At Mount Badon, dark clouds hung low. The flames on the burning boulders launched by catapults were gradually dying out, and the flesh clinging to them had already charred black, giving off waves of scorched, burnt-protein stench in the wind.
Around craters large and small lay broken spears, discarded shields, and scattered arrows. Soft earth had been thrown up, burying countless mangled chunks of flesh beneath it.
The once-green grassland was now covered in black scorch marks and patches of dead yellow. Dense pillars of black smoke rose from the damp vegetation as it burned, rolling upward like dragons.
"Clang!"
The smoke of war had yet to clear when, with the clear ring of a plucked string, a sharp sound tore through the air from a distant slope. It cut across the battlefield with a shrill whistle.
"Pfft!"
In an instant, from the bushes off to the side, a figure with painted markings on his face and his body pressed against the branches was carried off by an arrow and slammed hard into the ground.
Even in death, the sentry's face still held a trace of astonishment, without the slightest agony of a final struggle.
Clearly, the archer's skill was extraordinary. From a high slope a kilometer away, he had not only struck the barbarian scout hiding under the leaves with perfect precision, but killed him instantly.
"Sorrow... truly sorrow..."
On the gentle slope of the high ground, a handsome young man with red hair falling over his shoulders sat astride his warhorse, his whole body exuding melancholy. As he murmured helplessly, he closed his delicate, expressive golden eyes, as though unable to bear watching his target fall to his death.
"A melody meant to bring happiness has become a dirge that takes lives on the battlefield..."
With a faint sigh, his long, slender fingers lightly plucked the several silk strings strung across his harp-like longbow, playing a mournful note for the dead.
Still, once this battle was over, his music would finally no longer need to be played for slaughter.
There he goes again...
The dozens of armored knights lined up beside him had long since grown used to it and could not be bothered with their comrade's sentimentality. They immediately drew their swords in unison, raised their arms, and roared.
"By the King's command, attack!"
"Victory! Victory! Victory!"
In an instant, tens of thousands of infantrymen, shields on their shoulders and longswords in hand, crossed the ridge and surged like a tide toward the fortress atop Mount Badon.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"
With the sentry dead, the defenders did not notice until the enemy army burst from the heavy fog and was almost upon them. Only then did off-key shouts rise from several watchtowers built around the besieged fortress.
The shrill clang of alarms and the bleak, muddy call of horns rose one after another.
Amid the chaos, Anglo-Saxon barbarians with painted faces clambered noisily onto the walls.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!
Yet just as the barbarians inside the fortress began to react, piercing whistles merged overhead. The sky abruptly darkened as powerful arrows tore through the smoke screen and fell upon the Saxons like a storm of meteors.
Pfft, pfft, pfft, pfft!
Because the barbarians' productivity was limited, their weapon forging and metalworking remained extremely primitive. Combined with their habit of leaving their chests and shoulders bare, even with support from their ally, the Vile King Vortigern, their armor rate was still low. For a time, they were shot down in droves, their wails filling the ground.
"Get down! Get down! That's bait!"
"Raise your shields! Where are your shields, you fools?"
The furious chieftain glanced painfully at the tribesmen nailed to the wall and howling, then roared his orders.
Fortunately, once the others reacted, they immediately crouched behind the solid battlements and raised their shields in defense.
At the same time, the soldiers huddled in safe spots bent their backs, drew their bows to the limit, and tightened their grip on javelins and throwing axes.
"Those Celtic bastards are coming up. Throw!"
Once the enemy soldiers entered range, the barbarians observing through the lookout holes showed savage malice on their faces. They rose at once and struck back.
For a time, the sound of blades entering flesh rang without end. The soldiers who stepped into the barbarians' attack range fell row after row, like wheat cut down by a sickle.
Although the Celtic soldiers quickly raised their shields and formed ranks under the rain-dense assault, advancing slowly, the catapults inside the fortress had already begun to roar.
One blazing stone after another, drenched in fire oil, screamed down toward the ground. Wherever they passed, bodies and armor alike were smashed into bloody ruin.
More than that, over a thousand shamans hidden among the crowd also began chanting obscure divine words, casting curses upon the densely gathered enemy troops.
For a time, the piercing crack of bones and the dull tearing of flesh sounded without pause.
Screams, cries, wails, and curses rose one after another.
The area shrouded in black smoke had become a hell of blood, mud, and corpses.
Time passed second by second, and casualties on the battlefield continued to rise.
On the high slope, the red-haired knight could not help frowning every time he heard the dying screams of the soldiers. His expression grew more and more pained.
"My King, please give the order. Let me lead the knights in a charge!"
Finally unable to stand by and watch his comrades die one after another like weeds, the red-haired knight spurred his horse forward, struck his right fist against his chest, and made a solemn request.
"It is not time yet..."
Yet under the red-haired knight's earnest gaze, the cold figure in the center, clad in fully enclosed silver-white armor with lion-like mane showing between the plates and a cloak draped over the back, refused calmly.
"My King, the knight order under your command could clearly break through this fortress quickly. Why have you still not acted? We have already sacrificed enough to win this battle!"
After being refused, sorrow filled the red-haired knight's face. His rising voice carried traces of anger, and he could not help slipping into a questioning tone.
"Are you questioning my judgment, Tristan?"
The figure atop the silver-white warhorse looked down coldly. The gaze cast from beneath the sealed faceplate made the red-haired knight instantly feel a pressure of tens of thousands of tons crashing down on him. His body stiffened, and cold sweat poured from his brow.
It was a gaze from the nine heavens above, a Divine Spirit looking down upon ants.
That pure gaze pierced through flesh and struck straight into the depths of the soul.
Under that scrutiny, any defiance, any impurity, would evaporate in an instant, leaving only the impulse of an ant to kneel before a Great Dragon.
"My King, I... I spoke out of turn..."
Tristan lowered his head in panic and apologized with difficulty.
"In light of your fault, you will remain in the rear for the next battle, Sir Tristan."
"As you command..."
Only when that indifferent gaze moved away from him did the red-haired knight breathe roughly, as though a mountain had been lifted from his body.
Before he knew it, his back had already been soaked through with sweat.
Seeing a comrade close to them in strength reduced to such a miserable state beneath the King's authority, the other knights of the Round Table could not help growing solemn. They looked with awe toward the ruler surrounded beneath the central banner.
At the very rear of the formation, the white-haired court Magus, holding his staff and swaying on horseback as he pretended to doze, slightly opened his eyes. He looked toward the godlike figure shrouded in holy light, a trace of complexity surfacing in his gaze, then closed his eyes again and went back to dreaming.
Fortunately, the solemn, oppressive atmosphere did not remain on the slope for long.
"The time has come! All units, charge!"
Suddenly, the King of Knights, who had been watching the battlefield closely, brought down the raised right arm. With a cold, solemn murmur, the order to charge was passed to the elites under the banner.
In an instant, the long-waiting knight order, led by dozens of knights of the Round Table, launched their charge toward the sturdy fortress atop Mount Badon.
At the same time, several miles away, atop a lush thicket, two green-haired figures leaning between the branches huddled together and watched this epic decisive battle with great interest.
The Battle of Mount Badon, the turning point that would lay the foundation for Camelot's prosperity. It would be too much of a shame to miss it.
The two sneaky peepers comfortably and perfectly in sync tossed several blueberries into their mouths and chewed, looking exactly like a scummy man and woman who had arranged to go out and watch a movie for fun.