King Arthur Won't Die by Accident

Battles broke out almost simultaneously at Camelot's east, west, and north walls.

For any ordinary soul who had never set foot on a battlefield, the sheer intensity would be enough to buckle their knees in fear.

One might call it tragic.

But it was better described as a one-sided slaughter.

At each front, Camelot had deployed only a single knight. Against them stood thousands. Yet the overwhelming numbers brought no advantage to the coalition of kings. On the contrary—they only served to magnify the overwhelming might of the Knights of the Round Table.

At least, that was certainly the case at the North Gate.

Each time Lancelot swung his sword, the very air trembled—trails of afterimages danced like specters in his wake. Every strike carried enough force to split both man and mount in a single blow. His bladeplay was graceful yet brutal, his control so absolute that the entire tempo of battle bent to his will.

And he wasn't even trying.

Wuhui Huguang, his gleaming sword, smacked flat against enemy armor rather than cut—yet still, it sent one soldier crashing to the ground, dragging down the man behind him as well. Then came more.

The attackers came armed with spears, swords, cavalry lances—some even wielded shields, a growing trend in recent years.

But all of it was meaningless.

Against Lancelot, it was like watching toddlers swing sticks at a lion.

"Bang—!"

With a casual backhand blow, Lancelot sent another soldier flying. Then, with calm precision, he caught a dropped spear, hefted it in one hand, and stared across the battlefield—at a king barking panicked orders from behind his line.

He hurled the spear.

It tore through the air with a savage whistle, splitting the royal crown atop the king's head and flying far into the forest beyond.

Arthur's orders had been clear: Do not kill the soldiers.

But he'd said nothing about kings and nobles.

And Lancelot, the Knight of the Lake, could have killed this one with ease. He had chosen not to.

That was no mercy.

That was humiliation.

See? the gesture said. It's not that we can't strike you down. We simply choose not to. Because my king is merciful, you still draw breath. And for that, you repay him with betrayal and scorn? Then be prepared to face judgment.

The message was unmistakable.

The king's eyes widened. He paled, swayed—then tumbled from his horse in terror.

"T-That's… the Chief of the Knights of the Round Table…?"

The words slipped out like a prayer.

A king, brought so low before his men. A shameful sight.

But could anyone blame him?

The watching nobles looked at one another—none daring to step forward. None brave enough to condemn.

After all, when a god walks among mortals, isn't fear the only proper response?

And today, Lancelot was a god.

His strength, his skill, his form—it was beyond mortal measure. More than a man. Not like a god—better than one. Only ancient myths could describe the figure he had become.

What faced the coalition wasn't just a knight.

It was the collective will of Camelot.

Far above, Arthur stood on the battlements, surveying the chaos. At his side, Aguguiwen frowned.

"My king, there's no need to watch any longer, is there? Victory is already decided. Even if the battle drags into the night, the enemy won't lay a finger on Sir Lancelot."

It was a blunt observation, but a true one.

And in truth, there were more important matters now that needed Arthur's attention.

Arthur didn't respond immediately. He turned to his knight and sighed.

"Aguguiwen, you're still too impatient. It's been six years—have you learned nothing? There are things in this world that don't move simply because we wish them to. Tell me—when they saw the walls of Camelot, why do you think they still came to besiege us?"

"Besiege...?"

The dark knight's eyes narrowed. A realization struck him.

In the years under Arthur's command, everything had gone so smoothly. Too smoothly. Somewhere along the line, he had grown arrogant—begun to believe that all the other kings were fools, and that the British Isles held no power worth fearing save Camelot itself.

But now he understood.

"I... see. I was too shortsighted."

He bowed his head.

Arthur gave a curt nod. "You're a meticulous man. I knew you'd figure it out."

He turned his gaze back toward the armies beyond Lancelot's battlefield.

A siege, in its truest form, required patience. A long game. It was a battle of resources and resolve. When the city cannot be breached by force, victory comes by starvation. By breaking spirit, not walls.

But these so-called kings?

Their food stores wouldn't last more than a few days. Their troops were barely fed. This was no siege. Not really.

So why had they come?

What were they waiting for?

There could only be one answer: a chance. A single, slender chance to win.

The only chance they had... was if Arthur himself appeared.

"The story cannot go on if the protagonist leaves," Arthur said softly, a smile curling at the edge of his lips. "And so, what would they do if I left the stage?"

He turned, his gaze fixing on a knight standing quietly nearby.

"Isn't that right, Sir Tristan?"

A breath hitched.

The knight was clad in ugly, mismatched armor, his stance stiff. One of Kay's men. A member of the Royal Guard.

And more than that—one of the first knights to swear allegiance to Arthur.

Arthur smiled, almost sadly. "To be honest, I've always been surprised by you."

In the beginning, Arthur hadn't expected Tristan to join so early—before his coronation, even before Camelot had found its footing. His presence had seemed... out of place.

But strange rumors had begun to circulate in the guard. Whispers. Subtle barbs aimed at Arthur. Nothing overt—until Arthur nearly collapsed from overwork, and was forced to trace the cause.

The source of the whispers was clear.

Tristan.

The knight who once said, "King Arthur does not understand the hearts of men."

A natural-born nemesis.

If Arthur had been less rational then, he might have executed Tristan on the spot.

"You couldn't stand to see me thriving, could you?" Arthur murmured. "I wasn't yet famous. I hadn't proven anything. But still, you came to Camelot, just to spite me. If I were like Artoria of the Type-Moon histories—if I walked the same path—would you have said the same thing? That I didn't understand humanity?"

He shook his head.

"My opinion of you has always been complicated. You're the only one in my personal guard with ties to another kingdom. The rest? All Camelot-born. And if they weren't, they've been reassigned elsewhere."

He met the knight's eyes. "And yet—you remain."

The knight removed his helmet.

Long, crimson hair spilled out. His face bore a deep sadness.

And he bowed his head in shame.

"My king… You are right. I am the one who erred."

A confession, unflinching.

"Out of selfish desire… I listened to my uncle's words. I did something unforgivable. Your guess is correct. The 'victory' that the enemy waits for… is me."

-End Chapter-

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