Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

Flames set the city ablaze.

On the system's display, a hauntingly familiar scene unfolded: flickering, noisy images like old televisions or moldy parchments. A black diamond silhouette appeared on the screen, engraved with the emblem of the Dragon of Calamity. Slowly, a line of text emerged:

"The Calamity of Flame" Descends

Then, fierce fire blazed outward from the dragon's center, consuming everything around it—just as the city was now consumed.

Amid the ominous crackling of burning, all before her was reduced to ash, revealing a silhouette streaking through the clouds at tremendous speed. It tore through the sky at multiple times the speed of sound, shattering the clouds with its supersonic wake. Air resistance, friction, inertia—"common sense" could not bind it.

This was the Onyx Dragon, the Dragon of Calamity, harbinger of the end. So long as it soared in the sky, boundless flame would heed its portent and scorch the earth beneath.

Having lost her human form, Meluzina discarded even the fairy name she had borne; now she kept only her primal draconic name. In the heart of the burned-away display, a burning name slowly flickered into view:

—Albion

"Al—bion?"

Clutching her Staff of Selection, Altria, battered and wounded, forced herself up from the wind-tossed rubble. She stared at that name on the system screen, her eyes trembling uncontrollably. She recognized this name—from a memory not her own, it was the name of her final, tragic battle. On the earth below, the survivors among the beastly calamity's victims had been utterly wiped out under the passing shadow of a savage dragon's wings. Among those destroyed fairies had been that woman's child.

If so, Altria's path was clear: whatever their differences, she would not allow this Dragon of Calamity to steal away what she loved once more. Leaning on her Staff of Selection, she staggered forward.

But scarcely had she taken two steps when something tripped her. She fell hard again; her torn black stockings ripped further, and blood welled from a fresh wound on her calf. "It hurts..." She pressed a hand to the injury and tried to rise, but her gaze caught the object that had tripped her: a pristine white lance, still gleaming under the surrounding flames even amid shattered ruins.

That entity no longer thought as a human. But perhaps, for it, that was not unwelcome. Born to protect Britain, yet become the instrument of its destruction—perhaps some cruel twist of fate by a capricious god. But maybe not. From its origin, it had been created precisely for this.

Long ago, the northern fairies who once dwelt in harmony with it were slaughtered by Britain's fairies. Their blood drenched the dragon's carcass; their corpses fused with the remains, imbuing this remnant with life and purpose. Or rather, it existed as the lingering resentment of those northern fairies. It was meant as a doomsday device to annihilate fairies, but by chance a passing human took it up, and in further chance, it gained emotions no mere device should hold: pain, sorrow, joy... even love. Given these human feelings, the doomsday device became a living being: capable of suffering, of grieving loss, of rejoicing in what it loved, even of falling in love as a maiden.

Because of that gift, it vowed to protect the very beings it was meant to destroy, safeguarding a place where that human could live peacefully. Perhaps it was not a cruel cosmic joke but the creator's affection—granting even a doomsday machine a glimmer of warmth. Yet such warmth is fleeting; fate's cruelty will eventually strip away all illusions, revealing the original truth. Though determined to guard the land, it now coldly brings searing ruin—just as the maiden's fervent emotions once did.

Now, the creature's mental processes were starkly simple:

Reason: Unknown

Objective: Annihilate target life-form.

Target: Enemy land unit.

It soared at dusk through the air; the rush of wind replaced any roar. There was no primal roar as a dragon might have; only mechanical directives of a calamity device:

Target: Enemy land unit, humanoid, one individual.

Action: Eliminate.

Priority: Highest.

Remote weapon lock: Failed. Reason unknown.

Switch to close-range armament mode.

Close-range lock: Successful.

Core output: Increase.

Advance at full speed.

Objective: Exterminate target humanoid.

With power surged through its draconic heart, its speed spiked again. It hurtled toward the lone figure on the ground.

"Boom—!"

Wreathed in trailing flames, the dragon suddenly dived low from the sky, charging straight at Guinevere. There was nowhere to dodge. Even Guinevere's full effort could not evade. Once Meluzina fully abandoned any human form, Lancelot's true danger manifested. Too fast—far too fast. Even Guinevere's A+ agility could not outmatch it in maneuver or top speed. Unable to evade, he braced for Albion's supersonic impact head-on.

Holding his bone-handled blood blade, Guinevere drew in breath, ready to halt the dragon charge. When that flame-trailing meteor struck, he met it with a downward swing of his greatsword—an assured strike, for his inherent "Star-Seeker" ability ensured no ballistic attack could evade him, including a supersonic draconic ram.

Yet, after the roar of wind, he lost. It wasn't that he missed the fleeting moment; rather, at the clash, his sword shattered. A supersonic collision of draconic might and a god-forged body had smashed his blade. Then Albion's razor-sharp head struck him, its scorching breath wrapped in its body, delivering a blow capable of melting steel—though remote attacks were suppressed by the buff, it could still envelop its body in heat for the collision.

"Thud—!" The crash echoed through ruined Norwick as Guinevere's body rocketed backward at supersonic speed. Slammed into the ground, he rebounded, smashing through half a dozen buildings. After tumbling dozens of meters, he finally regained balance, embedding his re-summoned blade into the earth and carving a long furrow before stopping.

