Whenever Kaelar took his place on the battlefield, his very presence seemed to dictate the tide: allies fought with renewed fervor, while the enemy's morale inevitably plummeted, often to the point of outright defection.
Kaelar had an aura that could inspire entire armies to lay down their arms peacefully.
"If I were to go with you to take down Vortigern, my absence on the battlefield would leave his soldiers gripped by fear. Fear that the Celts would butcher them to the last man."
Kaelar spoke with conviction. "Sacrificing the lives of eighty thousand for the sake of killing Vortigern alone... I cannot accept that."
Gawain nodded, any dissent instantly quelled. In truth, the moment Kaelar acknowledged his skill, Gawain had already cast aside his doubts.
Kaelar praised my strength. Has he always recognized my talent?
To the warriors of Britain, there was no honor greater than being acknowledged by Kaelar. To train one's skill to the point of facing him — even in defeat — was an aspiration in itself. For many, the dream was merely to receive Kaelar's praise, a validation held in higher regard than any title or trophy.
Just as Arthur had said, being bested by Kaelar was a lifelong honor for Lancelot.
It was no exaggeration; it was a simple truth.
So, with Gawain's newfound satisfaction, the earlier tension between him and Lancelot dissipated, and Kaelar gave Artoria a nod, a signal that the conflict had settled and she could now take her pair of loyal knights and depart.
Vortigern, with all the grandeur of his title, had not only sent a formal challenge but had summoned Artoria to his very domain to "prove" herself worthy.
Luckily, Kaelar's lessons on the art of kingship had left her with a pragmatic focus on results over appearances. A ruler, he taught her, should weigh victory far above vanity.
Artoria understood well: if possible, both honor and outcome should be hers. But when forced to choose, only one truly mattered.
So in response to Vortigern's summons, Artoria dubbed her undertaking an "expedition to subjugate the traitor," or more formally, "a campaign against Vortigern, the usurper king."
Riding together, the three set off, and Kaelar, seated back at the command tent, scrutinized the battlefield map. After a long consideration, he murmured, "How did such a fool as Vortigern hold onto Britain, oppressing tens of thousands, unchallenged?"
The truth was, he had planned for an elaborate tactical setup, imagining an ambush to draw Vortigern's forces into a grand formation, allowing Kaelar to isolate and psychologically break their troops with a final, showstopping maneuver.
But Vortigern had inexplicably opted for a full confrontation on an open plain.
He had done Kaelar the favor of selecting the battlefield, a broad plain that could hold all eighty thousand troops in direct opposition, taking any chance of stealth or subterfuge off the table.
"What is this?" Kaelar muttered, baffled. "A flat terrain battle with full disclosure? You can't conceal a thing out here."
In all his battles, Kaelar had rarely been so fortuitous. There would be no need for intricate tactics or risky maneuvers. For the Celtic cavalry to face the exposed forces of Vortigern was a dream scenario.
For while the knights in Kaelar's army may have been fewer in number, they were a unified force and a solid wall of strength.
Even three centuries earlier, the legendary Alexander the Great had shown what a well-ordered formation could do, his Macedonian phalanx conquering its way across the Middle East, Egypt, and Europe, reaching the heights of India itself…
In the melee of ancient Europe, a solid phalanx was an unrivaled force.
With his rear supply lines blocked by the Gospel Knights, Vortigern's army was cut off, isolated without resources. If Vortigern's forces could not secure victory quickly, they would wither and collapse.
This is an unprecedented hand dealt in my favor, Kaelar thought with a rare smile. "It seems my day of fighting uphill odds is over."
The night passed quickly, and the final confrontation dawned as both sides arranged their formations across the open plain.
At midday, beneath the unyielding sun, the battle began.
This midday sun bore heavily on the weaker-willed. Under its burning scrutiny, only seasoned soldiers would endure, let alone persevere. Kaelar's knights, with their regimented training and their disciplined command structure, awaited his order.
Their presence, five thousand armored knights and a rock-solid command, seemed to be a force of nature.
Across the plain, Vortigern's troops, numbering around thirty thousand, were a scattered assembly of fearful conscripts, uncertain and wary. Only through their leaders' threats and shouts did they resist scattering.
Sheep are easy to control if one simply tells them wolves are waiting outside.
