Two days had passed since the Roman rebels were suppressed.
It seemed as though both Rome and Britain had silently agreed: when the sun rose, they would face off before the city where Arthur stood.
Both sides had mobilized nearly all their forces.
The British army had swelled to 100,000 men.
The Roman army, despite suffering casualties in several battles, still retained a force of 130,000 troops.
On the surface, Britain's army—individually superior and increasingly proficient in maneuver warfare—appeared to hold a clear advantage. A crushing victory should have been inevitable. Yet Arthur disagreed. With Rome's current military advisor, they wouldn't risk battle without a strategy or confidence. Even if they didn't fear sacrifices, they wouldn't act recklessly.
"This is troublesome. I can't predict the enemy's next move at all," Arthur muttered, clicking his tongue.
In fact, Rome had already signaled for a decisive battle days earlier, but Arthur had hesitated, refusing to commit his forces.
After all, Britain had only recently consolidated its power. Every inch of territory and every life lost was a resource they could not easily replace. Moreover, Arthur always preferred to conquer without bloodshed, hoping to defeat Rome at minimal cost—ideally, without any losses at all.
In his view, even if the Roman rebels had failed to inflict actual damage, their uprising should have weakened Rome's morale to some extent.
You've lost your homeland—what more do you have to fight for?
But contrary to expectations, the Roman army had only grown more determined to win on British soil.
It was likely this fierce momentum that drove them to force today's decisive battle.
"Oh my, it's rare to see our king in such a tight spot~. If you don't want to fight, then don't fight. The Roman army won't break through anyway," Merry said with a teasing smile. She had returned with the rebel remnants two days ago.
Britain's city defenses were unparalleled.
As the designer and chief architect of those defenses, Merry had absolute confidence in them.
Arthur, who had championed this new model of siege warfare, understood them better than anyone. In truth, the strength of a wall was secondary—what mattered was functionality. So long as the enemy could be annihilated, no one could breach the city. Compared to conventional fortresses built for defense, Britain's walls were more offensive than most weapons of war.
The sheer energy and armaments stored within were capable of unleashing devastation in mere moments.
"You haven't been in Britain long enough to understand how troublesome Rome is right now," Arthur replied, casting Merry a disgruntled look. "By the way, you really should've gone back to Camelot. I'd rather have Merlin here."
On the battlefield, he trusted Merlin more.
For one, even though Merlin often appeared unreliable, at least he looked dignified with a sword in hand.
And second—well, Merlin might actually take things seriously.
Merry, on the other hand… was just plain despicable.
At times, even worse than Merlin.
"You're so mean! You're kicking me out right after I got back. Big Sister is going to cry—so heartbroken!" Merry pouted dramatically. "And compared to that loser, Big Sister is clearly more useful. After all, Big Sister is super cute~☆!"
"…All right."
Arthur's mouth twitched as he reached out to stop Kai, who was about to bolt in frustration.
This is exactly why we don't want Merry on the battlefield.
Arthur turned his gaze back to the Roman army.
The enemy was currently shouting and taunting from below, engaging in standard pre-battle formations—not that it was anything unexpected.
They hurled the usual insults, like: "A man without king or father, who slaughtered surrendered soldiers, dares to call himself a ruler?"
Arthur didn't respond. He didn't care. His reputation in Rome had already been ruined the moment he annihilated the Saxons after his campaign on the Saxon front.
But it was clear that the British soldiers and even the Round Table were nearing their breaking point.
If not for Merry's comedic interjection, someone might have already leapt down to challenge the Romans to a duel to the death.
"Hey! Those bastards down there are screaming insults at you, and you're not mad? You're just standing there?" Jeanne d'Arc, her face flushed with rage, urged Arthur to attack. "They're at our gates, begging to die! What are you waiting for? Do you really think the British army would lose in a fair fight? This is your own army, right? Don't you trust your soldiers?"
In the next moment, everyone at the Round Table turned their eyes on her.
Please… you're the weakest one here.
Feeling the weight of their stares, Jeanne Alter's confidence quickly crumbled, and she backed off with a huff.
"I just think Rome's behavior is far too strange," Arthur said, frowning.
Of course he wanted to crush the Roman army if possible.
By now, they had secured a foothold on British soil. With their ability to bypass British blockades, they were steadily expanding. Even without reinforcements from the mainland, they could take root—like a cancer—stunting Britain's progress and proving nearly impossible to uproot.
They would become a second Saxon threat.
No—perhaps worse than the Saxons.
But...
Arthur took a long breath, silenced his unease, and drew the Sword of Choice. In an instant, morale surged among his troops. Then he gave the command.
"Attack!"
A simple word.
But for soldiers who had waited so long, it was more than enough.
The next moment, the flawless white walls of the city blazed to life, lighting up with thousands of True Ether Cannon magic arrays. The muzzles of turreted magic weapons flared brightly, all poised to unleash devastating force against the Roman legions below.
But at that very instant—a blood-red light began spreading across the pristine white walls, visible even to the naked eye.
The magic turrets atop the walls flickered as the strange energy disrupted them. Though the weapons had already completed their charging cycle, the brilliant light at each muzzle dimmed—then went out completely.
Five kilometers away, a massive blood-red spell formation rose and morphed in the sky, finally stabilizing into the shape of a gigantic magical cage.
At the same time, something began to go wrong within the British army itself.
It started with the heavy infantry. Their enchanted shields suddenly cracked and crumbled into metallic fragments. These shields, typically reinforced with magic-absorbing glyphs, had become utterly useless.
Next came the Holy Sword Corps.
Their radiant blades shimmered—then dimmed—until they looked no different from ordinary steel.
Then all the magic-powered equipment began to fail—individual flight units, armor enhancements, and enchanted tools flickered out and stopped functioning.
Every piece of man-made magical equipment had ceased to work.
Even the Knights of the Round Table were affected.
"My king… my power…" Gawain stared at his hands in disbelief. "It's gone… no, it's been suppressed. It's as if the sun's blessing has turned into a curse—it's reversed—"
He was so shocked he could hardly speak.
This had never happened before. Though the sun was shining brightly above, Gawain's divine blessing—his core strength—was suppressed entirely.
The other knights were in the same state.
Their physical strength, reflexes, magic reserves—everything felt restricted, as if bound by invisible chains. Most British soldiers had been reduced to little more than ordinary men.
"Oh dear," Merry said, blinking. "We've walked right into a trap."
-End Chapter-
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