Type-Moon: The Human Love Simulator

In the end, it was only Arthur who accompanied Kaelar to subdue the Saxons.

By now, the Saxons had been driven into a corner by Kaelar's tactics. Especially with the encirclement order and no immediate attack, their minds raced with dread, remembering the brutal Celtic massacres of the past and the forest fire from years ago.

The pressure mounted on them every second.

Desperation hung over the Saxons like a thick fog, and they began to regret ever setting foot on the land of Maple Ridge.

This is human nature: only when facing death does true remorse and pleading arise.

As they teetered on the brink of panic and madness, Kaelar approached them on horseback.

Someone noticed him, and a barrage of weapons—arrows, slingshots, poison darts, and even warning shots—came flying at him. But Kaelar sat calmly, using a single flagpole to effortlessly deflect all the projectiles.

An aura of invincibility (albeit imagined) surrounded him.

Throughout history, no true master has ever been taken down by such tricks. Traps and hidden weapons might work when catching someone off-guard, but face-to-face, they were easily parried—a sweep of a cloak could ward off most of them.

Kaelar hadn't even drawn his sword. It remained in Arthur's hands while he held aloft the banner of Maple Ridge, advancing steadily toward the Saxons.

The Saxons' attacks did not cease. Desperation drove them into a frenzied assault, accompanied by furious shouts and curses. Yet Kaelar remained calm, stating, "I am Kaelar, lord of Maple Ridge. If you lay down your weapons, I am willing to forgive you."

If you are strong enough, even acts of hostility lose their weight. You don't concern yourself with the affronts of those far beneath you.

Despite the chaos of the battlefield, Kaelar's voice rang clear, reaching the ears of each of the hundred Saxons.

To the despairing Saxons, Kaelar's words were like a song from heaven. They wanted to believe him, yet they feared it was a trap.

After fierce debate, an elderly sailor, face weathered by years at sea, stepped forward. Their captain and first mate had already been killed, so he had become their de facto leader. "Kaelar, I'll assume you really are the lord here. But tell me—are you speaking the truth?"

"I have no reason to lie to you," Kaelar replied, his tone indifferent. "At my command, you would all be crushed like ants, your bodies scattered with no one to bury them."

"I didn't need to come here to meet you. I could have simply set the forest ablaze, and you would all have been reduced to ashes."

The old sailor was silent. "My name is Powell. I will surrender to you. Even if you deceive us, I only ask that if you do intend to kill us, grant us a swift end and a decent burial."

Beheading, dismemberment for religious rites, ripping bodies apart...

These were common Celtic practices for dealing with enemies—primitive and brutally savage.

If death by hanging was an option, it was considered a merciful end.

Thus, Powell's request was phrased as a plea for mercy. If Kaelar granted it, it would indeed be a gift.

Kaelar smiled. "You don't know me, Kaelar, so I don't blame you... Rest assured, I will not kill you. I will even let you return home."

"Now, lay down your weapons and follow me."

The Saxons had no other choice.

The situation was clear—refusing to surrender meant certain death, likely in the form of a blazing inferno, a slow and agonizing end.

Surrendering, at worst, meant a cleaner death. Beheading or hanging was far better than burning alive.

And perhaps, just perhaps... if Kaelar was true to his word, they might live.

Gradually, the Saxons began to drop their weapons, falling in line behind Kaelar as he led them out of the forest.

As they walked, Kaelar turned to Powell, who stayed close to his side. "Why did you invade Maple Ridge?"

Powell hesitated before replying, "You might not believe this, but... for survival."

Indeed, most wouldn't buy such an excuse. In the Age of Gods on Britain's shores, "survival" seemed a flimsy rationale.

This was the Age of Gods. Resources were abundant in every way—primordial mana, the innate strength of humanity, and the sheer wealth of the land all provided more than enough for humanity to squander.

Fruits grew year-round on the trees, never withering. Simply breathing and drinking water was enough to sustain a person's energy. How could anyone resort to raiding just to survive?

"If you are willing to tell me, I am willing to believe you," Kaelar said calmly. "You trusted me enough to leave the forest. Why wouldn't I trust you?"

"…"

Powell remained silent for a long time before confessing, "I must apologize to you... In truth, it wasn't trust. We had no choice. Trusting you was our only option."

"I forgive you," Kaelar said with a gentle smile. "You are barbarians, uneducated and untamed. I do not blame you for that."

Powell seemed taken aback by the bluntness, but he didn't react negatively. Uneasy, he asked, "Why did you have us surrender? Why promise to let us go... What are you planning?"

"I want to show you the right way. I want to enlighten you, the barbarians."

Kaelar did not hide his intentions and spoke plainly. "No one willingly risks their life to kill a stranger. There are enough resources in Britain to feed less than a million people easily."

"Can you tell me why you do this?"

Under Kaelar's gaze, Powell began to explain the exploitation by the nobility and the relentless tyranny of the False King.

True cruelty lay in oppressive rule—the kind that kills without visible bloodshed.

Famine doesn't stem from insufficient food production, but from the inability to distribute food to those who need it.

As they spoke, they finally emerged from the woods. Surrounding them were the ranks of Celtic knights, waiting and ready. The Saxons stirred nervously, yet remained still, glancing at Kaelar as if he was their last hope.

At this moment, Kaelar held their lives in his hands.

Kaelar turned to Arthur, who had been silent throughout the journey. "Do you see, Lily? The lives of these hundred men rest on my decision. If even someone like me holds this much power, imagine a king—ruling over all of Celtic Britain—deciding the fates of hundreds of thousands with a single thought."

He then faced the Saxons, asking, "If you had enough to eat, if you were safe and secure, would you still come to raid Celtic lands?"

The responses came slowly, but they were all the same.

No.

The answer was obvious. The Celts' savagery was legendary. No one would willingly engage them unless they were forced.

Kaelar smiled. "Then, I forgive you all."

"It is the rulers who profit, while the commoners pay the price."

Kaelar's voice was calm, but carried the weight of truth. "The king issues commands, the nobles provide weapons, and the poor offer their sons. When the war ends, the king gains territory, the nobles grow richer, and the poor are left with corpses."

"I choose to love all of you. I believe you are not beyond redemption, and thus, I extend my trust to you."

"Go home. I have forgiven you," Kaelar said softly. "If you are ever forced to return to Maple Ridge, I will not kill you. So long as you lay down your weapons, I will always forgive you."