The army of tens of thousands marched forward slowly.
Of course, "slow" was only relative.
Ten thousand soldiers was a massive number. Even though this army was considered well-trained, their speed was naturally hindered by sheer size. If they had been fighting a remote, inexperienced tribe, their pace would have been even more sluggish.
At the head of the formation rode General Tver. Though he noticed the soldiers around him had grown somewhat lax, he made no move to reprimand them.
There was no fear on their faces, no tension in their movements. It didn't resemble the mood of warriors about to step onto a battlefield where their lives were at stake.
Then again, that made sense.
These were the Saxons—a proud and battle-hardened Germanic people.
To survive, they had crossed the sea and migrated to the British Isles in search of fertile land and a future. They fought, they bled, and they won. Now, they had established a firm foothold in this new land. The Britons could do nothing to stop them, and sooner or later, all of Britain would fall under Saxon rule.
They were seasoned warriors, and their might was overwhelming.
Yes, they still faced resistance from the northern kings—but that was temporary.
As their king had declared, the day would come when the Saxons would grip the British Isles in their iron fist and rule with absolute authority.
Good times lay ahead: no more hunger, no more brutal winters. Just strength and dominance.
And what of their current target, Camelot?
Since Uther's defeat ten years ago, Camelot had retreated to the most secure and prosperous corner of the land, basking in the comforts of false peace.
Even if they had distanced themselves from the center of conflict, the people of Camelot must have known that the Saxons were a force far beyond their ability to resist. For the past decade, they had likely lived in dread, waiting for the inevitable day their walls fell.
After ten peaceful, warless years, Camelot would break the moment it faced the Saxons.
"We can win, and we will win."
That was what every Saxon believed.
Tver was no exception.
There was no room for fear. Only excitement to fight—only anticipation to reap the fruits of victory.
"This attack really went smoothly," Tver remarked. "The tribal kings who once blocked our path probably think Camelot will suffer devastating losses—and that we'll be annihilated in turn. Maybe they're celebrating right now. Fools."
He shook his head, chuckling.
I really don't know how that guy became king.
It must be bloodline. In this age, pedigree still trumps merit.
"Haha, isn't that the truth?" his deputy said with a sneer. "And the new King of Camelot—he was in such a rush to get crowned, he forgot even basic etiquette. Didn't invite a single king to the ceremony. And to make such a spectacle of it on coronation day? No wonder the northern kings were so eager to agree to our terms."
It was easy to understand, really.
That boy was said to be the one destined to defeat them—the king prophesied by the great magician Merlin.
With such a legendary origin, of course he would get carried away. He would reject the idea of cooperating with other British kings and instead trumpet his own greatness, trying to make his coronation into a myth.
After all, wasn't that how legends were born?
But the boy had failed to grasp one simple truth: you must succeed to become a legend. If you fall too early, you're nothing but a joke.
"That said, we really owe you this time," Tver added, glancing at his deputy. "Without your intelligence, your planning, your arrangement of the retreat route—and that deal with the northern kings—this operation wouldn't have gone nearly so well."
Camelot's geography made it nearly impossible to assault under normal circumstances.
And while Tver believed in the might of the Humble King and feared no army, he did respect the power of prophecy.
After all, Merlin had predicted many strange things—like the clash between the red dragon and the white. Who would have thought Uther's brother, Vortigern, would one day become that white dragon and bring ruin to Britain?
"This… it was simply my duty," the deputy said, bowing his head modestly.
But the credit Tver praised him for barely belonged to him at all.
He'd only heard a rumor—nothing more.
The news of Arthur's coronation had spread so widely that it was no great feat to learn of it. As for the rest—the tactics, the escape route—those ideas had come from his subordinates. He'd submitted the report under his own name, then conveniently assigned those subordinates to other postings to eliminate any threat to his credit.
Honestly, he couldn't even recall the cliffs near Camelot.
"Haha, no need to be so humble," Tver laughed. "When we return, I'll personally inform the king of your contributions. You'll be rewarded with a title—count on it."
Tver didn't care about the awkwardness in his deputy's reaction.
Truthfully, he'd done similar things himself on his way up the ladder. If he were still climbing, he would've pulled the same stunt.
As the two conversed, the mood among the marching soldiers grew even more relaxed.
Following the road ahead, they soon spotted a column of troops approaching from the distance.
The army of Camelot had arrived.
Tver's gaze sharpened, focusing on the blond youth leading the opposing force. A smile curled at his lips.
"So that's the new King of Camelot? What a frail-looking boy. I suppose Merlin's prophecy isn't so reliable after all. After we win, we'll capture this so-called 'Red Dragon' alive and spare his life."
Arthur's beauty stunned Tver so much that he abandoned his intent to kill the boy upon first sight.
He decided then and there: capture, not execution. Whether Arthur would survive long afterward would depend on the Humble King's decision.
Still, on the return journey… perhaps there would be time to enjoy the spoils.
The surrounding soldiers laughed loudly at Tver's crude insinuation.
But in the next moment, a clear, youthful voice rang out—and every smile vanished in an instant.
"Oh? So there are people as kind as you among the foreign tribes. Then wait—I'll spare your life, too."
"!!!"
It was far too distant for a normal voice to carry. Which meant—
Magic?
Was Merlin here?!
It was very likely.
Tver wasn't afraid of Merlin wiping out the army with a single spell, but as a high-ranking general, he knew assassination was not off the table.
His body tensed, alert.
But the feared attack never came. No strange magic descended. No sudden curse struck him down.
Tver slowly exhaled in relief.
Maybe it was just an ordinary magician. I was being paranoid.