"Brutal British!"
"Is this what you call a knight?"
"A bunch of villains who insult honor!"
"Despicable!"
Listening to the cries and curses of the Saxon soldiers, Arthur curled his lips with indifference.
Let me reiterate: the methods of warfare in this era were incredibly backward. Everything was based on honor, personal bravery, and chivalry. Even the Saxons—foreigners though they were—had been assimilated into Britain's ideals. To put it bluntly, these were battles between armies waged in the most primitive fashion.
Forget sophisticated tactics like aligning the right time, place, and people. Even basic strategies like fire attacks, flooding, or terrain manipulation were rarely used.
If someone did employ them, they'd be immediately branded as "shameless" or a "disgrace to chivalry."
Well, in that sense, the Saxons were right about one thing: Arthur was shameless. He never cared about appearances. Compared to his life—and the lives of his people—his honor meant little.
What's the value of pride?
Can you buy your life with it?
No? Then sorry—not sorry—Arthur was going to be shameless today.
Who wants to compete in numbers and bayonets with you barbarians? Do I look stupid? My lord, the times have changed. Justice now falls from the skies!
Of course, things wouldn't end that easily. The wall of fire wasn't going to hold them forever. They couldn't breach it or go around, so retreating was the only viable option.
How much kerosene could Arthur possibly have?
The answer: not much.
How long would the fire last?
In less than ten minutes, it would begin to die down.
The Saxons simply had to retreat, wait it out, and then mount another offensive.
Lancelot saw this clearly and quickly warned, "King Arthur, if this continues, once the fire burns out and the Saxons regain their composure, we'll still be defeated."
"That depends on whether they have time to calm down before they're defeated," Arthur replied with a smile. "Sir Lancelot, you must understand: humans are complicated, especially psychologically. Most people cannot stay calm under pressure."
Just as Arthur predicted, the Saxon army descended into chaos.
The initial wall of fire, combined with Camelot's formation, had already cost them at least a thousand men. The still-blazing fire was now their incubus.
Panic broke out. Soldiers scrambled to flee, and more died in the crush—trampled by their own. The general tried to restore order by executing a few to scare the rest, but when that proved useless, he had no choice but to organize a retreat. At least then it wouldn't be a complete disaster.
However, the troops who fled eastward soon came running back in droves.
Because in the east, a cavalry unit led by Gawain and Kay was waiting. They charged back and forth like the scythe of the god of death, harvesting lives in waves.
Truthfully, the Saxons had scattered too much. Had they fled as a unified group, even Gawain and Kay wouldn't have been able to stop them.
But with their minds clouded by fear, discipline was impossible. Unless their humble king led them personally, they stood no chance of regrouping.
At that moment, Arthur decided it was time.
He summoned the magician from earlier.
"Time to send the signal."
"Yes, my king."
The magician bowed, then launched a fireball into the sky.
Boom! Boom!
Nearly a hundred figures materialized.
They were Camelot's court magician corps, lying in wait all this time. Upon seeing the signal, they raised multiple earth walls behind the Saxon army, completely cutting off their retreat.
North, south, and east—dead ends.
The Camelot army advanced steadily.
In that moment, only one word echoed in the minds of the Saxon soldiers: Escape.
But could they escape?
"This is too obvious. There must be more deadly traps in the west. My king, you've underestimated the enemy," Lancelot said nervously.
"No, Sir Lancelot. You've overestimated human reason," Arthur replied. "It's not that the enemy is stupid—it's that we, humans, are stupid. Look at the battlefield. It appears we're winning. The Saxons may be in chaos, but they still have numbers. If we push them too far, few of us will live to return to Camelot."
"The enemy still has strength left to fight."
"Exactly. People become dangerous when cornered. In despair, even a wounded soldier will fight like a beast. That's why we must not let the enemy despair."
"Don't let the enemy despair?"
Lancelot was surprised. In his view, the stronger one appeared, the more fear and despair they would instill in the enemy. The idea of avoiding despair seemed alien—even revolutionary.
"Yes," Arthur said. "We can't let them fall into despair. On the contrary, we must give them hope. In desperate times, if people see even a sliver of hope—false, hollow, or a dead end—they'll chase it blindly."
Arthur pointed to the west.
"Look—it's an obvious trap. But they're still running toward it."
Suddenly, Lancelot understood.
Everything—the terrain, the timing, the tactics, even the enemy's fallback route—had been within Arthur's calculations.
Though he didn't know how Arthur orchestrated all this…
The Saxon army was like a blind fly, caught in the web of Arthur's design.
Lancelot found Arthur terrifying in that moment.
But as a king, none was more reliable.
"What's wrong, Sir Lancelot? You look pale."
"I'm just grateful to be in your service," Lancelot replied with a smile.
The war—or rather, the Saxon escape—continued.
But when they fled westward, they encountered Agravain, who had been waiting all along.
Strictly speaking, compared to the other three routes, the west looked almost defenseless. Camelot's soldiers were spaced two meters apart, the line stretched thin and wide. It gave the illusion of weakness.
The Saxons charged forward laughing, thinking they'd finally found their exit—but—
Bang—!
The first fugitives all fell.
Those behind finally noticed: a massive trench separated them from Camelot's front line—three meters deep, five meters wide, and a thousand meters long. Inside were wooden stakes and upturned swords.
Fall into it, and you die.
Try to leap across, and Camelot's spears await.
At five meters, no fully armored Saxon soldier could land unscathed—let alone avoid midair skewering.
To jump or not to jump?
The answer came swiftly: jump!
They'd seen others pushed into the trench by the stampede and impaled. Stand still, and the same fate awaited you.
Thus began a grotesque spectacle. Thousands leapt. Thousands died—stabbed midair or knocked into the pit. Only a handful made it across.
After an unknown amount of time, Camelot's front-line soldiers began to falter. Their arms ached.
Then, the three knight commanders charged in with reinforcements.
"Lay down your weapons and kneel—those who surrender will be spared!"
Finally, Agravain's shout shattered the last remnants of the Saxons' will.
Their psychological defenses crumbled.