These nobles were overthinking it. Vortigern wouldn't kill them all.
Though the aristocrats who had been driven out of their lands were indeed useless in Vortigern's eyes, they were still considered people—at least by his standards.
The freemen and serfs under their rule, on the other hand, didn't even count as people in Vortigern's eyes. He couldn't care less what they thought.
To Vortigern, what mattered most was bloodline and kinship, followed by noble lineage, and then birth status. Anyone who wasn't tied to him by blood or had noble ancestry, or who wasn't descended from former rulers, was no more than an insect—something to be trampled underfoot.
If Vortigern had his way, he'd kill every one of these useless drunks and replace them with better nobles. But there were so few aristocrats of noble blood left among his ranks. What was he supposed to do—elevate common peasants to the status of nobility?
He would laugh at himself if he ever did that. How could he call himself a king with such a disgrace?
"Why don't I have someone like Kaelar under my banner?" Vortigern sighed internally. His foolish brother, Uther, was surrounded by formidable warriors and talented magi. The leader of the Druids was none other than Merlin, and Uther's ranks were filled with Celtic champions of the highest caliber.
But as for Vortigern's own forces? Just a collection of drunkards and misfits—hardly fit to hold a fortress, let alone a kingdom.
Realizing Vortigern's killing intent had dissipated, the nobles began to speak over one another, each recounting how the lower-class Anglo-Saxon rabble had united under Kaelar's banner, carrying a so-called Gospel of Kaelar, declaring that the savior had come to Earth...
As lords, they had absolute power over their lands, so suppressing their own peasants hadn't been a problem. But the rebellion had grown, like a snowball rolling down a hill, swallowing up one territory after another until it had become a significant threat.
"Heh, a bunch of slaves without even proper armor, daring to rise against their masters?" Vortigern scoffed, his towering frame looming over the kneeling nobles. "Very well, I will shatter these slaves' foolish dreams myself."
"You have declared your loyalty to me, and as your king, I will help you reclaim your lost lands."
The nobles fell to their knees, grateful tears streaming down their faces. "Thank you for your mercy, benevolent King Vortigern."
"Mercy?"
Even someone like Vortigern was taken aback. He knew "merciful" was a word used to praise rulers, but he never expected it would be applied to him.
But wasn't he merciful?
If this had been in Camelot, any lord who abandoned their land would be stripped of their titles, rendered unworthy of nobility. Their families, down to their descendants, would lose all status and become commoners.
That was a truly terrifying fate.
Thus, the Celtic nobility preferred to die on their lands rather than flee. But Vortigern had merely killed a single foreign Saxon and then moved on, even offering to help these nobles reclaim their territories. What a merciful king indeed!
To the nobility, Vortigern was certainly a more loyal and favorable ruler than Uther. Vortigern treated nobles and commoners with completely different faces.
Of course, Vortigern was still the same Vortigern. If he had enough noble followers, he would be even more ruthless than Uther. Today's nobles only survived because Vortigern lacked enough aristocrats to replace them. In truth, he had wanted to kill them all, only stopping because he needed them alive for now.
---
[At 19, another cataclysmic event shook Britain. For the first time in over a decade, the Tyrant King Vortigern left his castle.]
[But this time, he did not go to wage war against Uther, King of the Celts. Instead, he marched to crush a brutal uprising of rebels within his own realm.]
[The rebels were nothing but farmers and serfs, standing no chance against the invincible Scion of the Age of Gods. They were slaughtered, their occupied lands quickly reclaimed. However, some stubborn Anglo-Saxons, unwilling to surrender, retreated into the vast, verdant forests of Britain, where Vortigern could not pursue them.]
[Vortigern was no saint, nor was he a caretaker for nobles. He was the White Dragon, lord of Britain, basking in the lingering glory of the Age of Gods. For one as proud as Vortigern, even engaging these peasants in battle was shameful. To chase them further would make him nothing more than the nobles' errand boy.]
[During this time, Kaelar's forces had covertly supplied the rebels with a wealth of resources, supporting their just cause. However, this effort had stretched the resources of Maple Ridge to the limit.]
[As the Age of Gods continued to wane, Maple Ridge's resources dwindled year by year. Across Britain, only the capital, Camelot, retained the wealth of the old era.]
[Artoria had become the Steward of Maple Ridge. With the guidance of her advisors, Lord Cadoc, Lord Sechnall, and Lord Lugald, she had become an exceptional ruler—one who thought from the perspective of the many rather than the few. She no longer let personal feelings dictate her decisions.]
[At 14, Artoria had grown into a graceful young lady, overlapping perfectly with the image of the future King of Knights in your mind. However, she was still too young, not yet grown into the legendary figure you knew she would become.]
[Artoria often dressed as a boy, donning masculine garb in public. Only in the privacy of the castle did she wear more feminine clothing—though even her dresses were styled to resemble men's attire.]
[You admired the Red Dragon you had raised. She was compassionate yet passionate, strict yet just, selfless but not detached. She combined wisdom with martial prowess, immune to false words and untamed rage, possessing her own desires and interests, all of which were harmonized with the nation's needs.]
[You believed that this kind of ruler was truly the perfect king.]
---
"Lily, you're fourteen this year, right?"
Kaelar closed the book he'd been writing and looked up at Artoria. "Come to think of it, I've never celebrated your birthday."
In truth, birthdays weren't a common tradition among the Celts. One couldn't expect a bunch of warriors to have something as lighthearted as birthday celebrations. The Celts only recognized the Samhain Festival (equivalent to a New Year's celebration), the Harvest Festival, and Halloween. Victories in battle were sometimes honored with a sacrifice to the war god Lenus.
"Birthday?" Artoria tilted her head in confusion, though she was used to hearing Kaelar's strange and advanced ideas.
"A birthday," Kaelar explained, "is the day you were born. It's celebrated each year as a special day just for you."
"A day that belongs to you alone."