Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

A sapphire-hued shooting star streaked faster than the speed of sound, a slender knight's figure propelled by a powerful trail of mana in her wake. Gawain's left arm snapped up, locking a shot on Lancelot, and he fired.

But Lancelot abruptly altered her trajectory, ignoring inertia with a path that would make Newton's ghost shudder, darting behind Gawain in an instant. Her sword's scabbard whipped forward, aiming straight for his back.

"Tch." Gawain clicked his tongue in annoyance, then with his right hand's bizarre blade he swung around to block her thrust.

After several exchanges, Gawain had realized something crucial: within seven paces, Lancelot was faster; beyond seven paces, she was still faster. At their level, firearms lost their inherent advantage in range or speed. Even firing with the muzzle nearly touching her wouldn't stop her: at the instant he pulled the trigger, she could slip aside. While he could slightly guide his bullets mid-flight, he could not make them ignore inertia and turn sharply over ninety degrees. Thus, any attempt to snipe at close range would simply allow her to close the gap and strike him before he could fire again. His "Gun Demon" arm was effectively impotent in such duels, unless battles began from kilometer-long distances.

After a few sparring rounds, Gawain formed a plan.

Meanwhile, Lancelot pressed her assault. She twisted aside Gawain's counterblow and reappeared above and behind him. In midair she flipped and brought down a devastating kick: a two-meter wave of shimmering blue mana condensed along her leg, slashing down toward Gawain.

This time, Gawain's dodge was slightly delayed—and he deliberately raised his left hand. The magical slash struck, cleaving off Gawain's left hand in a single stroke.

"Huh?" Lancelot frowned in surprise, immediately retreating to open space.

"What happened? You could have easily dodged—why didn't you?" she demanded.

"Heh—guess," Gawain replied coldly, clutching where his hand once was. "Since you insist you're a lady, consider that I was holding back."

"In a knightly duel, such words are insulting," Lancelot said frostily.

"Interesting," Gawain grinned. "Then I'll be frank: I merely swapped out a component."

At that, Gawain's left arm regrew from his flesh—but not as a weapon. He restored five fingers, then used this new hand to wrench the grotesque blade embedded in his right hand—splitting through flesh and bone—to tear it free.

"Gross," Lancelot muttered, eyes narrowing at the sight of Gawain's exposed, bloodied bone-hilt.

She lunged again; Gawain countered with the bone blade, but she spun aside, reappearing behind him yet again. She attempted to weave around him in a dizzying dance: each time he turned, she'd slip behind; when he spun to defend, she'd vanish and reemerge elsewhere. With inertia and her blinding speed, she seemed unstoppable—unless…

In the next moment, the great sword he wielded—once a severed arm-blade—whirled through a full circle behind him and returned, aimed at her face. Lancelot parried just in time, but Gawain's technique revealed itself: that slash had never stopped, its momentum curving seamlessly back to strike. No matter how she circled, the blade would loop around and catch her. Recalling past encounters, Lancelot chose the only viable tactic: retreat.

Yet something nagged at her. The windmill-like sword technique she faced was one she'd seen before: a continuous torrent of strikes, each extension of the last. Normally, that style required constant wrist-twisting—but Gawain's skeletal arm-blade held no wrist joint. How could he replicate that? Then Lancelot glimpsed the clue: the blade's hilt was made from Gawain's own bone, grafted directly to his arm. In effect, his skeleton itself served as the hilt—no joint needed.

"So that's it… component swap," she murmured. Gawain had torn off and replaced his weaponized arm with a bone-hilted sword, allowing him to execute that unending Windmill technique. Truly terrifying.

"You need some swordsmanship to face me," Gawain said, gripping the bone hilt of the blood-dripping blade. The blood trickled down the blade's length, coalescing at the tip.

"Not going to press the attack, Lancelot?" he asked.

"…Enough." Lancelot sheathed her weapon, stepping back. She stared at the dripping blade for a long moment. "I have no interest in breaching an impenetrable shell. In any case, this works for now. I'll remember this debt—next time, I'll settle it."

With that, she shot upward, a streak of light vanishing into the sky.

Gawain exhaled in relief. He admitted to himself he had been a bit overconfident. Lancelot truly lived up to her renown: her agility was an advantage Woodworth could never match. Facing her hit-and-run tactics, Gawain could catch her briefly on open ground, but only if he struck decisively then—otherwise, once she took flight, he'd be at a severe disadvantage. His demonic regeneration consumed blood; prolonged skirmishing against her would deplete his reserves. In remote wilds, he had no easy source of fresh blood. He could not risk wounding his own troops to replenish himself—it would shatter morale and loyalty. He cherished his inner circle too much to sacrifice them.

Thus, against Lancelot's pattern—strike close, then withdraw, repeat—Gawain's bleeding would soon force him onto the defensive. He needed a battlefield where he could leverage massed forces and avoid a drawn-out duel of attrition.

He muttered to himself: "I must lure her into a zone dense with enemy units… Salisbury, now in enemy hands, should serve well." He reassembled his Magus Riflemen and resumed the march.

[Though Lancelot delayed your progress mid-journey, after repelling her you quickly reorganized and pressed on.]

[But upon arriving at Salisbury, you were astonished to find…]

"An empty city?" Gawain muttered, staring at deserted streets.

There was no resistance; though Lancelot had flown from Salisbury's direction, the place held no allied troops. It wasn't a feint—it was a hollow trap. If Salisbury was a decoy, the allies must be gathering somewhere else. And Lancelot's parting words rang in his mind: "Well, this situation isn't bad either." Means: even though her original plan was thwarted, delaying him alone justified the ruse.

Gawain snatched his communication mirror and sent mana through it to contact Banwenxi's side. After a few tense seconds, Banwenxi appeared, still half-asleep, hair disheveled: "Uh… what's up, Gawain? Have you eaten…? Oh, is everything resolved on your end…?"

Seeing Banwenxi safe, Gawain sighed inwardly, then urgently said: "Banwenxi! Use the mirror to check Woodworth's situation—see how he's faring!"

"Eh? Oh, okay!" she snapped awake and scrambled to cast the spell. But after several moments of frantic effort with no result, she looked back anxiously: "So strange—the mirror won't connect to Woodworth at all…"

"Of course," Gawain murmured, eyes closing. "They intend to pick us off one by one."

Elsewhere on the battlefield, Nocnarei clasped Artoria's hand in a triumphant slap: "We did it! Strange that Lancelot was absent, but thanks to everyone's efforts, we still won this grueling fight!"

"Thanks to you, Artoria! Your gadgets were incredible: the magic carpet, the 'Magic Ban List' booklet—everything!" Nocnarei praised.

Artoria nodded, gazing at the glowing little tome floating before her:

Self-Made Arcane Attire: Magic Carpet

Rarity: ???

Though ordinary flying carpets should be common in magic, this one, crafted with chaotic additions, somehow didn't explode or turn into a monster. By luck, it grants transport speed that could put a certain horse-like fairy out of work.

Self-Made Arcane Attire: Magic Ban Compendium

Rarity: ???

A marvel born of near-depleted luck: write down up to three categories of banned spells, and within a hundred-mile radius all mana-based techniques—magic, curses, miracles, even mana-powered devices—cannot function. Currently 1/3 used: banned category: spatial magic.

Artoria smiled wryly at her own contraptions.