Unknownfate
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Chapter 54
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 03:27:27 +0000 UTCOne thing that was far more impressive than in my time was how fast the military moved. Back then, it would take days, even weeks, to move an army around. But now? It could be done in hours.
Over the past day and night, the British military and government had been very busy.
Once more, I was seated on my throne, my knights standing before me.
“Proud knights of Camelot!” My voice, strong and firm, filled the hall.
“Enemies stand at the gate, weapons aimed at our walls, Our people, small children, are covering in the homes. Will you stand for that?” I slammed my gloved hand onto the armrest.
“No!” x 13
“Sir Tristan! I want you on the wall, let your arrows shoot down all that flies towards our home!” I commanded the knight of sorrow.
Tristan stepped forward, his fingers dancing across the strings of his harp bow. He knelt on one knee before me, head bowed.
"As you command, my King," he said solemnly. “Their skies will be mine.”
He rose and turned sharply, the echoes of his boots fading as he made his way out of the grand hall, each step bringing him closer to the battlefield. The legendary bow of Tristan would ensure no aerial threat reached Camelot’s walls.
I shifted my gaze to another of my knights. “Sir Percival! I need you among the people, keeping them safe in their homes, helping those who cannot protect themselves. They must know Camelot’s knights are their shield.”
Sir Percival’s broad figure straightened, his warm yet determined smile breaking across his face. “I’ll ensure no harm comes to them, my King. The people will know we fight for them.” With a nod, he marched out of the hall, ready to guide those who needed aid into the secure depths of Camelot.
“Sir Gawain!” I barked next, meeting the gaze of my most steadfast knight. “Lead the ground defenses, secure the gates, and ensure they don’t breach our walls. Hold the line.”
Gawain’s fist slammed over his heart in a salute. “With the sun at its peak, I am invincible. None shall pass the gates of Camelot.” He turned to leave, but not before giving Mordred a sharp glance. “Try not to cause too much trouble, Sir Mordred.”
Mordred smirked, leaning casually against a pillar. “No promises.”
I let my gaze linger on her, knowing she was itching for battle. “Sir Mordred, While Gawain leads the defence, you shall lead my attack, be my blade, and strike into the hearts of the enemy, show them that they are nothing before Camelot’s finest.”
Mordred’s eyes lit up, the familiar glint of battle-hungry excitement flashing within them. She pushed off the pillar, her armored boots clanking loudly as she stepped forward. “Now that’s what I’ve been waiting to hear, Father.”
Her hand rested on the hilt of Clarent, fingers tapping it with anticipation. “Consider it done. I’ll cut through them like they’re not even there.”
I nodded, my gaze unwavering. “Strike swift, strike true. But remember, this is not a slaughter—it’s a message. Show them our strength, but leave enough alive to retreat and carry fear with them.”
Mordred tilted her head, a mischievous grin forming. “Fine. I’ll let a few live to tell the tale of their humiliation. But only a few.” She spun on her heel, her red cape flowing behind her as she strode confidently toward the exit, already visualizing her path through the enemy lines.
Before she reached the doors, I called after her, my voice softer but resolute. “Mordred.”
She paused, glancing over her shoulder.
“Return victorious.”
Her smirk softened into something genuine for a brief moment. “Of course I will.”
“Is it wise, my king? To encourage Sir Mordred like that?” Sir Ector couldn’t help but ask.
I turned to Sir Ector, my gaze steady. “Mordred’s fire is both her greatest weapon and her greatest challenge. Containing it would mean extinguishing part of who she is. I’d rather direct that fire where it’s needed most than risk stifling it.”
Ector folded his arms, nodding thoughtfully. “I understand. But you know as well as I do that she walks a thin line between control and chaos.”
“I trust you,” I said, my voice softening as I met Sir Ector’s gaze. “You will help her control that fire, help her temper it when the time comes. She respects you—even when she pretends not to.” A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of my lips.
“Agravain, you continue to deploy your noble phantasm to produce more of your Enforcement Knights; as soon as we are done with today’s attack, they shall set out to every corner of our realm.” I said, offering him a small smile.
It wasn’t easy to produce as many knights as were needed, I had honestly underestimated the sheer number we would need. I didn’t know the number of cities in my realm, but when I was informed, I was shocked.
Agravain nodded deeply, his expression calm and dutiful, though I could see the strain behind his eyes. “It will be done, Your Majesty,” he said, steady as ever. “No matter the cost to me, I’ll see it through.”
I stepped down from the throne, walking past him slowly, the weight of what we were doing settling on my shoulders. “I appreciate that, Agravain. But you’re not just a tool to me, nor even a servant.”
“You are my sister’s child. You are family, so please don’t push yourself beyond what you can give.” My hand briefly brushed his armored shoulder, a rare gesture of affection.
He stiffened slightly, then relaxed, offering me a small nod of acknowledgment. “For Camelot, I’ll endure.”
I smiled faintly. “I know you will. But if you need help, ask for it, and everyone shall lend it, even myself.”
All the remaining knights were quick to agree, offering him help. Agravain was both proud and capable, but he often tried to shoulder everything himself.
None of my knights were perfect, which just showed that they were human at their core. So different from me, the ideal king, a perfect knight and king, yet a flawed human.
