"We've eaten, we've fought, and it's time for us to say goodbye."
After dismissing the enthusiastic Knights of the Round Table who had brought them pillows, Samael casually tossed aside another ruined knight's greatsword, briefly informed the King of Knights on the second floor, then took Morgan—who rose in perfect tacit understanding—and headed out of the great hall without the slightest courtesy.
The three little ones at the table saw that they were leaving. Their tiny faces, previously scrunched up as they stared at the dining table, immediately lit up with joy. They threw down their knives and forks and darted out at lightning speed, eagerly following suit.
Meanwhile, the lavish spread of palace cuisine on the table looked almost untouched.
Only after Morgan's group had gone far away did the British lords, great and small, wake as if from a dream. Their gazes focused on the figure shining brilliantly beneath the night sky, and their previous contempt was swept away by awe.
That man's strength probably far exceeded the limits of humanity. If he appeared on a battlefield, he was no longer someone who could be buried beneath sheer numbers.
By himself, he had nearly taken on the entire Knights of the Round Table, yet he still looked calm and composed afterward, clearly with strength to spare.
In a sense, he alone was worth more than half the Round Table.
With such a powerful swordsman, along with Morgan, the born Witch, Orkney's strength had soared dramatically. It was faintly showing signs of being able to stand against Holy Capital Camelot.
It seemed they would have to reassess their relationship with those people and that princess.
The lords each had their own thoughts. Their covertly exchanged looks carried an indescribable undertone.
"Old man, we really let a big fish get