The Anglo-Saxon noblemen had spent countless hours spreading fear of the Celts, emphasizing their brutality and savage bloodlust. To run meant certain death, they insisted.
But as Kaelar was painfully aware, he was the only true "saint" Britain had ever known.
Kaelar advanced the knights steadily, a slow, calculated move that pushed Vortigern's soldiers to the edge of panic.
Finally, when they closed to within a hundred paces, Kaelar signaled a halt.
The pause created an eerie silence. Kaelar had noticed something new on the battlefield, a European import brought over by the Anglo-Saxons: archers.
Britain had long been famous for its English longbowmen, but to Celts, archery was more a pastime for nobles than a practical weapon of war. The soldiers' bows would have been laughed off by the archers of Europe and Asia, whose strategies had evolved through centuries of warfare with nomadic "scourges" — Atilla's Huns among them — who had mastered mounted archery.
Of course, they'd consider this their secret weapon, Kaelar thought as he ordered a halt just outside their range, choosing a distance that would ensure no arrow could reach him.
With a calm that belied his words, Kaelar stepped forward, riding his pristine white horse, a vision of strength as the beast's coat gleamed in the midday light.
"Listen well. My name is Kaelar, Steward of the Court of King Arthur of Camelot, and Commander of the Celtic army here assembled."
His voice carried across the field.
"Perhaps you have heard of me. Perhaps you know the name Kaelar. As I have always claimed, bloodshed brings misfortune, and it is not my desire to kill anyone here today."
"I am asking you now to make a choice: Will you lay down your arms? Will you, too, listen to my words?"
"My promise is this: I, Kaelar, swear before you that I will personally ensure safety to every soldier who surrenders. Your lives are yours to keep if you lay down your weapons."
He said it as though his word was as solid as the earth beneath him, as sure as the sea and sun.
Here was a being, one that held no doubt, who spoke as though life and death themselves would bend to his will.
As Kaelar approached the ranks of Anglo-Saxon soldiers, their defenses faltered. The pressure of this presence, this image of a god incarnate, tested them to their limits.
Some broke, loosing arrows in a fit of panic, which spurred the others to follow suit. Arrows rained down in an attempt to bring him down.
Kaelar made no move to shield himself, nor did he even so much as flinch. Every arrow seemed to change its course, veering off, falling harmlessly to the ground as though guided by some unseen hand.
"What..."
One soldier stared, incredulous, at the phenomenon unfolding: a narrow pathway stretching from the edge of their army to Kaelar, the ground untouched by a single arrow, while every other patch of earth was densely scattered.
"We're witnessing a miracle."
"Kaelar, you... you truly walk the earth as one blessed by Heaven."
Across the Celtic line, soldiers murmured among themselves. If they had faced such a figure, would they have had any hope but to surrender?
And yet, even in the face of this, some of the Anglo-Saxon soldiers resisted.
Kaelar halted his horse mere steps from the front line. His voice rang clear.
"Will you not surrender?" he asked, a faint note of wonder in his tone. "Tell me, what restrains you? Let me know, and if it is within my power, I shall help resolve it."
"Kaelar..." ventured a young officer, visibly shaken. "They say you are a saint. But... I've never met anyone like you. I cannot trust it. I do not believe someone so virtuous could exist."
"This... this ideal of yours, it's too pure. It seems impossible. How could I believe a promise as miraculous as yours?"
Kaelar, understanding, gave a soft smile.
"You know little of me and so your fears and doubts cloud your heart. I do not blame you... for you are as yet untouched by the gift of my teaching. It is your right to question what you do not understand."
"Then, let me simplify this for you."
With calm conviction, he addressed the gathered troops.
"I am Kaelar, the very pinnacle of human evolution — the finest humanity can produce."
"I am elevated above all others, a witness to the inequality of mankind, for I stand outside the limits of mortal weakness. I am the standard, the law, and the embodiment of truth and virtue itself. My will, my word, is law."
He smiled slightly. "Now, do you understand? Do you see what I am?"
"Will you lay down your weapons? Will you heed my call?"
The sheer conviction of his words, the absolute certainty he radiated, made it seem a greater insanity to defy him than to obey.
"If you wish to live, heed my command. Drop your weapons, and gather up your most stubborn officers. Bring them to me as a show of trust."
"And you have my word, my promise — no one who surrenders will die. Not a single one."
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