A horndog isn't just horny—he's also part dog.
Taking advantage of that post-climactic clarity,
when his mind was free from distracting desires,
Lot began rapidly strategizing.
[How should we deal with Vortigern next? In a straight fight, even my father-in-law can't beat him, let alone me. So, we have to find where our advantages lie.]
[There's a saying from my homeland: "When poor, use guerrilla tactics; when rich, drown them in firepower." If we were truly wealthy, we'd lead a massive force of archers and rain arrows on Vortigern's army, turning every last one of them into pincushions. Pair that with an entire mage battalion unleashing overwhelming firepower—but we don't have that luxury. Right now, all we can do is ambush them. Strike when they're retreating, hit them where they're weak.]
[We need to seize the moment and target the vulnerabilities in Vortigern's forces. Our soldiers, having grown up by the sea and eaten plenty of fish, suffer far less from night blindness.]
[This time, I'll make sure Vortigern's army sees us in the dark as if we're a horde of vengeful spirits.]
Lot clapped his hands softly.
[Got it—first, we take out their supply lines. Without food, Vortigern's army will descend into chaos.]
[In this era, everyone needs to eat. "Man is iron, food is steel." Starve an army, and morale shatters. At that point, we might not even need to lift a finger—his soldiers will desert in droves.]
Morgan silently committed this to memory.
If I ever lead Camelot or Orkney's armies in the future, I must protect our supplies at all costs.
If someone sabotages our food stores, it'd be disastrous.
[Should we poison their water sources along the way? Toss a few diseased livestock into their rivers—guaranteed to give them all dysentery.]
Morgan's eyes nearly bulged out of her skull.
That's downright diabolical.
[...No, no. That's crossing a line. And if a plague breaks out, the backlash wouldn't be worth it.]
Whew. At least you're not that deranged, horndog.
If you'd actually gone through with that plan, I wouldn't know whether to agree or object.
But now that I think about it… would dumping corpses in wells really cause a plague?
If so…
Could I use this as a threat against enemies?
It's despicable, but undeniably effective.
Hmm.
Noted. Might come in handy later.
...
After resting a while longer, Lot and Morgan prepared for their next move.
The moment they stepped outside, Merlin was already there, casually munching on an apple.
"Well now, King Lot—mission accomplished, just as you asked."
He took another bite, utterly unbothered.
"Good."
Lot nodded slightly.
[Damn you, Merlin. What if Morgan starts questioning you? Still, from the sound of it, my father-in-law should be fine—that's a relief.]
Turning to Morgan, he said, "Morgan, go check on the troops. Make sure they're ready—we move at nightfall."
"Understood."
Morgan knew exactly what he was doing.
Oh, so now you're trying to spare my feelings?
She shot him a discreet glare before striding off toward the camp, her boots clicking against the ground.
Once she was out of earshot, Lot whirled on Merlin.
"Your sense of humor is exhausting, Merlin."
Grabbing the mage's collar, he hissed, "Was that really necessary?"
Merlin's smile didn't waver.
"I did bring good news, didn't I?"
"What's the actual situation?" Lot pressed.
"King Uther came this close to being killed by Vortigern."
Merlin then recounted everything—how Vortigern's forces had begun infighting, how Vortigern had overruled dissent to launch an even fiercer assault, briefly breaching the castle walls and dueling Uther directly. Finally, how Uther had managed to escape amidst the chaos Merlin had stirred.
Puffing out his chest, Merlin boasted, "See, Your Majesty? I was the deciding factor. Without me, King Uther would be dead."
Lot's expression said Merlin's contribution was about as substantial as the air in a bag of potato chips—seemingly significant, but ultimately worthless.
Still, something was better than nothing.
For a tax-evading troll like Merlin, this was already going above and beyond.
"And Uther's condition?"
"Stable for now."
But the unspoken implication was clear: for now didn't mean forever.
"So all we need to do is focus on crushing Vortigern's retreating forces. Not too much pressure."
Lot mulled it over.
...
"We retreat."
Watching his army's disorganized withdrawal, Vortigern sighed.
However reluctantly, he had to admit it: he'd lost.
Even if he turned around and annihilated the pursuing forces, the campaign was already a failure.
What a waste.
At this point, even if he tried rallying another assault on Camelot, his men would refuse.
They were too busy worrying about their plundered homes, their hoarded wealth—now likely reduced to ashes.
Their desperation to return was palpable.
"Yes!"
"We're ready to go!"
The moment retreat was announced, the soldiers perked up instantly.
When it came to attacking, they dragged their feet.
But the second retreat was mentioned?
Before Vortigern could even finish speaking, they'd already packed their bags, itching to leave.
Pathetic.
Vortigern gritted his teeth.
Why are none of my men worth a damn?
And why are they all so homesick of all things?
"Let's just hope we make it back in one piece."
Soon, the troops assembled.
After assigning a rearguard, Vortigern led his army southward—
toward the fortress that had once been his,
and now belonged to Lot.