What the people truly need is not a king who excels at fighting—but a king who can make the people prosperous and happy.
And in Agravain's eyes, Arthur is the perfect embodiment of such a king.
Camelot does not need an idealized sovereign or an inhuman Red Dragon. What it needs is Arthur.
Agravain's thoughts were interrupted by Gawain's booming voice. He frowned and shot a glance at his brother—Gawain, who still believed Arthur to be Uther's son. That look quickly turned to one of barely concealed disgust.
Tch. This gorilla will never understand the king's wisdom.
"Enough, gentlemen—prepare for battle!" Arthur's voice rang out sharply as he raised the Sword of Choice. "Sir Gawain, Sir Kay—take the cavalry and move to the right. Your task isn't to annihilate the enemy, but to ensure none escape your net."
"Understood!"
The cavalry, despite their small numbers, had the mobility to outmaneuver infantry easily. Without sufficient horses, the Saxons—who intended to retreat by sea—would struggle to evade them.
"Agravain," Arthur continued, turning to the black knight, "take a thousand men, circle to the designated location, and lie in wait. If the enemy flees, crush them. Spare those who surrender."
"I will carry out your will, my king."
The two teams moved out swiftly.
Then Arthur turned to Lancelot. "Sir Lancelot, I want you to organize our vanguard here. Place the shield-bearers in the front line to absorb the impact. Where there are gaps, have two soldiers fill them. Behind them, arrange the spear- and flag-bearers to brace for the first wave."
Lancelot furrowed his brow. "My king... the enemy has ten thousand men. After sending Agravain, Gawain, and Kay, we're left with fewer than three thousand. Even if our lines are solid, we'll be flattened by their first charge."
His concern was not unwarranted—but his composure in such circumstances made Arthur nod inwardly with respect.
"I know," Arthur replied calmly. "That's why I left three thousand here—to draw them in. If we left too few, they wouldn't take the bait."
"Then... this is…"
"A decoy. A lure. The formation is for deception and insurance. Follow the orders. As I said—victory has always been in our hands."
"…As you command."
Lancelot bowed and hurried to arrange the troops. Though unfamiliar with this kind of formation, the soldiers followed his orders under pressure, and soon a respectable line was formed. It looked rigid—perhaps just enough to pass muster.
Arthur was satisfied.
When preparations were nearly complete, the Saxon army's charge brought them to within a kilometer.
"Not yet… closer," Arthur whispered, watching with hawk-like focus. Then he called over the archers and a magician who had accompanied him.
In total—fifty. That was it.
A pitiful number, against an army of ten thousand. One might think it laughable.
Fifty archers could scarcely scratch the enemy, even if they each hit a target dead-on. And in truth, they wouldn't.
Archers were only effective when deployed en masse. Arthur recalled a film from his past life: tens of thousands of archers firing volley after volley, a dark rain of death obliterating the enemy before they could engage. That, that was a true archer corps.
But reality was harsher.
They had no such numbers.
Still—less could have its uses just as well as more.
"Flame your arrows. Ready yourselves," Arthur ordered.
"Yes, sir!"
The archers lit their arrows and nocked them to their bows.
Meanwhile, the enemy closed in.
Five hundred meters.
Three hundred.
One hundred and fifty.
"Loose!"
Swish, swish—
Dozens of arrows hissed through the air.
Ding, ding—
The arrows clattered harmlessly against iron armor. Not a single Saxon fell.
"Hahaha! Are those fools in Camelot out of their minds?"
The Saxon soldier sneered, brushing soot from his breastplate where a flaming arrow had left only a faint scorch. The morale spike from Camelot had briefly shaken him—but now, his confidence returned.
"Pathetic. Just surrender again like you did ten years ago!"
He and his comrades surged forward with renewed aggression.
They didn't see what had landed behind them.
Several flame-tipped arrows had not struck soldiers—they had sunk into the ground.
Arthur smiled.
"Victory is ours."
He had said it many times, but only now could he say it with certainty. In war, nothing is guaranteed. The battlefield shifts like sand in the wind. But this moment… this moment had been secured.
It wasn't some masterful strategy. It wasn't genius.
It was practicality—something his era had forgotten.
This kind of idea wouldn't be foreign to someone from the 21st century. The problem wasn't that people were too foolish to think of it—it was that tradition had become a cage.
Arthur had been fortunate. In this world of magic and strange alchemy, there existed mages who dabbled in dangerous concoctions. Among them, none were more gifted—or unhinged—than Morgan.
Morgan's expertise in potion-making was godlike. If a deity drank her brew, even they would be affected.
And Morgan had given Arthur what he needed.
High-purity alcohol.
Kerosene.
Refined and stockpiled—poured across the battlefield under their very feet.
The moment had come.
BOOM—
A blast of air and flame tore across the field.
A wall of searing fire erupted, devouring the front ranks of the Saxons in seconds. Screams filled the air as hundreds were instantly engulfed. Their armor warped. Their flesh sizzled.
The fire didn't stop. It rose like a living wall, meters high and utterly impassable.
The Saxons, charging too fast to halt, were caught in their own momentum. Those behind shoved the ones ahead—some stumbled, fell, and were trampled straight into the inferno.
A few, thanks to the monstrous resilience of their Age of Gods physique, managed to break through, their flesh scorched and faces unrecognizable.
But on the other side of the fire…
Awaited spears.
Awaited iron.
Awaited death.