Arthur glanced at Agravain and smiled as the knight gave him a firm nod of affirmation.
He turned to the knights surrounding him. "Victory is already in our hands. All we must do now is ensure the fewest possible casualties. Gentlemen, while you strive for glory, do not forget your duty."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
With their response echoing behind him, Arthur looked to the ranks of soldiers assembled.
There were around four thousand of them—hardly a match for the enemy's ten thousand on paper. And yet, not a trace of despair could be seen on their faces. On the contrary, their eyes gleamed with bloodlust, their posture taut with eagerness. They were hungry for triumph.
This was an age where glory mattered more than life itself. To take the life of another on the battlefield was the surest way to prove one's valor and earn a name that would be remembered.
It wasn't something Arthur fully understood. But it was real.
If you asked any soldier or knight—Does glory make you stronger? Does it keep you alive?—the answer would come swiftly, without hesitation: Yes.
And now, marching under the banner of the Red Dragon, with a chance to become part of the legend that would bring down the White Dragon, how could they contemplate defeat? If this was not glory, then what was?
Their thoughts had long since left behind fear of death.
Arthur found it all a bit exasperating.
What if they charged blindly into danger, drunk on the idea of glory, and died needlessly? That would be a waste. Camelot's population was small, and to Arthur, every citizen was a precious resource. People weren't a burden—they were the future.
You couldn't build a prosperous country without people. And each soldier lost was not just a life, but a builder, a protector, a future father, mother, friend.
But if he told the knights to treasure their lives, it would kill morale—unthinkable on the eve of battle.
Still, there were ways to reduce casualties.
Battle formations. Better weapons.
But all that required time.
A true army needed discipline, coordination, and trust forged through drills and experience. Camelot's soldiers weren't there yet. They couldn't even march in unison, let alone execute complex maneuvers.
And weapons… the options were many. Arthur had ideas. He imagined enchanted arms—standardized, ceremonial weapons empowered by magic. Mass-produced gear for every soldier.
One day, maybe.
But for now, the diversity of weapons was sorely lacking.
The typical arms were knightly swords, lances, spears, and banners. Even bows were rare.
But above all, what Camelot lacked—what frustrated Arthur the most—was shields.
No one used them. Soldiers couldn't afford them. Knights dismissed them as tools of cowards. The result? The most fundamental piece of battlefield defense had become an object of scorn.
And yet, shields were everything. The backbone of formations. A soldier's true partner. More reliable than a blade, more enduring than pride. Shields protected both oneself and one's comrades. They were crucial in both defense and offense.
But Camelot had none.
When Arthur first learned this, he was devastated.
How could they hold a line? How could they survive a charge?
What were they using? Grit? Bravado?
"This era's warfare is madness," he thought.
The whole tradition of British warfare was a joke. Two armies simply charged at one another in open fields. No strategy. No flanking. No deception. Just raw aggression and who had the better gear or guts.
Yes, sieges were a different matter, and sometimes the underdog won. But for the most part, the larger army won by default.
There were no night raids. No ambushes. No fire traps. No river floods. No tactical maneuvering.
Just brute force.
Idiocy.
And so…
"Let me teach you what real war looks like," Arthur murmured under his breath.
He raised the Sword of Selection.
The [Red Dragon Factor] was gone now, along with its magical glow, but the sword still gleamed with purpose. Even without illusions, its weight was prophetic.
"Gentlemen, the battle is upon us!"
His voice rang out across the ranks.
"Behind us lies a kingdom we must protect. Some say the walls of Camelot are indestructible—that as long as they stand, our city will never fall. But I ask you now—what are those walls protecting? Are you all weaklings who collapse the moment you leave their shelter?!"
"Absolutely not!" someone roared back.
"The courage of Camelot's warriors once resounded across the isles," Arthur continued. "Before the Saxons ever set foot on our shores, our cavalry struck fear into the hearts of other kingdoms. Since when have we needed to hide behind walls?"
"The walls of Camelot protect our people—the powerless, the innocent. But we, who stand here in armor, are not the protected. We are the protectors. If you understand that, then shout it with me! Tell the world: the walls of Camelot are not mere stone!"
"We are the walls of Camelot. We were then. We are now!"
"Behind us are our wives, our children, our parents and friends—everyone we love. That is why our protection cannot break! The blades we carry, the oaths we swear, the walls we forge from our flesh and will—they are the strongest walls in the world!"
"Ten years ago, the old king fell. People said Camelot lost its courage—that we became afraid, unwilling to fight again. They mocked us, shamed us."
"But now, this is our answer. Gentlemen, the time has come! Raise your swords and let the world know—Camelot has never bowed! Camelot still stands!"
"OOOHHHH!!!"
"OOOHHHH!!!"
"OOOHHHH!!!"
"OOOHHHH!!!"
The battlefield shook with their voices.
It was more than the thirst for glory now. Ten years of humiliation and grief boiled over and surged through them as fury, as defiance, as unity.
Even the once-confident Saxon army, so sure of its numbers, began to waver.
Their steps slowed. Their laughter ceased.
"Now this," Lancelot said, his eyes wide with admiration, "this is what a true army looks like."
"Ah… the king stands in glory," Gawain whispered, gripping his sword with trembling fingers. He clenched so hard that his steed whinnied in protest beneath him. "One look at him, and you know—we are invincible."
Only Agravain remained silent.
The dark knight never took his eyes off Arthur. His face was expressionless, but his heart surged with something more profound than awe.
It was certainty.
He would always prioritize survival. He wouldn't be swept away by emotion or blinded by pride. He would never pursue glory or spare his enemies.
But this king—whether the world praised him as a saint or cursed him as a tyrant—was the one who could rebuild Camelot.
And Agravain would follow him to the end.