Vortigern's mindset had shifted slightly.
His subordinates were utterly useless.
Rather than relying on them to contribute even a little,
it'd be better to do everything himself.
Damn it all!
These fools deserved to die.
When Vortigern returned to the command tent, all his generals turned their eyes to him.
Boss, our rear's been completely wrecked.
That hurts like hell!
At this point, it doesn't matter whether it's the Romans or the Britons who've stabbed us in the back.
We've been hit—so let's hurry back and crush them.
Though reluctant, Vortigern had no other choice.
He was furious.
How can we conquer Britain with these insects by my side?
But the problem was,
aside from these lords and generals who just wanted to go home, the remaining tribes and lords would likely offer him everything except actual help.
"One last time. We'll make one final assault. If it fails, we retreat."
Vortigern glared at his men, speaking through gritted teeth.
He had long since realized the caliber of those who followed him.
Pathetic. Truly pathetic.
At this moment, he couldn't help but think of the one who had chosen to flank him, striking at his rear to deliver a fatal blow.
This strategy was far beyond anything Uther Pendragon could conceive.
So who the hell is it?
Vortigern pondered silently.
His men, seeing his resolve, wanted to object.
But before anyone could speak,
Vortigern raised his hand sharply.
"I will not tolerate refusal. If anyone disagrees, face me in single combat. Defeat me, and you may do as you please."
Duel you?
We're not idiots.
If any of us could beat you, we wouldn't be following you in the first place.
The generals cursed inwardly but dared not voice their thoughts.
"Good. Then it's settled. Rally every last man. We fight with everything we have."
Vortigern's voice was ice.
Reluctantly, his men prepared for one final, desperate gamble.
Meanwhile, in the Camelot…
"Hah… Finally, a moment to rest."
King Uther sat atop the castle walls, smiling bitterly.
Though he had prepared for Vortigern's assault, he had sorely underestimated the man's resolve.
The attacks had intensified abruptly days prior—
Right when Merlin informed me that Lot and Morgan had taken Vortigern's stronghold.
Yet instead of weakening, Vortigern's assault had grown even fiercer.
Uther had barely held on.
"If I lose this war because of this, I'll die with eternal regret."
He closed his eyes, ready to steal a moment of rest.
The enemy's last charge had just been repelled.
Surely, they too needed time to recover.
No army could attack in endless waves without pause.
Just as men have their moment of clarity after exertion, flesh and blood have limits.
"I'll sleep for just a—"
Uther began to order his men.
But then—
He froze.
What? Another attack already?
Damn it, is your 'moment of clarity' that short?!
His eyes locked onto the advancing forces—the sheer numbers, and at their forefront, Vortigern himself, radiating murderous intent.
This was no ordinary assault.
It was a decisive, all-out charge.
Uther forced himself upright, gripping his sword.
"All units—prepare for battle!"
Camelot's soldiers were exhausted,
but their loyalty to Uther held firm.
As the enemy stormed forward, they readied their weapons.
Vortigern led the charge, his body shrouded in darkness—
a devouring dragon made flesh.
Even Uther, despite himself, took two steps back in instinctive fear.
Two steps.
Then he raised his blade and struck.
The clash was brutal.
Uther was immediately overpowered.
He had never been Vortigern's equal, and now—
weakened by days of battle, his body littered with wounds—
he was barely holding on.
Gritting his teeth, Uther forced a smirk.
"You fight like a man with no retreat left."
"Correct."
Vortigern paused, then nodded frankly.
His sword flashed again.
In battle, he granted no respite.
"Who devised this strategy?"
He demanded mid-swing.
"Heh. Do you think I'd tell you?"
Uther grinned through the pain.
Even if I die… Even if the Camelot falls…
Vortigern's advance ends here.
Given time, Lot will surpass him.
And avenge me.
So for now—
Protect Lot at all costs.
"Hmph. No matter. Once Camelot is mine, I'll have my answer."
Vortigern sneered.
"And I'll hire your strategist for double whatever you paid him."
He expected Uther to scoff or pale at the threat.
Instead, the king's expression twisted into something bizarre—
as if stifling laughter.
"What's that look for?" Vortigern snapped.
"My dear brother… That's a payment you could never match."
Uther's grin widened.
This man has no heirs.
Where would he find the 'double' to offer Lot?
"I'll learn the truth soon enough."
Vortigern, unnerved by Uther's reaction, attacked with renewed fury.
Uther had made peace with death—
but he would not yield without a fight.
He parried, struck back—
until, with a final clang,
his sword shattered.
"Cough—!"
Blood spilled from his lips.
He had lost.
Vortigern's face twisted in triumph.
"Uther… Our duel ends here."
His blade rose for the killing stroke.