The gentle evening breeze stirred the delicate fabrics of Nathanael's noble attire—finely embroidered garments that contrasted with the aura of authority he carried. His eyes, bright as the sun, were fixed on the horizon, where the azure sky stretched unblemished. His fingers rested upon a parapet.
Beside him, Queen Artoria Pendragon, clad in a simple yet regal blue and white dress of light fabric with few adornments, sensed the heaviness in the air even before Nathanael spoke a single word. The tension was palpable, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
"Artoria..." Nathanael spoke, his voice calm yet laced with silent urgency. "Summon the Knights of the Round Table and order them to take position on the walls. Quickly."
Artoria did not hesitate. Her green eyes gleamed with the spark of one who had commanded a thousand battles, and though she did not yet fully grasp the threat, she trusted the Divine King's instinct. Yet before she could respond, a sound split the skies—a sharp, piercing whistle, coming from something neither of them had ever seen before.
BOOM!
The impact shook the very foundations of Camelot, rattling even the oldest stones of the castle. An explosion of fire and metal crashed against the magical barrier protecting the city, sending shockwaves that made the banners flap violently. The ancient defense, forged by the Holy Lance Rhongomyniad, held firm.
"A missile..." Nathanael murmured, recognizing human technology, though he had never witnessed it firsthand. His brow furrowed as he watched the smoke rise in the distance, beyond the kingdom's borders. "It seems the false rulers of England do not appreciate our presence."
With a fluid motion, as if merely reaching for a goblet, Nathanael summoned his divine armor. Silver pieces materialized from nothing, encasing his body in an instant, while his white cloak, embroidered with ancient runes, billowed in the turbulent wind stirred by the explosion. His helm formed last, covering his face, and his voice echoed with authority:
"They don't know who they're messing with."
Artoria was already in motion before he even finished speaking. Her feet propelled by [Mana Burst], she vanished in a wave of displaced air, leaving behind only the sound of wind being sliced apart. Within seconds, the Knights of the Round Table felt her magical energy surge—an unmistakable sign that battle was approaching.
Gawain, Lancelot, Tristan, and the others emerged from their posts, armor gleaming and weapons drawn, but there was hesitation in their eyes. They were legendary warriors, accustomed to facing dragons and armies of magical creatures—but this… this was different.
"What was that, my king?" Gawain asked, his sword already unsheathed but his expression bewildered.
"The military might of modern humans," Nathanael replied, his voice echoing inside his helm. "They do not wield magic as we do. Their weapons are made of metal and gunpowder—but do not underestimate their power."
As the knights took their positions, Nathanael kept his eyes fixed on the horizon. His mind, however, was far away—lost in a whirlwind of thoughts.
'Why such an aggressive response? We haven't even acted against them. We didn't declare war. We didn't threaten their government. So why do they attack, England?'
The Knights of the Round Table moved like lightning, each taking their strategic positions. Gawain leaped onto the roof of the main hall, his sword, Galatine, already pulsing with the sun's heat. Lancelot, agile as a shadow, scaled a watchtower, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon for threats. Tristan, with his bow in hand, balanced atop the castle's highest point, his arrows ready to be loosed with deadly precision.
At the center of it all, Nathanael stood firm, his divine armor radiating an aura of unquestionable power. He was no king who commanded from behind the battle lines—if necessary, he would step onto the battlefield himself and stain his hands with the blood of the insolent.
Artoria materialized beside him in a whirl of golden wind, the legendary Excalibur shrouded in [Invisible Air], its blade hidden from sight but not from its menacing presence.
"My lord, what shall we do?" Agravain asked, his voice steady, though his eyes narrowed at the sight of the humans' strange war machines. Metal tanks, missile launchers, soldiers armed with weapons that spat fire—all so different from the battles they knew.
Nathanael remained silent for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the army gathering beyond the walls. Then, with a calm that heralded the storm, he commanded:
"Drive them from my domain."
...
On the other side of the hills, General Keith Falcon observed everything from his command post atop a high hill. His arms were crossed, his face impassive, but his eyes couldn't conceal his bewilderment.
The missile they had fired should have reduced that ancient fortress to rubble. Yet, when the smoke cleared, Camelot remained intact, its white walls gleaming, its towers standing tall—as if nothing had happened.
"How…?" He murmured, a chill running down his spine.
Then, a golden light erupted from Camelot's highest tower, shooting upward like an inverted lightning bolt.
BOOM!
The sky above the plateau split apart.
A pillar of divine light exploded toward the clouds, branching out like the limbs of a colossal tree, bathing the entire region in an otherworldly glow. Soldiers staggered back, shielding their eyes, some screaming in panic.
"What… is that…?" General Keith swallowed hard, his heart pounding.
Inside Camelot, Nathanael held his arm aloft, his hand open to the sky. Divine energy pulsed around him, warping the air like desert heat.
Then, in a voice that was not loud but thundered in the minds of all, he spoke:
"Divine Judgment."
And the light descended.
Like the wrath of an offended god, golden bolts rained upon the modern army—incinerating tanks, disintegrating missiles before they could even be launched. Men screamed, not in pain, but in sheer terror, as they watched their weapons—their technological pride—turn to dust before a power they could not comprehend.
General Keith fell to his knees, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. It was as if the heavens themselves had turned against them.
Meanwhile, Nathanael slowly lowered his hand, his cold eyes still fixed on the horizon.
"Today, England will learn… that some kingdoms must never be challenged."
With one last glance at the devastated battlefield, where the golden rays of Divine Judgment still shimmered like embers in the air, Nathanael turned and began walking toward the throne hall. His steps were firm, but there was a certain calculated coldness in his movement, as if his mind were already working through a thousand different strategies.
"Agravain." He called without even looking back. "Bring the survivors. Interrogate every one of them."
His helm, once an imposing piece of divine metal, dissolved into particles of golden light, revealing his impassive face. His fingers ran through the strands of his snow-white hair, an almost contemplative gesture, as if symbolically brushing off the dust of battle.
"Mordred, Tristan, and Gawain." He continued. "Take care of the skies. The rest of you, handle the ground units. Report anything to me."
"YES, WHITE KING!" The knights responded in unison, their voices thundering with unshakable loyalty. In an instant, they had already dispersed—some vanishing in bursts of speed, others teleporting with magic, each carrying out their mission with the lethal efficiency that had made them legends.
In the grand courtyard, only Artoria remained beside Nathanael, her Excalibur still sheathed in the veil of [Invisible Air], her posture as regal as ever.
The God of Rhongomyniad turned to her, his eyes—two warm, golden stars—fixing upon her face.
"What do you wish to do?" he asked, his tone laced with genuine curiosity. He had not given her orders. Not because he underestimated her, but because he trusted her will. She was no pawn in his game—she was a queen, a warrior who had shaped history itself.
Artoria did not hesitate.
"Protect Camelot."
Nathanael smiled.
It was a simple, direct answer—so very like her. Even centuries later, even after everything, she was still that girl who had pulled the sword from the stone, that king who had carried a kingdom on her shoulders, that legend who embodied the very ideal of chivalry.
"Then protect it," he replied, his voice soft yet brimming with deep respect. "Show these intruders why Camelot never fell… and never will."
Artoria gave a slight nod, her green eyes alight with resolve. Then, in one fluid motion, she turned on her heel, her royal cloak swirling behind her, and strode toward the walls—her sword ready, her heart unshaken.
Nathanael watched her go for a moment before turning away, his thoughts already racing ahead to the next move.
The humans had made a grave mistake today.
And he would make sure they learned the price of challenging a god.