Our quarry, Vortigern, lay entrenched within the ancient fortress, shielded by a wall of Saxon steel.
The situation was far from ideal; the Saxons were congregating in massive numbers. They had filled the citadel to its brim and overflowed into the surrounding fields, establishing a sprawling encampment outside the stone walls.
In short, we were tasked with a dual nightmare: we had to break the Saxons in the field before even attempting to breach those who held the fortifications behind them.
The only silver lining was the geography. The fortress sat upon a vast plain. Had it been a mountain stronghold carved into the crags, our cause would have been utterly hopeless.
To address this, we divided our forces into two distinct wings: a primary host to tie down the Saxon masses, and a specialized vanguard meant to punch through the chaos to reach Vortigern himself.
The strategy was simple in theory—the main army would carve a path, and through that bloody rent, we would strike at the Vile King.
Naturally, I had no intention of ordering a suicidal frontal assault. While Artoria's forces and Vortigern's were roughly matched in scale, a siege usually demanded a three-to-one advantage for the attacker—odds we did not possess.
However, we held the ultimate advantage: the choice of the battlefield. Unlike those shackled to the stones of the castle, we were mobile.
By seizing the initiative, we could effectively do nothing and simply watch as they withered away within their walls. We held the leash.
With this in mind, I advised Artoria to encircle the fortress and sever their supply lines completely.
Once the blockade was established, all we had to do was wait for their granaries to empty and their wells to run dry.
Of course, we were not idle. We continuously harried them with catapults and siege engines, and constructed fortified siege-works to suppress any hope of a counter-attack while tightening the noose around their throats.
Roughly a month into this war of attrition, the starving Saxons finally broke. With their food and water exhausted, they were forced into motion.
They chose to march out and face us in open battle. And... they directed the full weight of their desperation toward our position.
We had split our thirty thousand men into three equal divisions of ten thousand, forming a perfect triangular perimeter around the fortress.
This meant our forces were spread thin, unlike Vortigern's main host, which was attempting a breakout with his entire remaining strength—nearly thirty thousand men.
As a result, we were forced to stand against an army three times our size.
...Well, this is dire. Because we had distributed the Knights of the Round Table to lead the other sectors, our current group consisted only of Artoria, Sir Kay, Sir Gawain, and myself.
Given the distance between the siege camps, we could not expect immediate reinforcements.
Truly, fortune has dealt us a bitter hand...
"By the way they're massing at a single point, they're preparing for a decisive charge. It seems they've picked us for the slaughter," Kay remarked, his voice tight.
I nodded, squinting at the enemy's unfolding formation.
"...At least they appear to be almost entirely infantry. We should lead with the cavalry to shatter their vanguard before they can set their lines."
Again, this was a plain—the perfect theater for a cavalry charge.
Furthermore, the enemy seemed to lack any mounted units to counter us. It made sense, in a grim sort of way.
No besieged army keeps horses alive for long; horses are mouths that eat too much and provide far too much meat when the hunger sets in. Most of their steeds had likely been slaughtered for rations weeks ago.
They had almost no means to halt a thundering charge. Artoria gave a firm nod at my assessment.
"I agree, Eli. But if this lingers, the sheer weight of their numbers will crush us. We will use the knights to break their spirit, then capitalize on the chaos to pierce their heart.
Once we break through, Sir Kay will hold the line. Sir Gawain, Sir Elius, and I will seek out Vortigern. Are there any objections?"
""None, My King.""
The response was unanimous. Dragging this out would serve no one.
The current standoff was a brittle thing, destined to shatter given the disparity in manpower.
I performed a swift final check of my plate, my primary blade, and my reserve sword. Good. Everything was in order.
"Charge!"
Artoria's command echoed across the field, signaling the end of the long stalemate.
Ten thousand men lunged forward as one. From within that surging tide of humanity, the cavalry surged ahead at a terrifying speed.
The enemy scrambled to prepare their anti-cavalry pikes, but could starving, weakened men truly hope to deploy such heavy weapons in time?
Our knights reached them first. A thousand horsemen slammed into the Saxon ranks like a physical manifestation of God's wrath.
