"How cruel! First you ordered the destruction of my four legions, and then you kept issuing suicidal orders. Now even my FIEND—something I was so proud of—is being used as a meat shield and a bridge. Don't you have any mercy in your heart?"
Deep in the jungle, Lucius watched the battle unfold and teased the black-robed man beside him.
However, though his words sounded accusatory, there was no true anger in his tone—only a hint of admiration.
"Those four legions were sacrificed to make you recognize the gap between yourself and Britain, and to dissuade you from attacking the city head-on. As it turns out, their deaths were not in vain. Twenty thousand lives exchanged for countless more to be spared—it's a worthy trade. And as for the current tactics... they're necessary. So whether it's a meat shield or a bridge, it doesn't matter."
"Wow, how cold. I really liked Artorius more."
"Ah. That's good."
"...Come to think of it, is Artorius like you?" Lucius asked with a smile, eyes gleaming with interest.
"What do you mean?"
"Personality. Or rather, that same cruel style."
"I see. In that regard..." The black-robed man paused. "From what you know of him, he's far crueler than I am. Ten, even a hundred times more. So don't think of him as some caged songbird. He's a true monster."
His voice was cold, mechanical, like a finely tuned instrument. He spoke as if he knew Arthur intimately.
If any of the Knights of the Round Table had heard this, they would've fought to the death to defend their king's honor.
But such sentiments meant little now.
"To resolve a crisis and achieve victory, I will send soldiers to die without hesitation, regardless of the sacrifice. He is the same. The difference is—he will sacrifice countless lives for threats that haven't yet materialized, or may never come."
"Wow~wow, that guy Artorius is really cruel. But this is how it should be. I am the god of this era—why should I care about the lives of mortals? He should be like me. Isn't that ideal?" Lucius laughed heartily, clearly approving of the mindset.
"Be quiet. Don't expose the secret arrangements."
Clang—
Clang—
Blades clashed in rapid succession, each collision ringing out with a flash of sparks.
Gawain swung the holy sword at blinding speed, the arcs of steel forming a curtain of cold light before him—impenetrable and unrelenting.
In terms of strength, speed, and swordsmanship, Gawain held the upper hand. Each strike, wreathed in holy fire and overwhelming force, could send his enemies flying several meters. A single careless mistake would leave them burned or broken.
And yet, despite this advantage, Gawain was being kept at bay—entangled by the seamless coordination of the three kings.
Whenever he shook one off, another blade would slide in to take its place. If he repelled all three, Roman soldiers surged forward with spears and arrows, or rained down siege fire from catapults and ballistae hidden deep in the forest.
It made Gawain feel powerless.
He had overwhelming power—but nowhere to use it.
In a one-on-one duel, it wouldn't take more than ten strokes to finish the enemy. But here, the joint tactics of the kings prevented any decisive blow. The common soldiers posed no real threat, yet they always struck at the exact moment Gawain prepared to pursue.
It was suffocating.
He knew exactly what he needed to do—release the holy sword. Even a partial release would drive back the soldiers long enough to create an opening. And if anyone could seize that chance—it was him.
But no such chance came.
Just ahead, Gareth and the cavalry were similarly pinned down, unable to advance or retreat. Gawain clenched his teeth, helpless to assist.
"You are indeed worthy of the Round Table," said the Greek king. "We have seen your bravery. Surrender, Sun Knight. You cannot overcome our combined force and encirclement. His Majesty Lucius rewards strength. Sever your ties with Britain and you will be welcomed in Rome."
The Greek king spoke sincerely—Gawain's strength had earned even his enemies' respect.
Not only him—all the kings and soldiers who faced him recognized it.
They were strong, too. Their coordination, tactics, and formations allowed them to confront a being above mortals. But in the end, they were still just men. One mistake, and they would die.
Gawain was different.
He bore a divine power—akin to Lucius himself.
A god walking among men.
Naturally, they admired such strength.
"Why persist in resisting? Victory is only a matter of time. Behind us are one hundred thousand troops—and His Majesty Lucius himself. You cannot win!" the King of Bithynia added.
But Gawain only glared back, holy sword in hand, perfectly intercepting every blow.
Stubborn.
The three kings exchanged looks. They had tried diplomacy and showed respect. But now, they had to crush him.
Their assault intensified.
More soldiers were thrown into the melee. More siege weapons roared from the jungle. Each strike forced Gawain to shift—sometimes staggering, sometimes nearly breaking his stance.
And in battle, even the smallest misstep could mean death.
Faced with this brutal escalation, Gawain gritted his teeth and quickened his blade. Every swing, every parry, had to be perfectly timed, perfectly angled. Fortunately, he still hadn't reached his limit. It was only the sudden shift in tempo that threw him off.
But little by little, he adapted.
Soon, he matched the pace again, his movements fluid and unshakable. He even sensed an opening—a moment to strike back and win.
Such strength was awe-inspiring.
"...So this is why His Majesty values Britain," murmured the King of Africa.
Then, as he was repelled backward, he raised a hand and gave a new order.
The tempo shifted again.
Not faster this time—but slower, returning to its previous level.
In theory, this should've given Gawain the upper hand. After adapting to the earlier intensity, a slower pace should have been easy.
But reality defied expectation.
Gawain could certainly press forward, accelerating the rhythm on his own. But battle is a two-way street—it takes both sides to maintain a tempo. The Roman army anticipated this and adjusted accordingly.
Every attack aimed to stall.
They calculated angle, speed, and distance. Even if Gawain struck faster, he could at best cut down a few soldiers—never break the formation.
When one Roman fell, another stepped in instantly.
And further back, beyond his reach, siege weapons kept firing from the shadows of the dense forest. Always moving. Always hidden.
There was no doubt now.
Gawain had been completely drawn into the rhythm of the Roman army.
He was no longer fighting the enemy.
He was dancing to their deadly rhythm.
-End Chapter-
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