Type-Moon: The Human Love Simulator [17] (Patreon)

Upon the throne sat an imposing elder, his figure exuding a terrifying presence that enveloped the room. Though the castle was well-lit, a sense of inescapable darkness seemed to lurk around him, like the encroaching shadow of a calamity.

Despite his appearance as an old man, observing him sitting upon the throne gave the distinct impression of a coiled dragon—an aura that spoke of suppressed power and latent threat.

“A follower of the Red Dragon?” The elder chuckled, a condescending smile on his face. “Virtue? Reform? Forgiveness? What laughable things... Is that boy spouting these foolish ideals just to amuse me?”

“Hmm... Is this one of Merlin’s little performances, or does he genuinely have the capacity to bear such burdens?”

“Ha! Let me see, Red Dragon... Do you truly have what it takes to challenge me?”

The towering elder mused aloud, “A king for a king, a general for a general... Let’s see if you are truly destined, or merely a laughable mistake.”

The petty king, Vortigern—the White Dragon that devours light and shadow—raised a hand, and a court magician stepped forward, bowing low in deference. “My lord, what is your command?”

“Summon Hengist and Horsa to me,” Vortigern ordered, his eyes glinting with a cruel light. “Tell those mongrels to bring all the Anglo-Saxons and launch an invasion of Kent’s Maple Ridge.”

A flash of sadistic glee crossed the White Dragon’s gaze. “Bring me the head of that ‘Knight Who Refuses to Kill,’ and I will grant those curs whatever they desire.”

“Lands? Food? Wealth? Go, and I will give them everything they want!”

Vortigern, as the embodiment of Britain’s rage, wielded the island’s greatest force. Even the formidable Hengist and Horsa, notorious leaders among the Anglo-Saxons, had no choice but to obey the commands of the petty king.

Soon, Hengist appeared before Vortigern with his brother in tow, bowing deeply. “Hengist, with my brother Horsa, pays respects to the great White Dragon, His Majesty Vortigern.”

Despite being addressed as ‘His Majesty’ by the Anglo-Saxons, Vortigern’s expression remained unmoved. Only if his foolish brother’s kin were groveling before him would this White Dragon feel any true satisfaction.

Despised by most Celtic Britons, this wretched White Dragon still held sway over much of the island, thanks solely to his unparalleled martial prowess. Though his reputation was tarnished, many Celts remained loyal to King Uther, leaving Vortigern with a realm populated mainly by Anglo-Saxon lords and followers.

Yet Vortigern himself remained a pure Celtic barbarian, dismissing the Anglo-Saxons as nothing more than outsiders.

Every inch of Vortigern bore the mark of a Celtic chieftain’s primal instincts—he trusted no one, save for those of his own blood, and held everyone else in contempt.

“Hengist, Horsa, you wretched foreigners... Do you now seek to defy my will?”

Vortigern’s voice boomed like thunder, his face betraying no emotion save for a faint hint of amusement. “Have you forgotten who took you in when you were nothing but homeless curs, wandering without shelter?”

Though his tone was calm, every hair on Hengist’s body stood on end. Cold sweat broke out across his back as he sensed the fury lurking beneath Vortigern’s words. He quickly prostrated himself, bowing deeply. “Oh wise and mighty lord, esteemed White Dragon, please allow me to explain.”

“...”

Vortigern made no response, remaining silent, but the fact that he did not strike them down gave Hengist hope. He understood the petty king’s unpredictable nature better than anyone.

Though Vortigern had yet to specify what had brought them here, Hengist, having survived decades under the tyrannical rule of the brutal dragon, knew exactly why they were summoned.

Seeing Vortigern’s rage, Hengist immediately realized the issue: Vortigern likely saw his ban on Anglo-Saxon seafaring over the past few months as defiance.

But Hengist had little choice. A poisonous ideology had begun spreading among the Anglo-Saxons—an ideology that could, if left unchecked, undermine their rule. Halting maritime expeditions for a year or two seemed a small price to pay for ensuring stability.

But Vortigern cared not; he only longed to see rivers of blood.

After a moment’s hesitation, Hengist spoke plainly. “Great lord, I halted our seafaring because my people were adopting Celtic ideas and had begun idolizing a Celtic lord.”

“If we were to face this lord in battle, my men might surrender without a fight.”

“I gave the order to cease our voyages to root out this dangerous ideology.”

“Oh?” Vortigern’s interest was piqued, and he leaned forward slightly. “How intriguing... And who is this Celtic warrior?”

“...”

Hengist hadn’t expected Vortigern to react this way. Was he seriously more intrigued by a potential rival than concerned with the loyalty of his own people?

This was absurd. Most rulers would prioritize class over nationality, but Vortigern reversed that principle, elevating tribal affiliation above all else.

If only Vortigern weren’t so overwhelmingly powerful, Hengist would have shouted, "You fool, you’re impossible to reason with!" before storming out.

Instead, Hengist stammered, “I-it is Kaelar... the son of Sir Ector.”

“Ector...” Vortigern pondered for a moment, then said, “I know of him. He is the loyal steward of my weak-willed brother, currently serving as his chamberlain and advisor, correct?”

“I recall... Was it ten years ago? No, nine,” Vortigern said uncertainly, “that he defeated and utterly annihilated over four thousand Anglo-Saxons with only three hundred men, suffering fewer than a hundred casualties?”

Hengist, ever the opportunist, smiled and chimed in. “Yes, it was nine years ago, my lord.”

There was a reason Hengist had thrived under Vortigern’s tyrannical rule for so long—he was a master of flattery. Even in the face of Vortigern’s wrath, he could soothe the petty king’s temper with a few well-chosen words.

He knew precisely when to agree, when to push back, and when to offer just the right amount of praise. It was a skill honed to perfection.

If you find yourself effortlessly enjoying a conversation, it often means the other person is skillfully managing the interaction, playing at a much higher level than you realize.

Such was Vortigern’s situation. His whims and moods were entirely at Hengist’s mercy.

“A warrior’s son, eh? Truly worthy of our Celtic blood!” Vortigern laughed heartily. “Father and son, both courageous? Excellent! Truly excellent!”

“Hengist, I want you to gather all the Anglo-Saxons and bring me that warrior’s head.”

Vortigern’s smile vanished in an instant, his expression hardening. “I don’t care about poisonous ideas or any other excuses. If you don’t set sail by tomorrow, I will crush you to a bloody pulp and feed you to the dogs.”

“...”

A bitter smile spread across Hengist’s face as he bowed lower. “Your will, my lord.”

Sensing Hengist’s dismay, Vortigern’s tone softened. “Come now, Hengist, there is no need to sulk. I know you Anglo-Saxons are hardly warriors, but why must you act so defeated?”

“Very well,” Vortigern added, “Bring me the head of Maple Ridge’s lord, and I will grant Kent to the Anglo-Saxons.”

“Even a hunting dog deserves a full belly,” Vortigern said with a cruel smile. “We Celts do not mistreat the hounds that hunt for us.”

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T/N: MONGRELL???