Type-Moon: The Human Love Simulator

Kaelar sighed. "But I don't want to kill anyone."

Yes, even now, he still didn't want to shed blood.

He wasn't a fool; he knew that the situation had gone beyond what words and education could resolve. Vortigern, Hengist—this sudden, full-scale invasion had completely disrupted all of Kaelar's plans.

His teachings to the Anglo-Saxons were still in their infancy, not yet deep enough to replace their roots and beliefs. Even those who had retained a shred of conscience, who were grateful for Kaelar's kindness, couldn't resist the overwhelming force of events.

The situation could no longer be resolved peacefully.

Yet, despite it all, Kaelar's handsome face remained calm and composed. He didn't alter his plans—after breakfast, he still went to Derlin Prison to lecture the captive Anglo-Saxons on principles and ethics, and then trained the knights in military tactics, grooming them to become officers.

There was no other choice. In this era, the knightly class—military nobility—were best suited to be officers. They had been trained from a young age, and had access to a certain level of education. A bit of instruction was all they needed to step into those roles.

It wasn't that Kaelar looked down on the serfs, but the knights had resources and opportunities far beyond what the commoners could imagine. A serf might have to work a hundred times harder to bridge the gap of generations.

For now, the serf soldiers weren't suited to become officers. They couldn't grasp Kaelar's strategies and could only follow orders blindly.

Changing this would take time and persistence. Perhaps in another decade, the situation would begin to improve.

Over breakfast, Kaelar sat with the knights as usual, but Artoria noticed something off. After their meal, during the midday break, she suddenly grabbed his arm. "Kael, what's going on?"

"..."

Kaelar paused for a moment before responding, "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"You're lying!" Artoria's eyes were sharp, her small face tense with determination. "Something's wrong. I have the right to know the truth!"

"No need to worry. I'll handle everything." Kaelar's response was evasive, and he even ruffled the tuft of hair that always stood out on Artoria's golden head.

Normally, this would distract her, prompting a playful attack as she defended her treasured hair tuft. Not even Kaelar was usually allowed to touch it.

But today, Artoria's pure, sea-green eyes remained locked on his, full of worry. She refused to be diverted. "Kael, what happened?"

"..."

"Alright. You're already eleven, after all."

Seeing that there was no hiding it, and knowing that the young Red Dragon's instincts were unnervingly accurate, Kaelar finally confessed. "It's not a big deal, really. The Usurper King Vortigern just lost his patience and flipped the table."

"Hengist has gathered every Anglo-Saxon who can fight. About seventy thousand pirate soldiers are coming to attack Maple Ridge and take my head."

He thought for a moment before adding, "And they'll probably burn and pillage on their way. After all, Maple Ridge is the wealthiest region in Britain. One good looting spree and they'll have enough to last them through the winter. I guess I do have some talent for business, huh?"

More than just "some talent"—he was practically getting swept away by the tide of commerce. This was advanced capitalism in action.

A leader's attitude could deeply influence his followers.

Hearing that the Anglo-Saxons were marching en masse, Artoria's initial terror was overwhelming. The enemy was a powerful force that could only be defeated with the combined strength of all the Celtic lords—how could Kaelar alone stand against them?

Yet, seeing his calm demeanor, his casual jokes, and the familiar daily routines unchanged, Artoria's fear began to ebb.

She couldn't fathom how Kaelar planned to win, but she knew one thing: she just had to trust him.

Kaelar was truly radiant now, an inspiring figure worthy of unwavering trust.

By setting an example, Kaelar was teaching Artoria a valuable lesson in leadership.

"I'm glad you're here, Kael," Artoria said softly. "Can I stay by your side and watch how you repel the Anglo-Saxons?"

"...Then make sure you keep up."

Kaelar looked out at the horizon and said, "We'll have no equal on the battlefield ahead."

"Powell, we have to get this information to the great Saint Kaelar."

Out at sea, an endless line of pirate ships cut through the waves. Under the Usurper King's command, the Anglo-Saxons had mobilized their entire force—every man who could wield a weapon was sailing south, leaving even the elderly, women, and children behind. Hengist had no choice but to hope that Vortigern would protect those left behind in their homeland.

"Hengist has had his eye on me for a while," said the elderly sailor, Powell, rubbing his drink-red nose. "I'd bet my life that Hengist and his snake of a brother, Horsa, are lurking nearby, waiting for us to make a move."

One of the younger men asked, "Then why haven't they..."

Powell thought for a moment before replying, "Maybe they want to catch us all at once, or maybe they're just curious to see what we'll try. They might even be using us to get rid of any potential traitors."

"This time, Hengist has taken every able-bodied man out to sea. Even if it's Vortigern's command, he's angered the minor landowners back home. They aren't happy with Hengist either."

"But... underestimating me, Powell, will be the last mistake Hengist ever makes!"

The old pirate's eyes were cold and ruthless. He had been among the first to receive Kaelar's teachings, and had even recorded Kaelar's words in secret, compiling what he called the Gospel of Kaelar. Normally, he looked like a kindly old man.

But now, driven into a corner, Powell could see his fate as clearly as if it were carved in stone. The dried-out "Blood Eagles" hanging from crosses were proof enough of what awaited him.

Perhaps it wouldn't even be that. Hengist might go for the "Saltwater Torture"—slicing open his lower half and letting him bleed in the seawater as the ship dragged him along, a fate worse than the Blood Eagle.

Just as the brutality of the Celts never deterred their enemies, Hengist's atrocities wouldn't scare off all the Anglo-Saxons. Knowing he was doomed only gave Powell more courage, a sense of righteous sacrifice.

"These are my notes. You must get them to Lord Kaelar."

Powell began outlining a plan—although it was hardly a plan at all. The more intricate the scheme, the greater the chances of failure. Sometimes, a spur-of-the-moment gamble worked best.

"We'll go to the captain, kill him, and steer the ship straight into Hengist's flagship. I won't make it, but you can use the chaos to swim to Maple Ridge."

Powell's face was a picture of determined sacrifice. But just as he finished speaking, the sound of clapping echoed behind him. "Not bad. Not bad at all. If I hadn't already known about this, I might've been fooled by your desperate little ploy."

Horsa's voice cut through the air. "Brother, you shouldn't use that word."

In maritime culture, terms related to sinking or capsizing were considered unlucky. Hengist cursed, slapping his lips in frustration. "Damn it! May God forgive me. It's this treacherous old fool's fault I'm losing my cool."

Powell turned slowly to face those he had trusted, shock and betrayal clear in his eyes. "Someone among you... has betrayed me."