Breaking myself free of that line of thinking, I continued to assign missions to the rest of them. I honestly doubted there would be much need for them, but I still wanted to let them feel like they had a job to do.
Modred, she should be enough.
-----
The atmosphere around the perimeter of Camelot was suffocating. The morning mist clung to the ground like a second skin, muffling the sounds of boots on dirt and the low hum of armored vehicles stationed along the edge of the ancient city’s walls.
British soldiers stood ready, their nerves hidden behind helmets and combat gear, but no amount of training could fully mask the tension hanging in the air.
Lieutenant Michael Barrett stood next to his commanding officer, peering through binoculars at the towering gates of Camelot. He had heard stories of how medieval kings defended their strongholds, but nothing in his training prepared him for this—sieging a city straight out of myth.
“See anything?” asked Major Collins, his superior officer, a man with decades of military experience but a weariness that came with fighting conflicts that were never as black-and-white as they should be.
“Nothing unusual yet,” Barrett replied, lowering the binoculars. “The gates are shut, and there’s no movement on the walls. But with what we’ve seen so far, they could be watching us right now and we wouldn’t know it.”
Collins nodded, his lips pressed into a grim line. “HQ confirmed it. Mordred is the priority target. Officially, we’re here to arrest him for killing British soldiers.”
Barrett scoffed, shaking his head. “Unofficially?”
Collins’ gaze hardened. “We’re here to take Camelot. Secure the king, neutralize the knights. We get them alive if possible, but HQ won’t shed tears if we don’t.”
Soldiers checked their weapons, tightened their gear, and steeled themselves for what would come next. The roar of engines echoed faintly as the tanks repositioned on the ridge overlooking the city.
“Bloody medieval fairytale,” Barrett muttered, kicking a loose stone with his boot. “Half the lads don’t even believe this place is real, let alone that King Arthur is leading it.”
Collins didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on his radio. Then, it crackled to life.
“All units, this is command. The prime minister has authorized the operation. Move to capture the city. I repeat, move to capture Camelot.”
For a moment, everything was still. Then, the gears of war began to turn. The low rumble of tanks rolled forward, infantry units moved into formation, and helicopters hovered above the treetops, casting long shadows over the fog-covered fields.
Barrett tightened his grip on his rifle. “This is madness,” he muttered. “We’re storming a city with knights and magic.”
“Madness or not, we follow orders,” Collins said as he adjusted his helmet. “Now, let’s move.”
The soldiers advanced cautiously, their boots crunching over gravel and wet grass. As they neared the gates, Barrett’s heart pounded in his chest. The walls of Camelot loomed over them like the teeth of a great beast, ancient yet seemingly indestructible.
Suddenly, the gates creaked, their heavy wooden frames groaning as they slowly opened. The soldiers halted, rifles raised, fingers hovering over triggers.
Out stepped Mordred.
The armor was impossible to mistake, silver and red, with an intimidating helm with bull-like horns.
Barrett’s breath hitched. “That’s him,” he whispered.
Mordred stopped just before the leading tanks, her armored boots kicking up dust as she planted her feet firmly on the ground. She scanned the line of soldiers with a smirk that promised violence. Slowly, she unsheathed Clarent, the shining in the light.
“Who’s first?” she called out, her voice carrying over the field like a battle cry. The soldiers shifted uneasily, their weapons trembling in their hands.
Collins stepped forward, his hand gripping the radio tightly. “Mordred of Camelot! By order of the British government, you are under arrest for the murder of British soldiers and for defying the sovereignty of the United Kingdom. Surrender now, and we can guarantee your life.”
Mordred laughed—a sharp, cutting sound that echoed like thunder. “Sovereignty?” she repeated mockingly. “Camelot is sovereign. It always has been. And your government doesn’t dictate terms to me or my father.”
She pointed Clarent toward the advancing forces. “Go back now, and you live. Stay, and I’ll carve through your army until there’s nothing left.”
The soldiers waited, tense and uncertain, as the wind carried the weight of her threat across the battlefield.
Collins swallowed hard and lifted the radio to his mouth. “Command, this is Major Collins. Target is refusing to surrender. Do we proceed?”
There was a brief pause, the static crackling as command deliberated. Then came the cold, clinical response: “Proceed.”
“Open fire!” Collins roared.
The world exploded.
The roar of gunfire filled the air as bullets tore through the field, but Mordred was already moving. Red lightning crackled around her armor, and in an instant, she was among them.
She slashed through bodies and armor with terrifying precision, her blade left a river of blood behind.
While she moved fast, she wasn’t able to dodge all the bullets. Yet, even armor penetrating bullets had no effect on Mordred. Not even a scratch was left behind.
Mordred unleashed her fury; her mana transformed into red lightning as she charged around like an angry bull.
Mordred’s boots pounded against the earth as she charged forward, Clarent gleaming with blood-red energy. The battlefield blurred around her—the tanks, the soldiers, the chaos—none of it mattered. All she saw was her path through them, and nothing would stop her.
A group of soldiers knelt behind a sandbag barricade, rifles trained on her. The first volley of gunfire cracked through the air, bullets whizzing past her head or clanging uselessly off her armor.
She didn’t slow. The red lightning dancing across her armor intensified, crackling louder as it gathered around her blade.
