Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

"Lancelot! Wait! Now is not the time to face Guinevere!" As Lancelot charged forward in fury, Artoria shouted, "Belial is still nearby! If you two wound each other, he'll only benefit—"

Artoria recognized immediately the dark blotches appearing on Guinevere's body as the Mors curse and called out urgently. From countless simulations, she knew only Belial could transfer the Mors curse onto Guinevere at such a critical moment. Now that Woodworth was gone, Belial would surely regain formidable power. If Belial were not eliminated, both humans and fairies of Britain would face ruin.

But Lancelot, driven by rage, could no longer heed Artoria's warning.

"True name, reveal."

She began invoking her Noble Phantasm without hesitation. Having already joined the fight to stop Guinevere's slaughter, and now enraged by her brother's death, her rational restraint was shattered—only vengeance mattered.

"Purified lake reflecting moonlight! Sink into the unknown immaculate radiance (Aroundight)!"

Golden blades sprang from the scabbard, shimmering like lake-light, aimed directly at Guinevere with lethal intent.

"Die, demon!"

With that cry, Lancelot's back flared with vast magical energy, propelling her like a meteor toward Guinevere.

It was an almost inconceivable strike. As those in the hall looked up, they saw Lancelot's twin swords nearly through Guinevere. He instinctively tried to evade, but at the moment he moved, a sudden weakness struck his legs from the Mors poison within. In that brief instant, he could not dodge. The blue radiance struck him squarely—his heart was pierced repeatedly, his body jolted backward, as if hurled by a powerful impact. Her blades kept tearing through his chest and abdomen, threatening to annihilate him. Yet at the crucial moment, Guinevere's hands seized Lancelot's.

"How is this possible? Why can you still move—"

Lancelot gasped in disbelief, unable to understand why her deadly assault had failed.

In a voice like a demon's whisper, he spoke at her ear:

"How is it possible I can still move? Rather, how could such an attack ever harm me?"

With that, Lancelot felt her hands gripped tightly. He swung her around and slammed her into the ground. A shockwave roared; dust and debris flew as Guinevere's enhanced strength and speed crushed her into the earth.

"Who do you think I am?"

He pummeled her with a powerful blow, cracks spreading across the ground outward from where she lay. She was driven deep into the earth.

"I am the Demon Calamity, the destiny of you beastly fairies!"

"If I could be felled by this small curse or a Noble Phantasm, Percival and the others would have succeeded long ago."

He raised the bone-bladed sword again to strike—

But at that moment, a surge of magic burst from Lancelot's back, slamming into Guinevere's chest and staggering him. She struck with the Lake-Light sword once more, but Guinevere deftly blocked. She tried to slip behind him to create distance, yet Guinevere's gaze locked on her; the bone sword pursued with relentless precision, his windmill-style blade technique active, encircling her. Forced to retreat, she attempted to regain space and prepare to take to the air. Yet Guinevere's speed and anticipation rendered such attempts futile.

Lancelot realized too late that he had profoundly underestimated Guinevere. He had assumed Guinevere merely a brute in strength and resilience, but never imagined Guinevere's true speed and reflexes. Now, after her decisive blow consumed her remaining advantages, Guinevere's overwhelming capability crushed her. A heavy strike severed her shoulder, pinning her torso to a distant wall. Even grievously wounded, she refused to yield—she tried to rise again, but Guinevere's might was absolute.

Coughing, Guinevere checked his status: the Mors curse had deepened, reducing his healing and attributes, yet still left him vastly superior to Lancelot.

He remarked dryly, "This tedious farce is over."

His left hand morphed into a gun-like form, readied to finish Lancelot.

"Why hurry? You are the Last Dragon—wouldn't it be more… interesting to keep your body intact for study? Or perhaps transform you into my dragon servant?"

At that instant, Guinevere felt a piercing blow from behind—Belial's hand thrust through his back.

"Eh?!" Guinevere stared in shock as blood spurted. Belial laughed triumphantly: "I have waited so long for this moment—finally you are distracted—"

But Guinevere roared in fury, wrenching Belial's arm from his back and snapping it.

"Invincibility is not undone by petty tricks."

He seized Belial, slammed him into the ground, then battered him with a crushing punch that shattered walls. Belial crawled free but found his severed arm now tainted by the Mors curse, slowing its regeneration. He released a cloud of concealing mist to escape, but Guinevere's sheer power shattered the ruins and dispersed the fog, capturing him. With his sword, Guinevere drove the blade into Belial's cursed flesh.

"If you had not sent the Mors poison to me, ending you would have cost more effort."

He finished Belial, putting an end to that threat.

Aftermath and Reflection

The battle concluded amid ruined halls. Lancelot, though grievously wounded, survived. Artoria, Oberon, and others arrived to find Guinevere bloodied and standing amidst devastation. Though the Mors curse clung to him and the title "Demon Calamity" weighed heavily, Guinevere's gaze turned inward: the path of violence bore terrible costs. He resolved to seek a way to lift the curse and atone where possible, protecting innocents and rebuilding Britain not by terror alone but by fair governance—though the price of past bloodshed would always haunt him.

Standing alone among the rubble under a broken sky, blood and curse entwined, he carried a faint light of resolve: to safeguard the land and pursue redemption, even through the long night ahead.