announced that Camelot would no longer supply food aid to the tribal kingdoms.

His excuse?

Deteriorating soil and a steep drop in grain production.

Technically, he wasn't lying.

Over the past few years, the concentration of magic within Camelot's lands had indeed declined, resulting in reduced crop yields.

But to say Camelot couldn't feed others?

Laughable.

Even if there was zero harvest this year, the kingdom's granaries—now numbering in the dozens—could feed all of Britain (Saxons included) for the next eight to ten years.

And thanks to Arthur's aggressive expansion of farmland and advancements in agriculture, the food situation was more secure than ever.

Even if the Age of Gods vanished overnight—even if the lands were reduced to modern levels—even if the spiritual veins themselves migrated away…

Camelot could still feed the world.

But he didn't want to feed the world.

Not anymore.

"It's just an excuse," Arthur said quietly. "The other kings aren't fools. They know the truth. But that's the point. This was always the plan."

His fingers tapped the armrest as his voice took on a colder edge.

"Britain's been too peaceful. It's time they remembered who the real master of these isles is."

He turned to Morgan, eyes sharp.

"Let me ask you something. Are the people of Britain happy right now?"

Morgan blinked, confused. "Of course they are."

How could they not be?

Camelot's technology had transformed the battlefield. With improved weapons and armor, even minor lords could fight back against the Saxons. Civilian casualties had plummeted. Food was abundant. Even the most bumbling kings were being praised for their "wise governance."

In short: the people were safe, well-fed, and full of hope.

"Exactly," Arthur said. "And do you know what that means?"

Morgan's smile faded.

Because she did.

Arthur wasn't protecting Camelot anymore.

He was preparing to dominate it.

-End Chapter-

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