Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

Percival's eyes bulged in horror, blood trickling from his lips. He tried to grasp Gawain's sword, but his strength ebbed away as fast as his life's blood.

"I must commend you," Gawain said, voice cold. "Your schemes to restrain me have been more varied than I expected—layer upon layer of cunning. Yet what use is it? If you think such tricks can defeat me, you've sorely underestimated who I am."

Drawing a ragged breath, Gawain surveyed the broken hall strewn with corpses and fallen warriors. He felt the wound Mirein's domain had inflicted—his attributes had indeed been cut down sharply, preventing him from manifesting as a literal "stat monster." Yet so what? He had simply been forced from "superhuman anomaly" into a different mechanism-driven form of power. The gap between him and his opponents might have narrowed numerically, but it remained an unbridgeable chasm in essence.

Just as before, in another world he had faced Lancelot under equalized stats: even if both were forcibly leveled, Lancelot's overwhelming draconic-elf traits and innate passives made her lethal. It was only with unremitting cultivation—tens of thousands of attempts—that Gawain had finally closed that gulf with masterful swordsmanship. Now, though he hadn't quite reached that same peak of technique in this simulation, the roles were reversed: he now wielded his own overwhelmingly powerful system mechanics to dominate.

And his traits were even more unanswerable than Lancelot's: so long as he drank blood, he was effectively immortal. Unfortunately for them, Artoria's ban on ranged magic forced everyone into melee—yet how could they clash in close quarters without bleeding? Without changing the underlying mechanism, he remained invincible.

Percival, bleeding out on the floor, mustered his last strength to thrust his spear at Gawain. Gawain did not dodge; he allowed the spear to pierce him fully. Then, without flinching, he twisted his sword and ripped out Percival's entrails.

"Invincibility is invincibility because it cannot be undone by petty tricks like this," Gawain declared. "If you wish to beat me, you must wield power greater than mine. All your struggles only ensure that what could have been a swift end becomes a far more agonizing demise."

At that moment, Artoria burst back into the hall, witnessing the grisly scene.

"Artoria!" Oberon called urgently. "Lock in the final prohibition: ban all healing magic!"

"B-but if we do that, none of us can heal afterward…" Artoria hesitated.

"Better than having him slaughter us here!" Oberon urged.

Artoria remained torn. Banning healing would also nullify the life-saving potion she'd prepared for Gawain. Yet watching the carnage, she realized the dilemma.

Suddenly Percival gasped in terror:

"No—this is wrong! I can feel it… his regeneration doesn't rely on magic… he's using—"

He never finished. Gawain kicked him in the chest, cutting off his words, then drove his sword through Percival, pinning him to the floor.

"Perceptive, Percival," Gawain sneered. "Yes, you sealed off things tied to magic… but who said my fighting draws on mana? Since you've uncovered it, I might as well stop pretending. After all… your revealing your last cards was my goal."

He then shifted his form: his hand tore open, metal surging from flesh to form a dark gun barrel.

"You ban magic, but what does that matter to a demon fueled by fear?" he taunted. "Who said my combat draws on mana?"

Alarmed, Artoria shouted:

"Mirein! Watch out!"

Gawain fired. The thunderous blast pierced walls and soared outward. At that instant, Mirein's domain—once holding everyone's powers low—shattered. Gawain's aura soared again.

He looked down at Percival's dying form and sighed.

"To be honest, Percival, I do not hate you. I almost wanted you at my side. But my soldiers' deaths must be avenged. You slew Katali; that debt must be paid."

With that, he finished Percival mercilessly. Around him, the assembled elves and knights sank into despair: every layered plan had failed utterly before his absolute might.

Gawain regarded their faces coldly:

"Is it despair that such a small gap dooms you? Then be grateful: I am not without mercy. In this final moment, I will grant you a swift end."

He called upon a circle of blazing flame at his feet—his Noble Phantasm, Divine Fire Judgment. Normally, unleashing it risked near-fatal backlash, but his endurance and regeneration now dwarfed that concern. Still, mindful of those hiding in the rear—the few loyal troops and Bawanxi—he contained the inferno to a few meters around himself.

Yet even so, the blade of flame that burst through the shattered ceiling, splitting the sky above, filled all witnesses with dread. The hall quaked; Gawain's sword glowed with purifying fury, like a second sun descending upon the world—a divine scourge to wash away the realm's sins.

He murmured to himself:

"Vishnu's beasts, descend upon me.

—Demonic karma descends into the abyss."

Raising the blade aloft, he issued his challenge:

"Advance, saviors. If you wish to stop me, throw all your might against me. I shall grant you equal despair."

He then drove the flame-sword downward in a single overwhelming stroke. No one near him had any chance to resist; their bodies were erased in the maelstrom's brilliance, unable even to scream. Under that cosmic blaze, all in Gawain's path—knights and warriors alike—were reduced to nothing. The ground quaked as his stroke carved away a swath of existence.

Gawain observed it clinically:

"So it seems ranged magic bans had loopholes—area-of-effect fire not counted? Very well."

From somewhere behind, someone gasped:

"It's… the Calamity of Magic!"

All survivors lost their will to fight. Clattering weapons fell as terrified murmurs echoed: "The Demon Calamity… the calamity of magic!"

Meanwhile, Gawain's status updates flooded in:

"By directing your Noble Phantasm at the main force besieging the treasury, you annihilated two-thirds of the allied army in an instant."

"Northern Queen Nocnarei perished under your Divine Fire."

"All Northern elves lost their queen's boon; their strength plummeted, and they realized she was dead."

"With her gone, the Northern forces disbanded, their courage utterly broken."

"Having slain Woodworth, massacred Oxford, and single-handedly crushed the allied host, your terror rating soared further."

"Elves now see you as the personification of catastrophe: the 'Calamity of Magic.'"

"Your personal dread increased among all of Britain's inhabitants."

"In Demon Form, you receive 'All Attributes + Major' beyond Luck; now your stats are unrivaled."

"Gawain (Demon Form) Attributes: Strength A++, Agility A++, Mana A+, Endurance A++, Luck A."

Gawain stared down at his bloodstained sword. Though the flames had scorched away all traces of gore, in his eyes it remained steeped in blood—and that was fine. He had long accepted the burden of his slaughter. Once everything settled, he would pay the price for his deeds.

"Since the outcome is clear," he said, surveying the broken warriors, "do not cling to futile resistance—"

He broke off mid-sentence as a sudden weakness coursed through him. Puzzled, he glanced at his arm and saw it flicker with ominous purple-black hues.

"What…?"

He accessed his status and found a chilling new debuff:

Morse Curse: A curse born alongside Britain's elves, their original sin and eternal nightmare—a Damoclean sword above their heads.

Due to unknown causes, you have now been afflicted by hundreds' worth of the Morse Curse.

However, in Demon Form, your high curse resistance and regeneration prevent death; it only weakens you.

Current effect: Regeneration halved; all attributes reduced by 20%.

As you accumulate healing over a short span, your suppression of the curse weakens and the curse's effect deepens.

"The Morse Curse? How…?" Gawain muttered. The curse should affect only elves. Unless… the curse transferred upon mass deaths? Especially after slaughtering so many? The realization stung: "Beiril must still live… and struck me with this curse from within Norwich."

He unleashed his Demon senses to seek out Beiril, intent on finishing him. But at that moment the ceiling behind Gawain collapsed, and Lancelot, trembling with rage, lunged:

"Gawain… you… must die!"