There was no doubt that Gawain had been completely caught in the rhythm set by the Roman army.
Whether forced or voluntary, intentional or unconscious, it was impossible to break free from this trap.
After several rounds of alternating fast and slow attacks, Gawain frowned. He had fully adapted to the enemy's offense. If things continued like this, it would simply devolve into a protracted war. The Roman army stood no chance of hurting him as long as they maintained this level of pressure.
"Why?"
"Oh? You're finally willing to talk?" The Greek king laughed, as if he'd just claimed some kind of victory.
"What are you trying to achieve? These half-hearted attacks can't hurt me, and you know it. If you're trying to wear me down, it'll be you—the Romans—who lose in the end!" Gawain fixed his gaze on the enemy before him. "You understood that from the first clash of blades."
There was no point in sustaining this kind of offense.
Even without the blessing of the sun, Gawain remained the second knight of the Round Table. Losing that divine aid didn't weaken him to the level of these three so-called kings of Rome—neither in swordsmanship nor in strength.
If the war dragged on, it would be Rome that collapsed first.
Soldiers could be replaced, yes—but not just anyone could stand against a warrior of Gawain's caliber.
Once the three kings fell from exhaustion, no matter how many soldiers remained, none would be able to stop him.
At that point, it would become a one-sided massacre—a tiger unleashed from its cage.
Did the Roman army not realize this?
No—they knew it perfectly well.
"Do you really need to ask?" The King of Bithynia sneered. "Don't make me look down on Britain too much, Sun Knight. The reason we brought you here, the reason for our tactics—naturally, it's to kill you!" He laughed heartily.
He no longer harbored the admiration he'd shown at the start.
They were enemies—nothing more.
Especially after being sent flying by Gawain countless times, the king had lost all patience. While he still respected the knight's near-divine strength, it only made him more determined to see him dead.
If such a powerful foe wasn't eliminated now, he'd become an insurmountable threat in the future.
"Kill me? Don't be ridiculous. Do you think you're capable of that?" Contempt flickered in Gawain's eyes.
It wasn't arrogance. It was simply the truth.
The three kings alone couldn't kill him.
He had already considered countless possibilities:
A trap within a trap. Gareth being killed first, followed by the gradual focusing of troops on him. Or perhaps the legendary Roman Emperor himself might appear.
But the answer the three kings gave was clear and direct:
They—this army—would kill Gawain here. No reinforcements. Lucius would not appear. These ants, in Gawain's eyes, had slain gods.
Facing his fury and scorn, the three kings only sneered and continued their silent assault.
The rhythm shifted every ten minutes. The three kings would retreat and be replaced by soldiers; when those soldiers fell, more would take their place.
Every cog in its place—a flawless machine of war.
Finally, the thunder-laced clouds in the sky dissipated.
It wasn't because the Romans couldn't sustain the magic—but because it was no longer needed.
The sky had darkened. Moon and stars were dim. The Sun Knight would no longer receive any blessings from above.
The Roman army had cycled through countless attack rhythms, and Gawain had already slain nearly a thousand men.
At that moment, the three kings exchanged glances.
The time had come.
The brave Sun Knight had become perfectly attuned to the rhythm. Now, it was time to begin the final stage.
The next change never came.
The attack rhythm—previously altered every ten minutes—remained the same.
The tempo was still slow, but Gawain's sword suddenly accelerated.
Shua—
A blade slashed through the air and struck Gawain square in the waist.
The King of Bithynia raised his sword high, the sticky blood clinging to it glistening.
"What's this? So your blood is no different from ours. Roman soldiers, warriors of Bithynia, look! The blood of a god is red too! It can be spilled! It can die!"
To Gawain, the wound was minor.
But to the Roman army, it was everything.
A wave of cheering erupted. Their eyes—dulled from mechanical repetition—lit up again with renewed ferocity. More savage now than at the start.
They were like wolves catching the scent of blood—mad, wild, and fearless.
"How…?" Gawain clutched the wound, repelling the Greek king with a single sweep. "Impossible. I haven't weakened, and you haven't grown stronger."
Of course.
In fact, Gawain should have remained as strong as ever.
Even with his stamina waning and pressure mounting, the Roman kings and their soldiers had begun to lose force in their strikes.
Yet Gawain had still been wounded. By mistake. By carelessness.
Swish!
Again. Again. Again—
The injuries piled up. Gawain, who should never have faltered, made mistake after mistake.
Carelessness?
Yes, it was carelessness. Because of it, he had been struck again and again by attacks that shouldn't have landed.
If the first strike was a miracle, and the second an oversight—then the third and fourth could no longer be dismissed as coincidence.
"What did you do to me?!" Gawain bellowed. He couldn't fathom how they had managed it.
No magic. No strange technique to bypass his senses. The enemy had simply… changed the rhythm of their attacks.
"What did we do?" The King of Bithynia sneered. "Nothing but kill you." And he swung again.
In truth, the Romans had done nothing—except maintain a carefully balanced stalemate.
Yet it was because of this that Gawain kept slipping up.
It was a concept known as muscle memory.
While the brain serves as the body's main memory center, the muscles retain patterns through repetition. When an action is repeated in a controlled environment, and that environment suddenly shifts, the body may still act reflexively—even if the brain consciously knows better.
And for a seasoned warrior like Gawain, instinct often overrode thought in battle.
In other words, each time he swung his sword, his body wasn't fully guided by his mind. For a fleeting moment, he entered a blank, thoughtless state.
His body had memorized the ten-minute rhythm.
So when that rhythm was broken, he subconsciously sped up his movements—and failed to defend properly.
Even now, as he consciously tried to adapt—
Once, twice, perhaps he could maintain control.
But by the third or fourth time, the involuntary acceleration returned.
Simply put, the Roman army's tactics and previous stalling had hypnotized Gawain.
And in battle, he had no choice but to fall under that spell.
But this hypnosis wasn't aimed at his mind or spirit.
It was his body that had been trapped.
The moment Gawain adapted to the Roman rhythm, he fell into an invisible snare—
—a trap beyond consciousness.
-End Chapter-
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