"Sir Limio, are you praying to the Lord?"
Let's rewind time slightly. Just as Camelot was expelling the Roman Emperor's envoy, the coalition forces he had gathered were converging at Calais Port in Gaul.
Gaul had been preparing for this war longer than Rome, but since Lancelot had single-handedly defeated all of Gaul's knights in individual duels, their preparations focused on domestic defense and fortifying their borders.
The allied nations demanded that Gaul provide warships capable of transporting over ten thousand knights, fifty thousand auxiliary troops, and massive quantities of supplies and provisions. Gaul could only admit its inability to meet such a demand.
However, while they couldn't produce the full complement of warships, they could provide vessels capable of carrying approximately one-tenth of the required capacity.
At the harbor, Sir Limio, commander of the vanguard and deeply trusted by the Roman Emperor, felt a growing unease as he gazed at the thirty newly painted oak warships.
Beside him stood Andrew, his chaplain dressed in black clerical robes, who posed a question:
"Priest Andrew, don't you find this April's English Channel far too rainy compared to previous years?"
"Sir Limio," Priest Andrew replied, "this is because the Lord is punishing Great Britain, diverting the rain clouds that should have fallen upon their shores to the sea. With the Lord's protection in this holy war against the Heretic Nation, what does a little rain matter? We are destined for victory."
Five years ago, Little Andrew's father had died in Camelot City after enduring countless humiliations. Beyond inheriting his family name and status, Little Andrew had also inherited the Holy Church's inhuman training and Old Andrew's unfinished mission.
Consumed by vengeance for years, he was the most zealous advocate for this war within the allied forces.
Moreover, he believed that mere rain was insignificant. The Church possessed 'miracles' capable of dispelling it.
"Sir Limio," the priest continued, "the Emperor has granted you permission to plunder and ordered you to secure and maintain a landing foothold before the main army arrives."
"Yes, Lord Imperial Guard. I will inform the Emperor immediately. Sir Limio sets sail now."
Preparations had begun several days prior, and the Vanguard was ready to depart some time ago. However, after further urging from the Emperor, Sir Limio, despite his inner unease, had no choice but to order the Vanguard to board the ships.
The first wave consisted of over four hundred Roman Knights and a hundred Roman clerics, who carried no auxiliary troops or baggage, intending to sustain themselves through plunder.
Once the Vanguard was aboard, experienced Gaulish sailors navigated the ships toward Britain.
The vast sea stretched endlessly before them. Shipbuilding technology in this era paled in comparison to later advancements, and Europe lacked compasses. For the Vanguard fleet led by Sir Limio to reach Britain...
Even if everything went smoothly and the clerics' celestial navigation proved accurate, their arrival was expected by tomorrow morning at the earliest, and the precise landing site remained uncertain.
The turbulent sea and the Roman Knights' limited maritime experience were taking their toll. A small number of them had already begun vomiting.
"I told the captain," Knight Gaheris grumbled, "even if we had to force the issue, we should have assigned veteran seafarers from coastal nations to the Vanguard. Just because the First Legion is strong and Rome wants to prove its continued power to other nations doesn't mean we should have monopolized the vanguard duty."
Rome was an empire, its legions long accustomed to coordinated warfare. This starkly contrasted with Great Britain, where just five years ago, battles still revolved around knightly charges.
However, unlike Britain's current Knight Legions, Rome's legions—even when composed of Knights—primarily fought on foot. Only this way could they maintain their formations with maximum effectiveness.
"I'm telling you, just stop complaining," one Roman Knight grumbled to another. "If those priests overhear you, they'll lecture you for another half-hour about sacrificing yourself for the Holy War."
He continued, "Speaking of which, the winds have been strangely calm on this voyage. The British barbarians probably don't even know our army has set sail..."
The Gaulish warships were small, many of them converted merchant vessels once used for the grain trade with Britain. Most of the sailors were the same men who had crewed those ships. Many of them despised the Roman Knights. While the British invasion was merely a rumor, Rome had brutally oppressed Gaul for centuries. Even now, with Rome in decline, Gaul still paid tribute. A portion of every sailor's earnings went directly into Roman coffers.
"Hmph, a bunch of ignorant fools," a sailor muttered from his lookout post high atop the mast. "They'll all be fish food soon enough."
From his vantage point, he saw the Roman Knights' arrogance and overconfidence. He also saw something else: a thick bank of dark clouds looming on the distant horizon.
The message was relayed, and soon the entire fleet furled its sails, ordered to prepare for the approaching storm.
Meanwhile, Guinevere had just returned to Camelot with her party and was immediately summoned to the tense atmosphere of the Throne Room.
There, Merlin—who had once again brought news, this time that Rome's vanguard had set sail—was speaking to the King of Knights.
Guinevere was already aware of the prophecy of the Red and White Dragons, the prophecy foretelling the defeat of Gaul and Rome. The Knights had drawn immense morale from it. It was no surprise to her that Merlin, the source of the prophecy, was here to participate.
Holding Mordred and Morgan, Guinevere walked toward her designated seat beside the King and his Knights. Just as she was about to reach it, Merlin finished speaking.
The last words she caught were...
"My King, though the dream was terrifying, it signifies that you will soon become a conqueror."
A dream?
Curiosity piqued, Guinevere looked at the King of Knights. The King did not keep her Queen waiting and explained directly:
"After you departed, I took a short rest and had a dream."
"I dreamed of a terrifying dragon flying from the west. Its head was the color of enamel, its chest shone like gold, and its belly resembled a suit of mottled armor. From its mouth, it spewed raging flames, setting the sky and sea ablaze.
"Then, from the dark clouds in the east, a magnificent black boar emerged...
"After a fierce battle, the dragon tore the boar apart, scattering its remains across the sea to feed the fish.
"Master Merlin told me that the dragon represents me, and the boar represents the Roman Emperor."
Guinevere's lips parted slightly, a flicker of daze in her eyes. She recalled a similar description in Le Morte d'Arthur.
Before she could dwell on it, the King of Knights, having finished her tale, took Mordred from her. She pressed their foreheads together and kissed Mordred's slightly flushed brow, instantly brightening the somber atmosphere of the Throne Room with laughter.
Once the laughter subsided, the King of Knights, a smile still gracing her lips, asked, "Guinevere, what is the situation with the mages?"
Over five years had passed, enough time for the King of Knights to grow more human. Watching Mordred sit obediently in the King's arms, Guinevere replied, "My King, everything with the mages is proceeding smoothly. They will cooperate with our operations. Furthermore, to address the recent drought, I asked them to help bring rain."
"On my way back, they were already preparing a large-scale ritual magecraft to summon rain."
"Huh?... They can control the rain?"
It wasn't just the King of Knights; Guinevere also realized. Merlin had said the Roman vanguard was currently adrift at sea, and the King of Knights' recent dream...
The boar torn to shreds at sea.