Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

[After your main force arrived at Oxford, you promptly marched on Salisbury.]

There was no need to linger on defense—Gawain was confident of his overwhelming advantage. If his army clashed with Nocnarei's forces, his Magus Riflemen, whose ranged strike far outmatched any fairy "miracle," would shatter their formations. Even with Artoria's support, they could not close the qualitative gap in weaponry and equipment. At worst, Gawain himself could lead a solo assault and prevail.

"However," he reflected, "if Artoria manages to ring the third Pilgrimage Bell again, her own strength will be boosted further, and her Prophecy Child squad will merit separate attention."

Still, only a brief caution was needed; there was no need to draft an entire bespoke plan as he had for Woodworth. After all, Woodworth's personal might stood leagues above an ordinary fairy. By contrast, Artoria's team, though dangerous if strengthened, did not require a fully dedicated campaign—merely vigilance in the coming battle.

Gawain produced one of his small communication mirrors. He infused a trace of mana and activated the pre-set spell array; Woodworth's fierce visage appeared once more in the glass.

"What is it?" Woodworth's expression darkened immediately.

"How are things on your end?" Gawain asked without preamble, unfazed by Woodworth's obvious displeasure. As long as Woodworth did his part, Gawain had no concern for personal feelings.

"We're advancing toward New Darlington," Woodworth replied, lips curling in a disdainful sneer. "Less than an hour's march remains."

"You're confident facing Percival?" Gawain inquired.

"Hah, stupid question," Woodworth scoffed. "I watched that brat grow up. Despite exceeding my expectations to reach this point, with my current state—still not fully rid of the Mores Curse—even I can easily eliminate him."

"I see…" Gawain nodded, then opened the faction index to Woodworth's character panel. There, the "Mores Curse" debuff was listed:

Mores Curse: A curse born alongside Britain's fairies, representing their original sin. It is their eternal nightmare and the Sword of Damocles hanging over them.

Because Alyng Baizhong·Woodworth possesses extraordinarily high curse resistance and self-healing, this curse cannot kill him, only weaken him.

Current effect: Self-healing reduced by 50%; all attributes down by 20%.

**As Woodworth accumulates healed injuries, his ability to suppress the Mores Curse diminishes, and the curse's effects intensify.

Reading this carefully, Gawain frowned deeply. Even with the curse, Woodworth's attributes remained at Class A overall, but the debilitation to his healing and endurance was plainly visible. In effect, the once nearly invincible Woodworth had been reduced to "only" a very strong warrior. He remained far above ordinary fairies, but no longer the undefeatable champion of fairy lore. A classic "boss joined the party and got nerfed."

Yet this was unavoidable: Gawain needed Woodworth's allegiance, and a weakened Woodworth was the only way to ensure a decisive outcome when they faced off—or to recruit him at all. Without the curse, neither Gawain nor Woodworth could beat the other to a decisive conclusion.

"There is one more matter, Woodworth," Gawain said.

"What now?" Woodworth raised a brow.

"When I investigated Oxford, I discovered that Berill has been gathering clues about you—bribing your guards to bring him your shed hair. That could allow him to cast spells on you at a distance." Gawain recalled the events of the fourth simulated trial. "He shows an unusual interest in you. I heard he knows a curse that, by retrieving a target's heart, lets him transform into that person. You should be extra vigilant—he's likely to ambush you when you're weakened."

Woodworth's brows tightened in anger. The thought that Gawain's agents sneaked his hair to Berill to betray him was nauseating. Silently, he stored Gawain's warning in mind. Outwardly, however, he masked his irritation: "Ha? Are you doubting my strength? Don't make me laugh. Even if all I had left was a single toe I could still dispatch that clown Berill easily."

"Very well," Gawain said, shaking his head. Since he had issued the warning, there was nothing more to add. He ended the mirror connection.

Gawain exhaled wryly: "I hope Woodworth doesn't stumble against the Round Table Army…" He glanced skyward, uneasy.

At that moment, a streak of azure light shot across the horizon. "A shooting star? Fairies see shooting stars?" Gawain's eyes narrowed, realization dawning. He immediately drew the cord linked to the heart of demon mana at his chest: "All units, fall back!"

In an instant, demonic energy enveloped him; his left arm's colossal barrel-formation gun reoriented skyward. His newfound "Gun Demon" instincts keyed into that high-speed aerial figure, confirming his suspicion. Channeling maximum mana, he fired three shots in rapid succession. Each projectile flew at supersonic speed toward the streaking figure above—but with calculated deviations. The first shot was meant to miss, luring the enemy into complacency; the second struck true, forcing an evasive maneuver; the third then covered the anticipated escape path.

A girl soared through the sky—none other than Lancelot, the Last Dragon of Fairy lore—her trajectory like a meteor. She veered to avoid the first shot, only to find the second forcing her path into the third. She twisted midair, narrowly avoiding death, but the second shell slammed into her chest, flipping her; the third followed, striking again and sending her plummeting.

Gawain allowed himself a cold smile. As the Gun Demon, he could guide his bullets' trajectories—three shots were his limit now, but enough. The first shot was a feint; the final two secured the hit.

Alone in the field, he couldn't resist a small show of bravado, though the barrel's length made miming a "kiss" gesture impractical. He reminded himself he was still mastering these demonic powers; with more control, he could have eliminated her outright midair. But the goal was achieved: identifying his opponent.

And who else but Lancelot would streak across the sky like a meteor? Even in passing, she radiated that proud, uncatchable aura.

Sure enough, after absorbing the blows, she righted herself, speed glinting in her eyes. Within a second, she rocketed toward Gawain: swift, furious, vengeful.

"How dare you attack me from above?" she snarled, ripping off the cracked visor revealing her fierce glare. "I thought you weren't a bad impression—but assaulting me unprovoked is contemptible! You've heard it: clingy men are the worst, know that?"

Gawain shrugged. "We're enemies, are we not? Must I offer reasons? I don't know your mission, but as an enemy, you'll not achieve your aim if I can stop you."

Lancelot lunged, blade crackling with magic. Gawain blocked with his demon-forged arm-blade. "We've never met, correct?" he added, to conceal his use of the simulation system. "Let's pretend we're strangers."

She scoffed, spinning in midair to deliver a bladed kick. Gawain intercepted with his gun-hand, but the wind edge still tore his clothing. Her speed and precision now far exceeded that first auction encounter—they were leagues apart in prowess.

In the blink of an eye, she vanished from his sight and reappeared behind him, smashing a devastating blow into his spine. The force shattered vertebrae and hurled him skyward: "Though you're not my prime target, you came here—so I'll gladly end you first!"

Gawain twisted midair, landing steadily. By the time he hit ground, his demonic regeneration had already mended the spinal break. "Forgive me," he said calmly, "but with your current skill… you cannot achieve that."

He rose unbowed. Now that he'd tapped into demonic power, his resilience far surpassed mortal limits. Dragons or demons, which would prevail? The Last Dragon's fury met the Gun Demon's might.

Lancelot's eyes flashed as she soared again, blade gleaming. The duel between the Gun Demon and the Last Dragon had begun in earnest—each strike, parry, and shot would decide whether fairy legend or demonic power dominated the battlefield.