"From the moment they set foot on Camelot, they committed a sin that cannot be washed away, even if they died ten times over. Naturally, I will show no mercy to my enemies, but Camelot must develop—and that requires manpower. Killing a group of unarmed prisoners would not only tarnish my reputation but stain the name of all Camelot."
Hard labor was scheduled.
They wouldn't be paid, their honor wouldn't suffer, and as long as they didn't starve, they could be brainwashed into gratitude. Where else could such workers be found?
Now, each captive was a treasure in Arthur's eyes. If his military strength hadn't been stretched so thin, he wouldn't even have wanted to release the Saxons waiting at the seaside, eager to join him.
——————
Meanwhile, in the castle hall.
After the news of victory arrived, the nobles' fearful eyes softened, and they began whispering about the future.
Artoria was too indifferent to join their chatter. She frowned, repeatedly questioning the soldiers before her.
"Are you sure the news is accurate? How many casualties? What's the enemy's condition?"
"Your Highness, I swear it's true. Sixteen of our soldiers died, and forty-eight were injured—soldiers, no knights lost. About six thousand Saxons were captured, fewer than a hundred escaped." The soldier sighed helplessly.
She had heard this eight times over.
Her expression shifted, subtle but clear.
Four thousand facing ten thousand—outnumbered nearly three to one—she had been ready to rush to the front if the news were bad. But Arthur's victory, so decisive and with minimal losses, was a blow to her pride.
Doubt gave way to stubborn refusal.
Those who knew Artoria well understood that she was stronger than most. Once her competitive spirit ignited, she became nearly uncontrollable. Even Merlin, her teacher, sometimes found himself annoyed by her relentless challenges.
This was one of those moments.
"If I had the chance, I'd do it…" she muttered.
The meaning was clear: I can do it too.
She had never tasted failure and believed she wasn't much weaker than Arthur. Though Merlin trained her, it was only in dreams. No matter how vivid the simulations, they could never become reality. In dreams, failure meant only a chance to restart; in life, failure was final.
Merlin hadn't taught her that.
When Artoria went to battle, she was formidable—but she couldn't control the casualties.
"Hah! Do you really think you can do it?" Morgan sneered disdainfully.
The sisters hadn't been getting along lately. Mutual dislike simmered beneath their few encounters.
Artoria was wary of Morgan's reputation; Morgan despised Artoria in return—not the girl herself, but the fate and expectations imposed by Uther.
Their disgust became most obvious when Artoria dared compare herself to Arthur.
"Why can't I?" Artoria shot back indignantly.
"How could you?" Morgan scoffed.
"Why not?"
"Are you a child?"
"No—I have the ability!"
"But your teacher doesn't think so." Morgan laughed, pointed to the corner, and strode toward the door.
She didn't want to waste time on a pointless argument with the naïve girl.
Artoria glanced toward where Morgan had gestured—and froze.
Merlin was squatting in the corner, facing the wall, laughing nervously. That kind of smile... was truly unsettling.
"Interesting, interesting, very interesting—"
"Merlin! Merlin!"
"Ah?"
"What are you doing?"
"Oh, does that bother you? Don't worry about me. Just some routine magic research—it'll be over soon." Merlin answered calmly.
"Is... that so?" Artoria looked puzzled. She took a few steps back, avoiding Merlin's outstretched hand.
"You should watch your image, Merlin."
Saying that, she quickly fled.
It was embarrassing. Even if Artoria didn't care much, she preferred to avoid Merlin's oddness.
Watching her retreating back, Merlin tapped his forehead, bemused.
"This child has finally hit the rebellious stage."
Interrupted, he lost interest in his observations.
Suddenly, he noticed another figure tucked in the opposite corner.
"What a stupid guy."
Draven's blank eyes stared coldly at the nobles discussing their future, as if gazing upon a colony of ignorant ants.
"You have powerful bargaining chips, yet you waste them. You rejected His Majesty's mercy, and still shamelessly crave a future you've already severed. Your future ended long ago."
Muttering this, he opened the notebook in his hand.
Yes, a paper notebook—a revolutionary tool.
Back on topic.
Though the first noble to pledge loyalty to Arthur, Draven remained under constant watch.
Arthur's suspicions were well-founded—Draven was a spy sent by the nobles.
No, that sounded too simplistic.
He recalled their first meeting, five days after Arthur arrived in Camelot.
Draven had declared loyalty to the nobles and knights and was honored to be received.
Arthur's first impression was poor.
He looked too ordinary, lacking the majesty a king should radiate.
Yet his first words changed Draven's mind completely.
"Draven Aslet. I hear you're unpopular among the nobles. Or so it seems. But you're smart, and know how to protect yourself. The choice is yours now. You, who were 'unfortunately' selected by the nobles and came to me—how do you feel?"
That sentence revealed everything about Draven.
Dismissed for his lowly status and plain looks, he had been underestimated.
Merlin had predicted ten years prior that the new king would clash with the aristocracy, so Draven was crafted to appear unsuccessful—to buy time for the nobles' plans.
Before the humbled king fell, the new king would stand unshaken, and the nobles would eventually surrender.
Draven controlled the game.
But Arthur's eyes seemed to see through every secret, every conspiracy, every disguise.
Nothing escaped him.