King Arthur Won't Die by Accident

The flash of light, like an unstoppable tsunami, instantly engulfed the dragon's massive body—and with it, countless heavily armored British soldiers.

Yet even as they faced a light that could shatter everything in the universe, even knowing they would perish alongside the dragon, not a single soldier released their grip on their weapons. Until the very end, they held fast, struggling to restrain the writhing beast.

The sky blazed with light.

When the radiance finally faded, the dragon's body had vanished, and so too had the soldiers who had fought in the air.

After the glory, the flames of war died down, and the icy chill gradually lifted. The battlefield—once littered with countless corpses—had disappeared, leaving no tombstones to mark the sacrifice beneath the dusk sky.

The clouds scattered from the powerful impact, revealing a moment of clear sky. Stars glittered above, like the souls of fallen heroes celebrating their victory—guardians of the homeland and dynasty shining in the night.

The war had raged from dawn till nightfall, and finally, it was over.

On the ground, silence reigned.

All eyes turned to their king.

Arthur looked upward at the starry expanse, eyes brimming with sorrow he could no longer conceal.

Yes, they had won.

Even for Arthur, the Humble King—possessed by the power of inhibition—was an unprecedented enemy, surpassing even the threat of Lucius, the Sword Emperor who bore the Holy Grail. The mighty foe had been defeated, and the looming peril to Britain was finally quelled.

By Arthur's own strategy—and the bravery of his soldiers.

Though the enemy had exceeded Arthur's expectations in strength, it was not by much. Despite the difficulty and danger, he had led his forces and secured the ultimate victory.

Winner.

But that victory was built on countless sacrifices. He had used lives to win. From the very start, he had ordered loyal soldiers to serve as disposable pawns—sacrificed to hold back the formidable foe, only to be buried beneath their own weapons.

What kind of victory was this?

How could such a merciless king earn the people's praise or be deemed wise?

A lingering anger simmered in Arthur's heart. If he spoke, that anger would erupt, implicating all around him.

"My king—"

Kikyo stepped forward, her face etched with concern, sensing his turmoil. She comforted him gently, "Your decision was right. No one can blame you. This was not cruelty or tyranny, but a sacrifice essential to protecting our homeland. I believe the spirits of our fallen soldiers will feel honored—for their bravery and for having a king like you."

Glory?

Can one so easily give up life for something unseen, intangible?

Could something so ephemeral truly be more precious than life itself?

Arthur's guilt did not abate; it grew heavier. He was no god who saw mortals as mere ants, nor an emotionless machine. He was flesh and blood. How could he witness such sacrifice and remain unmoved?

Of course, he could unleash his frustration and despair—but for many soldiers, that would be irresponsible.

As a king, he understood Kikyo's words.

From the very beginning, when crafting the plan, he had made all necessary preparations.

Yes, his anger at himself would never vanish—but as monarch, he could not afford to let sentimentality sway his soldiers.

His conflicted gaze hardened swiftly.

Arthur raised the Holy Sword, meeting the eyes fixed on him, and shouted with commanding fervor:

"This is our shared victory! We stood firm before the fangs and claws of the world-destroying dragon and defended our dynasty and people. This feat—this great cause—was achieved by our own hands! Survivors, carry your grief quietly, honor your fallen comrades with shouts, and stand tall for the dynasty's future! Celebrate our victory, and the prosperity of our land!"

"Ooooooh—!"

The soldiers erupted in joyous cries, chanting, "Long live the country!"

Indeed, it was a glorious victory.

Though both sides suffered heavy losses, with many sacrifices especially from the heavy armored units, actual casualties among the main forces did not exceed thirty percent. Their enemies were the Saxons, who vastly outnumbered them, and the Destroyer Dragon incarnate as a god.

For the soldiers, it was overwhelming triumph.

"My king, are you truly well?"

As the Humble King fell, Lancelot, fully purged of death's miasma, regained his strength. A magic potion had healed his wounds, and he reached out to support Arthur.

Arthur shook his head, declining Lancelot's aid.

Together with two Knights of the Round Table, Arthur's gaze fixed on a distant hill.

There sat a broken old man.

"My king!" Lancelot hurried forward, stepping protectively before Arthur.

Arthur hesitated, summoning the Holy Sword with caution.

Kikyo paused for two seconds, then spoke softly, "Do not worry. He is but a remnant of consciousness, sustained by his obsession. Soon, he will dissipate and pose no further threat."

As if to confirm Kikyo's words, the old man began to crumble, grain by grain, like sand caught in a breeze.

Arthur exhaled in relief, then approached cautiously.

"Are you the Humble King now? Or the Vortigern I once knew?"

The old man blinked at the question, then laughed heartily, calm at last.

"I have never hidden it from you, King Arthur. Now—and only now—I am Vortigern. Vortigern Pendragon."

"I see. It is good to meet you again, White Dragon of Britain."

"Yes, we meet again, Red Dragon. The second, and also the last time."

Lines cracked across the old man's face like shattered glass. His form turned to dust and scattered swiftly, but he seemed unfazed.

He was dying.

Or rather, already dead. What remained was a residual soul, a ghost.

But Vortigern felt no regrets or nostalgia. Instead, he felt his death was just.

"When the incarnation of the Red Dragon appears, the Knights of the Round Table shall gather, and the White Dragon will fall... Well done. This battle was fought with honor. You have made the prophecy come true. No, if it were anyone else, they would fail. But you—King Arthur—have won. Be happy."

The old man's words were faint, his last wishes uttered softly.

Arthur stood silent, unsure how to judge Vortigern's farewell.

-End Chapter-

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