King Arthur Won't Die by Accident

On the first day the covenant was broken, the people of Britain fell into chaos.

By the seventh day, distrust blossomed among the kings, and Camelot was besieged.

On the eleventh day, some tribes began to waver, showing signs of compromise. But even that fragile hope was meaningless. The coalition army still encircled Camelot, cutting off any real resolution.

They were reaching their limit.

Food and fodder had long been depleted. The people hadn't eaten in five days, surviving only by licking dew from leaves.

The soldiers' faces were ashen. Both their bodies and spirits had been pushed to the brink.

But even this wasn't the source of their deepest despair.

Camelot's walls bristled with archers. Any sign of approach was met with warning arrows. And the fearsome strength of the Knights of the Round Table had shattered their morale.

Behind them, waves of refugees streamed in from across Britain, demanding passage into Camelot.

Envoys from other kings came too—not to encourage them, but to scold and threaten.

The reason was simple.

Camelot was the only city in Britain with food. It was the last sanctuary. Regardless of the truth, the coalition forces blocking its gates were seen as villains.

To the refugees, they were the ones denying salvation.

To the envoys, they were the ones preventing diplomacy.

Worst of all were the rumors.

Everywhere across Britain, people whispered that King Arthur had closed the gates to protect Camelot from the jealous kings who sought to plunder it. He, they said, had no choice but to sever trade and prepare for war.

The kings were livid. They knew the truth—that Arthur had orchestrated this war from the shadows.

But even when they shouted this truth to the world, no one believed them.

The people were starving. And the one with food became the savior.

Several tribes revolted. Kings and nobles were dragged from their thrones and hanged.

In times like this, truth didn't matter.

Arthur had spent years shaping a public image: a kind, just, radiant king. And now, in the face of starvation, people clung to that image.

They believed that Arthur wanted to save them, but the greedy kings blocked his mercy.

In less than half a month, all the kings' efforts of the past six years had turned to ash.

Wise rulers, brave leaders, or incompetent tyrants—it no longer mattered.

In the eyes of Britain, only King Arthur remained blameless.

"What's the current situation outside?"

"Exactly as you predicted, my king," Agravain answered with an expressionless face.

The Black Knight had no concern for the starving masses. His only care was Camelot's safety—and the flawless execution of Arthur's plan.

"You should know that I'm not asking about the weather or the refugees. I'm asking about the attitude of the brave coalition forces. The ones still outside our walls, pretending to have resolve."

Arthur flipped through a document as he spoke, voice calm. "You know the art of war, Lord Agravain. 'Attack the heart, not the city.' Psychological warfare is the first priority; physical battle is second. After all this time, surely they've lost their will to fight?"

It was a logical assumption.

The allied kings now surrounding Camelot weren't like the hardened warlords of the northern tribes.

They had dared to march only because they were close to Camelot—and because the political winds had left them no choice.

But at heart, they were soft. Privileged. Unused to hardship.

And after eleven straight days of it, many of their nobles—who had even weaker stomachs than their soldiers—were already broken in spirit.

"Their morale is all but shattered. We might as well send out troops now and force them to surrender. There's no need to wait."

Agravain frowned.

"My king, on what grounds do you make such a decisive judgment?"

Though he believed in Camelot's strength, Agravain had learned caution from Arthur. He too had grown to value his subordinates' lives, especially now.

So far, Camelot had not sent a single soldier into battle.

And although it had not shed blood, this was war. A dangerous war.

If the coalition still had fight in them, sending troops outside could lead to needless casualties.

In Agravain's view, hesitation was prudent.

"Oh?" Arthur looked up, intrigued. "Then tell me—what's your reasoning?"

"My king, I believe your calculation may be off. You assume that food supplies are being shared equally among nobles and soldiers. But that's not how power works. Nobles always eat first. So while the soldiers may be starving, the nobles likely still have enough food to preserve their will to resist."

"No. My math is correct," Arthur said flatly.

"Why?"

"Because power has limits," Arthur replied, tapping the table with a finger. "If every soldier is starving and they see nobles feasting daily—tell me, how long will that noble hold onto his power? If it were me, I'd have been tied up and handed over to the enemy days ago."

"No! No! Everyone in Camelot is loyal to you!" Agravain protested with conviction.

"Lord Agravain," Arthur said, voice cold but calm, "remember this: In the face of death, the balance of power tilts."

The kings who had besieged Camelot had indeed acted with bravery.

But there were still clear-eyed thinkers among them.

If, at a time like this, they could not share in their soldiers' suffering—if they hoarded the last rations—then they no longer deserved to hold power.

Arthur's gaze sharpened.

"A few days ago, maybe they still had wine and bread. But not now. Their physical condition is worse than the soldiers'. Their spirits weaker. I'm sure of it—the nobles want to surrender even more than the common troops."

At that moment, a stack of new documents was brought in.

Arthur issued orders through the crystal communication orb without missing a beat.

"Knights of the Round Table, hear my command. Lead your units beyond the walls and compel the coalition to surrender. If you meet resistance, eliminate it. Prioritize locating kings, nobles, and generals—separate them from the rank-and-file. Also, identify any influential soldiers. If they stir unrest, relocate them immediately.

No prisoners of war, refugees, or foreign envoys are to enter the city under any circumstances."

He turned to another matter immediately.

"Have Draven prepare food for distribution. We'll offer alms to the refugees."

Letting them into the city would invite chaos—they were too desperate, too unstable.

The army was collapsing, and so were the masses.

If Arthur continued to ignore the crisis, a hellish outbreak of cannibalism could erupt outside the gates.

"Lord Agravain, be ready. Once I've signed off on these reports, accompany me outside the walls. We'll meet with the envoys and address the people."

"…Understood."

Agravain lowered his head in reverence.

He had never felt such awe.

Wise. Ruthless. Cold-blooded. Unscrupulous.

This was the chosen king.

And this—this was how a savior must rule.

-End Chapter-

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