Chapter 122: Dead City  

In the first century, Britain was weak—so weak that, when faced with the iron might of the Roman Empire, it lacked even the courage to resist.

They abandoned their homes. Their people wept and suffered beneath Roman tyranny.

And then, Boudica stood up.

She rallied the people. She rose in defiance. And victory after victory followed in her wake. On the battlefield, her figure became the embodiment of hope. A British queen defeating the might of Rome—such a miracle should never have been possible.

But Queen Boudica made it real.

Though her rebellion ended in defeat, her legacy endured. Her heroism was never questioned.

She became a symbol—of defiance, of resistance, of unyielding strength in the face of oppression.

Even Lamorak, as a child, had revered her.

But now, even that hero was bound by three Command Spells:

First: Convey to King Vortigern the intent to attack Britain.

Second: Kill any Briton on sight.

Third: Aid the Saxons in victory. As the Queen of Victory, you must go all out to destroy Britain.

These commands had turned her into little more than a rabid dog.

Because of the second Command Spell, even Vortigern—the Humble King—found her troublesome. He wouldn't even speak with her. She was locked away like cargo, brought out only when needed and released on the battlefield.

That was why, when facing British soldiers, Boudica could only repeat a single phrase:

"I'm sorry."

Over and over.

Watching her like this, Lamorak's face twisted with a mix of grief and fury.

"…Queen Boudica. Rest in peace."

His voice was hoarse.

As commander of 30,000, Lamorak knew his duty. That command was both a great honor and an enormous weight—the king's trust made real.

And so, no matter how painful, he would raise his spear against the woman he had once idolized.

Though thrown from his horse in the earlier clash, Lamorak's composure never faltered.

Now, wrapped in a surging storm of magical energy, he stood tall and resolute—an image of the knightly ideal.

The next moment, his spear pierced forward.

Magic surged. The gleam of his knightly lance burned through the bloodstained battlefield—and once more, Queen Boudica fell.

Yet this time, as she faded, Lamorak thought he saw the hint of a smile on her lips.

"Victorious Queen…Worry not for Britain. A new Lord of Victory has risen. My king shall inherit your will—and lead this land to glory."

Perhaps these words, whispered in the heart, would offer her peace.

But now was not the time for mourning.

Lamorak turned and looked back to the city walls.

He fell silent.

The city was burning.

Flames consumed buildings. Saxons and Britons fought in close quarters atop the crumbling defenses.

The gate had fallen.

The city had been breached.

All because of Boudica's Noble Phantasm. The Saxons had been empowered—strengthened by her divine war chariot—and in that brief but brutal burst of momentum, they had broken through.

This defeat was Lamorak's fault.

Because of his arrogance. Because of his failure to heed Arthur's warnings. Because he had chased glory rather than reinforcing vulnerable defenses.

If he had taken the Saxons seriously from the start…

If he had executed the king's evacuation plan immediately…

If he had placed survival over reputation…

The casualties would have been far, far fewer.

Now, thousands lay dead—and the city had fallen.

A cavalryman approached, leading Lamorak's horse. His face was drawn, bitter.

"…Sir, we—"

"Gather the remaining troops," Lamorak interrupted quietly. "His Majesty has prepared a great gift for these Saxon bastards. Let's go."

No speech. No excuses. Just resolve.

He mounted his horse. His aura burned fiercer than ever.

The cavalry, trained to perfection, followed without hesitation. Each one was worth a hundred foot soldiers—and now they moved as one, an iron sword crashing into the Saxon ranks.

Yet something had changed.

This time, they saw it clearly: death in their commander's eyes.

He fought without hesitation. He ignored wounds. His spear danced in perfect, efficient arcs, cutting down enemies like wheat.

Gone was the usual calculated calm.

And though Lamorak gave no explanation, every knight understood.

Their leader planned to die here.

At last, he gave one final order:

"Gather the survivors. Retreat through the southern gate. I will cover you."

There was no argument. The cavalry scattered to execute the command, racing to evacuate the wounded and escort the remaining forces.

But one soldier stayed behind.

He said nothing, only stared at Lamorak with burning eyes.

"…What are you doing? Didn't you hear my order?"

"I heard you, Sir."

"Then obey! Can you bear to watch your comrades die under Saxon blades?!"

"I'll do my duty. But before that…" the soldier took a breath, voice firm. "I ask that you remain… for the King. The sword and shield in your hands are not just tools. They are honors—rewards for your service, symbols of your glory. You, Sir, are a knight standing at the edge of the Round Table. Will you throw that away just to escape punishment?"

Lamorak's mouth opened—

—but no words came.

Silence.

Finally, he watched the soldier turn and ride off to join the retreat.

He exhaled.

I didn't expect to be lectured by one of my own men.

How pathetic… but how right he is.

If I don't even have the courage to face punishment—how can I hope to sit at the Round Table?

When he raised his head again, the light in his eyes had changed.

Resignation gave way to clarity. Determination took root.

To move forward, sometimes something must be sacrificed. But what must never be lost is the will to try.

"Come, Saxons! If you're not afraid of death, then face me!"

"I am Lamorak, knight of King Arthur! If you want this city—then get past me first!"

He planted his spear firmly into the earth.

Shield in one hand. Sword in the other.

The wind blew against him.

Among all the knights of Britain, save for the Round Table, only a few possessed even one A-rank magical weapon.

Lamorak had two.

And now, with all his pride and glory on the line, he stood ready.

And so—the battle began.

The Saxons had captured their first British city.

The cost had been enormous, but the victory was real.

Their first victory in years.

Proof that the British were not invincible.

Even if a single knight—Lamorak—had held off a large portion of the army until the end, it was still a win.

The Saxon soldiers picked through the bodies, stripping equipment from the fallen. Laughter echoed in the ruined streets—nervous, unsteady laughter.

British equipment.

The best in the world.

Now, it belonged to them.

The grief for their fallen comrades faded—just for a moment—beneath the euphoria of triumph.

But then—

The true ether across the city rippled.

The world stilled.

A column of searing light erupted from the heart of the city, piercing the heavens.

The air burned.

The light consumed all.

The smiling soldiers didn't even have time to scream.

In an instant, the victorious Saxons were erased.

All of them.

Their first—and last—victory had become their grave.

The city was dead.

-End Chapter-

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