"I am the commander of the French army. Are you confused about our movements?"
Lancelot responded with elegance and gentleness.
His posture was that of an aristocratic gentleman speaking eloquently at a ballroom gathering.
How could a man like this be here to attack Rome?
And yet, for some reason, the elder who posed the question had the nagging illusion that the enemy was already at his doorstep.
"Of course I am. Why are you gathering your army here instead of remaining in Gaul?" the elder asked, speaking almost unconsciously, driven by a sense of foreboding.
As he looked at the French army—and especially at the knight who seemed oddly familiar yet entirely unknown—unease stirred in the hearts of all three elders.
Fortunately, he didn't lose his composure. At least he didn't ask for the other man's name, or something equally foolish.
Rome was paralyzed at the moment; it was impossible to verify the stranger's identity. If none of the three elders recognized him, then clearly Rome had failed to gather intelligence on Lancelot—or at least failed to deliver it to them. As for that feeling of familiarity...
Perhaps they had seen him at a banquet.
After all, the subordinates of minor vassals weren't worth remembering.
Yes, that must be it.
With this reassurance, the three elders fixed their gazes on Lancelot, awaiting his answer.
"You truly don't know why we've assembled the army? It is perfectly reasonable for us to appear here. All under Heaven belongs to the king, and all who heal the ailments of the people are his subjects. We are returning home—and cleaning house while we're at it. It is our innate duty. Don't you agree, elder?" Lancelot said with a smile.
Especially as he spoke the final two lines, his eyes seemed to burn with flame. Even the Roman soldiers standing atop the city wall felt their blood boil.
What loyalty!
Only a vision that wells from the soul can move others with such few words.
The three elders were instantly reassured, sighing to themselves at their own paranoia. Truly, they were getting old, suspicious of everything.
The opposing force would never raise the Red Dragon banner upon entering the city. That would be ridiculous. France was deeply loyal to Rome—especially this knight. How could they doubt him?
This man had saved Rome in her hour of need. To repay such kindness with suspicion would be shameful.
And so, the three elders looked upon Lancelot with softened expressions—like elders gazing upon a younger generation who had achieved great things.
And in a way, Lancelot had not lied.
All land under Heaven belonged to the king, and all who healed the land were his subjects. Rome would belong to Britain sooner or later, and all lands in the world should belong to his king. Therefore, the French army—also destined to belong to his king—was simply returning home.
He believed his father would be very pleased.
In essence, this expedition was just an advance survey of Britain's future territory. What was wrong with that?
Nothing at all.
Rome belonged to Britain, and Britain to his king. So as a subject of the king, wasn't setting foot in Rome the same as returning home?
Thus, after leading the army into the city—although unrest kept the people from greeting them with flowers and cheers—the French army remained highly disciplined. They didn't need others to honor them.
They scattered flowers on themselves.
Colorful banners flew down the streets, and a special squad even went door-to-door, urging citizens to come out and witness the slave—cough, the great Britain.
Wait—
This was the French Army?
Nonsense.
Lancelot demonstrated his loyalty through action.
He greeted the soldiers with warmth and, using a magic seal, branded the British coat of arms onto their armor. Then, with utter disdain, he cast aside the French flag like trash. The very next second, the soldiers unfurled dazzling blue-and-gold flags bearing the Red Dragon of King Arthur.
The three elders and their accompanying officers, having just descended from the city wall, saw this scene and promptly collapsed in shock.
What have we done?
Your Majesty Lucius, forgive us—forgive Rome!
The first elder to awaken was overcome with anguish. He ran back toward the city wall, smashed his head against the stone, and with a sickening crack, died on the spot. A large chunk of the wall caved in with him.
And all of this was seen by the citizens of Rome.
What was happening? Was mighty Rome truly gone?
The people wailed—but soon, their eyes dulled, and they began to accept the truth.
They had watched with their own eyes as the three elders welcomed the "British Army" into the city. Then one elder, in front of the crowd, shattered his skull against the wall in shame.
If that wasn't surrender, what was?
It was hard to believe. But what choice did they have?
Their emperor—mighty as a god, peerless in battle—was probably dead in Britain by now.
Then they saw members of the Magician Corps welcoming the "British Army" and kowtowing to the general. Some nearly licked his boots.
Two provincial governors appeared out of nowhere to join the welcome party.
Rome had been completely conquered by Britain. There was no escape.
Everyone suddenly felt like prey.
Upon hearing the news, the so-called "patriots"—a mob of thugs—immediately ceased their violence, fearing the new regime.
Yes, even mobs are citizens. They can act violently if it's within the rules—if the behavior is justified and draped in the banner of justice. But now, the master had changed. Who knew whether this new ruler would be as tolerant as Emperor Lucius?
From the moment the "British Army" entered the city of Rome, the illusion of justice vanished.
And so, the city of Rome fell in confusion.
Sword Emperor Lucius would never have imagined that while he fought bravely on the frontlines, he would be declared dead in the heart of his own empire.
If he ever returned, there would only be two possibilities:
He'd scare his own people to death.
When he became a Heroic Spirit, he'd gain some mysterious "second life" skill that even he wouldn't understand.
In short, Rome had fallen.
Or rather—the city of Rome had fallen.
As for the rest of the empire, that would require the aid of the slave army under Artoria's command. How Lancelot would proceed... remained to be seen.
Meanwhile, across the sea—
The struggle on the British Isles had reached a fever pitch.
The British side feigned weakness, attempting to lure the enemy with all manner of tricks. But the Roman army, their opponent, refused to be fooled.
Unable to capture the cities, the Roman forces retreated like turtles, erecting four war fortresses along the coastline, all the way to the forest between two major British cities. Their construction speed was astonishing. Though the walls weren't as sturdy as those in Britain, their form, materials, and technology were far beyond this era.
Bastions.
With the support of archers and a barrage of siege weapons, four easily defensible strongholds took shape.
Against regular British troops, they were practically unbreakable.
Thus, the two sides entered a phase of mutual testing, marked by swift raids and sneak attacks—a grim show of professional respect.
Both Britain and Rome demonstrated a dazzling mastery of speed, coordination, and opportunism.
Of course, this trial phase didn't last long.
Soon, both sides began to reveal their true colors—or rather, began to disgust each other in earnest.
The Roman army's tactics were shameless.
When the British launched an attack, they simply vanished—abandoning their bases and initiating guerrilla warfare.
Their supplies were hidden in secret caches and constantly relocated. If Britain took a base, they simply built another. Britain had plenty of empty land. With modern materials, construction was quick and mobile.
And Britain was beautiful.
Its fertile soil had already inspired many Roman soldiers to consider settling there after victory.
British tactics, by contrast, were downright extravagant.
They employed blitzkriegs, scorched-earth bombardments, and aerial strikes to devastating effect.
Flying units and transport ships bombarded Roman strongholds with magical artillery.
If not for the interference of the Holy Grail—which rendered newly developed remote-positioning devices ineffective—Arthur might have launched a full missile strike and annihilated the Roman army from the city walls.
Leave not even ashes behind.
Yet despite all this, the two sides knew each other too well. After prolonged clashes, casualties remained low—though the land itself was ravaged.
And so, open conflict gradually gave way to a strange, smoldering silence.
-End Chapter-
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