Type-Moon: The Human Love Simulator

Vortigern, despite his terrifying reputation, was a remarkably straightforward ruler. He spoke whatever crossed his mind and never bothered with pretenses, even when threatening death.

Such a person rarely broke his word.

Even after being humiliated by Vortigern, Hengist's expression remained impassive, his flattery flawless and precise. No one else on the island of Britain could so effortlessly embody that groveling demeanor, enduring insults with an unbroken, sycophantic poise.

In truth, Vortigern hadn't intended to humiliate Hengist—it simply wasn't in the White Dragon's nature to play mind games.

His contempt for the Anglo-Saxons came from the depths of his being, and as their leader, Hengist was merely viewed as a particularly obedient hunting dog—a useful tool to the Celts.

The Celts were hunters by nature, a people who lived off the land. Among them, hunting dogs held high status, often serving alongside the greatest heroes. The legendary Cú Chulainn, for instance, had taken on his name after he killed a blacksmith's hound and vowed to serve in its place.

But no matter how revered, a dog remained a dog. It was never truly human.

"Thank you for your generosity, wise and mighty White Dragon, great lord," Hengist said, bowing once more with impeccable grace. He then departed from Vortigern's chambers with his silent brother, Horsa, trailing behind.

Only after they were safely away did Horsa's face twist with anger. "That old fool... We're consolidating his power and position, yet that idiot—"

"Silence! This is why I never let you speak in front of Vortigern!" Hengist snapped, his eyes narrowing. He wasn't worried about spies—Vortigern would never bother to monitor his 'Anglo-Saxon mongrels.'

"Remember our place. Never show a hint of defiance before Vortigern, or even I won't be able to save you."

Hengist's gaze became steely, shedding the careful meekness he wore before Vortigern. The aura of a shrewd leader emerged in his eyes, revealing a different side of him. "Vortigern may have his flaws, but he's a man of his word."

"Heh, isn't it amusing? These Celtic savages always keep their promises. If they say they'll wipe out your entire family, they'll do it. And if they say they'll grant you a territory, they'll grant it without hesitation."

A fervent smile spread across Hengist's face. "Horsa, this is our chance. This is the opportunity for the Anglo-Saxons to establish a kingdom!"

Hengist, the man who would one day usher in the era of the Heptarchy in England, had long dreamt of founding a nation on this land that God had promised them. Ever since setting foot on Britain's sacred soil, he had never once considered returning to the overpopulated and brutal struggles of the European continent.

The Anglo-Saxons had no way back. They had left the continent because their homeland had been overtaken.

Long ago, the four great Germanic tribes had lived north of Rome, occasionally conscripted to fight against the great Eastern empires. But when the Huns stormed from the east, defeating the Alans and Visigoths, the Goths were forced to migrate west.

The Goths were the most formidable of the Germanic tribes. Neither the Anglo-Saxons nor the Gauls could stand against them, and much of Gaul's territory was seized under the guise of 'alliance.'

The Anglo-Saxons fared even worse. Their pirate clans returned home only to find their lands overrun, leaving them with no choice but to seek refuge in Britain.

"But..."

Horsa hesitated, concerned by Vortigern's insane demand to muster every Anglo-Saxon capable of seafaring. One slip, and if King Uther caught wind, it could spark another war—a war that could cost countless Anglo-Saxon lives.

These men were their only foothold in Britain.

Hengist waved away his brother's concerns. "No need to worry, Horsa. Isn't that 'righteous Celt,' Kaelar, said to be merciful?"

Hengist's lips curled into a mocking grin. "If we disobey Vortigern, he'll kill us and send the rest of the Anglo-Saxons to die."

"But if we invade Maple Ridge, that so-called virtuous knight might just spare us."

After all, a good man ought to have a gun pointed at him.

With a final, chilling smile, Hengist said, "Let's go. We need to gather the other captains, including Worland, and discuss how we can send this merciful fool to meet our Lord of Hosts."

---

[At fifteen, your prison at Delin now houses over a thousand Anglo-Saxons. Five hundred of them, those who were the first to be imprisoned and were granted the status of 'adopted Celts,' now have full citizenship. Most of them were low-ranking sailors.]

[Meanwhile, the newer inmates are mainly the captains, first mates, and leaders of various Anglo-Saxon factions—the ruling class, who scorn your ideals and harbor deep-seated resentment.]

[You established a system: whether they met the work contribution standard or underwent a change in ideology, prisoners could earn their freedom, joining the ranks of the Lord's Guard with full Celtic rights, forever leaving behind the name of Anglo-Saxon.]

[But your standards were stringent. If they met the work criteria, their ideological transformation had to be genuine. If their beliefs shifted, their contributions had to be substantial. Under your meticulous administration, there was no room for loopholes.]

[In two years, you managed to educate and reform over five hundred individuals, yet you took no particular pride in this achievement. It was simply the natural outcome of your efforts.]

[You also weren't concerned about releasing too many former criminals into your Lord's Guard—it wasn't a strain on your finances. Thanks to the trade with the Anglo-Saxons—or rather, thanks to their 'raids'—your coffers were overflowing. The rare sea treasures and unique goods they brought back were exclusive to Maple Ridge.]

[You turned those so-called 'plundered goods' into wealth, trading them for trivial amounts of grain and weapons. Your territory had grown richer than the capital of Camelot itself, a city flourishing like a nation in its own right.]

[But a dissatisfaction lingered in you: why were the Anglo-Saxon raids so paltry each time? They sent bands of a few hundred, sometimes a couple of thousand, but the goods were always unpredictable in quality and quantity.]

[Such meager amounts? The Celts in the capital must think we can't afford more! This is barely enough to interest anyone! You wanted a proper display—one person, one boat's worth of goods!]

[You began to long for a larger assault.]

[Yet, recently, a sense of unease gnawed at you. Why had it been several months without a single Anglo-Saxon raid? Unfortunately, your territory was too far from their strongholds, and even your scouts and messenger ravens returned without any concrete news.]

[Meanwhile, the Celtic lords were growing restless. Though your finances could still support the region, you knew resources would eventually run dry without new influxes.]

[A troubling thought struck you—Hengist was no fool. Perhaps he was the one who had disrupted your plans.]