King Arthur Won't Die by Accident

Do you remember the endless stream of resentful spirits that Kay, Merlin, and the others encountered when collecting the Red Dragon's corpse?

That was the origin—the true form—of the Ghost Shark Army.

Afterward, it was transformed through forbidden magic. At its core was the dragon soul captured by Manaka, fused with the lingering grudges of dragons, Roman soldiers, and fantasy species. This undead army, composed of countless vengeful spirits, annihilated invaders time and time again—like a natural disaster given will.

Everything they touched was either destroyed or assimilated.

The dead do not tire.

They feel no fear.

They require no food or sleep.

They obey only their master's will, executing orders with unrelenting cruelty and efficiency.

Now, transformed again, they dwell in the sea, lurking like ghostly predators—guardians of the British Isles.

The sea at night is dark—so dark it swallows sound, light, and hope.

Even the most seasoned sailors grow anxious in that suffocating blackness.

As the Roman fleet approached the British coast, they extinguished all lights. They weren't here to announce their arrival with trumpets and fanfare. After all, they couldn't exactly shout across the waves: "Hey! Friends across the sea! The glorious Rome has come to party tonight!"

Still, they had their magic tools.

The Roman general toyed with a golden compass—an enchanted device, a blend of watch and navigational aid, etched with faintly glowing runes. But the symbols were British script, and that fact alone made him bristle. He'd tried to scratch them off earlier, only to fail miserably.

"Hmph! Barbarians. They gnawed raw meat and drank dirty water until the Roman Empire graciously enlightened them," he scoffed. "Now, they forget who their masters are? Typical."

As the words left his mouth, a wave suddenly slammed into the hull, drenching him in cold spray.

He scowled, glaring up at the fine drizzle falling from the night sky.

Britain's sea... even the rain feels vindictive.

It wasn't just the weather that annoyed him.

Rome had once conquered half this island—established it as a province, built roads, bridges, aqueducts. Even in Camelot today, Roman architecture remained.

And what did they get for their legacy?

During Uther's reign, Britain had been a loyal vassal. They paid taxes. They respected the Roman Emperor.

Then Arthur came to power.

He refused tribute.

He traded with Rome, but only to profit off Rome.

He minted the Red Dragon Coin, and now nearly every Roman used British currency—including the general himself.

Damn it!

A mutt raised by the Roman Empire now dares to act like a king?

Who gave you the audacity?

And worst of all—Rome couldn't retaliate. Not properly.

They had internal unrest, the aftermath of the "Whip of God" disaster, border tensions, and now even rumors of British spies infiltrating their nobility.

For years, they'd left Britain alone.

And how had Britain responded?

By sinking two entire Roman fleets.

Two!

This was more than arrogance—it was a declaration of supremacy.

They must've advanced their naval technology—there's no other explanation. How else could those island-dwelling upstarts defeat mighty Roman vessels?

Clearly, they'd planned this all along.

"As long as we control the sea, Rome can't touch us," the general muttered mockingly. "Innocent fools."

They think Britannia can resist forever?

They're wrong.

Now, Rome had the Holy Grail.

Now, they had Heroic Spirits.

This time, victory would belong to—

The general glanced sideways and froze.

—To... to someone else, maybe.

He was looking at her again.

Silver hair. Black armor. Eyes like twin blades of malice.

The Roman general swallowed hard.

This wasn't fear.

It wasn't discrimination, either! No, as a proud Roman, he hated only two kinds of people: those who discriminate, and those who aren't Roman. He was very tolerant.

But...

This woman...

Was terrifying.

"Your Excellency Jeanne d'Arc... the fleet should make landfall before dawn," he said cautiously. "Please remain alert. The British navy is formidable. They may have already discovered us."

He tried to sound calm, collected.

Joan of Arc Alter shot him a look of disgust.

"Ugh. Twisted jealousy and grotesque arrogance. Disgusting." She waved him away like filth. "Stay back. The stench of this pathetic ship is enough to make me sick. If you don't want your head on the deck, disappear."

This was peak French contempt.

Even among Heroic Spirits, Jeanne Alter stood out.

Wasn't she supposed to be a saint?

What kind of saint talks like this?!

But before the general could protest, a strange coldness swept over the fleet.

A fog drifted in—thick, unnatural. The temperature plummeted.

A fine layer of frost coated the ship's planks.

The air was no longer just humid—it was heavy with death.

The entire fleet was suddenly wrapped in a swirl of black mist.

July. Mid-summer.

And yet, the cold was unbearable.

"...Hey~ here it comes," Jeanne Alter murmured.

"What comes?" the general asked, confused.

Despite his foul mouth, he was no fool. He stepped forward, scanning the mist—and was immediately shoved aside.

His body slammed into the deck.

When he looked up, his face went pale.

A massive black shadow, cloaked in choking fog, streaked past the ship.

His pupils shrank in terror.

He couldn't even scream.

Then, with a terrible crunch, nearby ships shattered—as if slammed by a sea monster.

The wreckage hurtled into their vessel, shaking it violently.

Jeanne Alter narrowed her eyes. "Entwined with such deep hatred... And you Brits call us impure?"

A dark figure descended from the sky.

Black clothes. Silver hair.

Her face resembled Jeanne Alter's—enough to be sisters.

Then—boom.

She landed.

The ship shuddered, planks groaned, and the water swelled with tidal force.

Not a drop of emotion in her eyes.

Not a word wasted.

Just a declaration.

"King Arthur. Third Seat of the Round Table. Skadi."

She wore no armor.

She carried no troops.

Only a single massive black sword, taller than herself, and an aura colder than death.

Jeanne sneered. "Tch. Announcing yourself like some noble knight—how quaint."

But Skadi didn't respond.

She simply moved.

Her blade cleaved the air with a howl.

The force was overwhelming.

Jeanne was blasted away, sent flying across the deck—straight into the next warship.

Crack!

Wood splintered.

The ship cracked in two.

And the black sea surged—rising like the roar of a god.

The Third Seat of the Round Table had arrived.

And with her—

The Ghost Shark Force had awakened.

-End Chapter-

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