The knights tore through the infantry, mangling their formations. Lacking a dense phalanx, the Saxon footsoldiers were powerless against the sheer kinetic energy of the charge.
As the cavalry trampled the front lines, our own infantry arrived to finish the work.
It was a slaughter. Dealing with infantry who were demoralized, malnourished, and broken by a cavalry wedge was a simple matter.
While Sir Kay coordinated the main bulk of our forces, Gawain, Artoria, and I carved a path deep into the enemy's center.
Normally, plunging into the heart of an enemy host without the protection of a full cavalry unit was an act of madness. You are effectively inviting the enemy to swallow you whole with their superior numbers.
The Saxons swarmed us, thinking us easy prey. However, they had neglected one fundamental truth.
We are the Knights of the Round Table.
We exist far beyond the limitations of mortal men. To a Knight of the Round, an armored soldier is a mere reed to be harvested.
I infused my blade with a Prana Burst and delivered a sweeping horizontal strike. Four men in my immediate path were silenced instantly, their weapons and heads severed and sent spinning into the sky.
Hot arterial spray erupted from their necks, drenching my armor. I grimaced at the metallic stench of blood, but I did not falter, continuing to reap through the ranks of those foolish enough to approach.
On a battlefield, to stop is to die. There was no room for hesitation.
I deflected a spear thrust with a deft parry, allowing the momentum to guide the weapon into the throat of another Saxon behind me.
As the man stared in shock at having impaled his comrade, I took his head. I then hoisted his corpse into the air to serve as a shield against a volley of incoming arrows.
I clicked my tongue. They were willing to fire into their own men just to slow us down—a desperate and self-destructive tactic.
Continuing my grim work, I stole a glance toward Artoria and Gawain.
Both were moving with similar lethal efficiency, leaving trails of devastation in their wake. A small smile touched my lips—as expected of the King and her strongest knight.
"—Hrk!"
Perhaps that moment of distraction was my mistake. A spear flew from the shadows of the formation; though I reacted in time to avoid a mortal wound, the iron tip grazed my cheek, leaving a thin trail of blood.
I followed the trajectory and found a man in ornate armor—a commander, clearly. He looked stunned that his throw had failed to find its mark.
Fine then. Let us return your property.
I wrenched the spear from the mud, reinforced my arm with a violent surge of Prana, and hurled it back. The weapon broke the sound barrier with a thunderous crack, a localized sonic boom rippling through the air as it streaked toward the commander's heart.
The man's eyes widened in pure terror. He tried to dive, but no human reflex can outrun a projectile moving at the speed of sound. The spear was already there.
"...Oof."
It wasn't so much a hit as it was an explosion. The man's torso simply disintegrated, unable to withstand the massive kinetic energy I had imbued into the wood and iron. He quite literally burst.
The shockwave even shattered his own armor into shards that acted like shrapnel, mowing down the soldiers standing near him.
Instantaneous death. Those few who weren't killed outright were left missing limbs, a grotesque scene of carnage.
I barely had time to feel a sense of awkwardness at the overkill before the air grew heavy with a staggering amount of Magical Energy. The world behind me suddenly became blindingly bright.
The ultimate light of Mystery—the final blade that could strike down gods—slammed into the heart of the enemy army.
"...Gods above..."
As the radiance faded, everything in the path of Excalibur was simply... gone. Non-existent.
The very earth where the beam had passed glowed with a dull, molten red, unable to endure the heat of the Holy Sword's breath.
Why had Artoria released Excalibur's True Name so soon?
Merlin had warned us that Vortigern was an avatar of the Island's will, a creature receiving the direct backing of Britain itself. We had to save every drop of Prana for the moment we faced him. Artoria, Gawain, and I had explicitly agreed on this.
Yet, she had just unleashed the mana-hungry behemoth that was Excalibur.
The realization hit me: Vortigern must be right there. I cut through the remaining stragglers and rushed to Artoria's side.
Looking toward the scorched furrow left by the sword, I saw a man clutching the bloody stump of a missing arm, his gaze fixed on Artoria with murderous intent.
One look was all it took for me to know.
That was Vortigern.
With that realization, the man's eyes shifted, his pupils splitting into the jagged, vertical slits of a dragon.