"...Damn." He felt his blood pool nearly emptied by that blow. Albion's full-force strike was the one attack Guinevere least wished to endure: a god-forged body at three times the speed of sound, plus searing breath—vital blood evaporated terrifyingly fast. Yet only this strike he could neither avoid nor counter easily. Now his state had plummeted; even his curse-suppression faltered:

Due to accumulated wounds, your ability to suppress the Mors curse falls; the curse's effect intensifies.

Current effect: Self-healing down 90%, all attributes −80%.

Current attributes:

Strength: A

Agility: A

Magic: B

Endurance: A

Luck: C

Meanwhile, Albion's stats remained outrageously high:

The Calamity of Flame, Horizon Dragon—Albion

Strength: A

Agility: A+++

Magic: A+

Endurance: A++

Luck: E

Worse, Albion's absurd maneuverability meant that whenever it streaked into the sky, Guinevere's endless-trial ability would lose the target due to distance, leaving him entirely on the defensive. In his severely weakened state, he could not hope to handle such a foe; he needed blood—only blood could restore his healing and suppress the curse again. Yet around him, all potential blood sources had fled earlier; the wounded remaining lay charred by the consuming flames, no drop of blood to spare.

At that moment, Albion's next attack loomed. After nearly cleaving Guinevere in half, Albion had ascended supersonically, diving back through the clouds at quadruple sonic speed. Its blazing aura made it shine like a crimson meteor even amid the clouds. Now, circling and diving low, it charged Guinevere again.

This time, Guinevere did not attempt to parry the charge with his sword. As Albion's horn cut into him, he reached out and seized it, bracing himself. Overwhelmed by weight, Guinevere was pinned against Albion's head as it rose thousands of meters into the clouds, bearing him aloft. The winds howled; he was carried through countless cloud layers, the cold steam stripping surface heat. If Albion now dove him earthward at supersonic speed, he'd surely perish... But Guinevere had sought this moment. As Albion prepared to spiral back to strike earthward, Guinevere drove his odd-shaped blade into Albion's eye.

Whether it felt pain, the dragon gave no cry; yet Guinevere sensed its body tremor. Useful! He pressed the blade deeper, aiming to pierce the brain. A primal dragon, if impaled through its core, should die. Now it was a race: would Albion crash him to earth first, or would he finish the dragon? Yet at this critical instant, the blade halted.

"...Damn." Guinevere realized his blood had run dry; he could not fuel further regeneration. Thus, defeat seemed certain.

Yet Albion also abruptly ceased its spiral. Perhaps the agony of the eye wound forced it to shake him off, and Guinevere was flung free. Falling from several thousand meters, he plummeted toward Norwick. Albion, meanwhile, flew off in a bizarre, lopsided course. But these uncertainties could not change the outcome: when he crashed to earth, fate seemed sealed.

Guinevere struck the ground on solid stone, oozing blood. The impact shattered earth and bone: even with his draconic resilience, under the weakening curse, he could no longer withstand such a fall. His ribs shattered, internal organs torn. He struggled but could not move a finger. Finally immobile, he ceased struggling.

"...I lost." He closed his eyes in resignation. "Using Heaven's Fire too early was a misstep... Or should I have prepared blood vials for emergency supply?" Knowing death awaited, he sighed. Though he bore countless sins and had long resolved to pay with his life, it shouldn't end now—he had yet to secure victory for Bahamith... He closed his eyes, gloom settling.

Yet at that moment, a voice called from above: "Really? As long as you can receive blood, you can keep fighting?" Opening his eyes, Guinevere saw the familiar horse-headed armor: Astart.

"Astart? Wasn't my order to guard Bahamith?" Guinevere croaked, recognition dawning.

"This is Princess's command," Astart replied. "She ordered me to aid you—if you can't continue fighting, pull the ring on your chest and drink my blood; then you can fight on." Guinevere began to realize: long ago, when he first stormed Salisbury, fearing an ambush, he had told Bahamith that if he died unexpectedly, she should use that method—allowing him to transform into the Chainsaw Form and revive. Because he never needed it then, he'd forgotten. Now it mattered.

"Your expression... so it's true." Astart nodded. "Then I can rest assured. Please, use my blood, my lord." With that, Astart thrust his lance through his own chest, the hilt aimed at Guinevere's mouth, and blood poured forth. Guinevere's eyes widened at the sacrifice.

"This..." He struggled to speak as Astart, kneeling, used his knee to hold the lance, letting blood flow into Guinevere's mouth. "I know you're not native to the Fairy Realm, and that you... despise fairies," Astart rasped, voice fading. "I admit your deeds... perhaps are right: slaying so many fairies may lead to a better world. I know you strive to create a better realm, so I followed you. But just as humans can be good or evil, so can fairies. No race is born guilty by nature, no kingdom destined for destruction. The fairies you slay... they deserve death, I agree—yet I hope that in the new realm you build, there remains a place for those newly born, good fairies. Fighting alongside you, we never lost—so now... I still bet on your victory." With that, Astart used his last strength to pull Guinevere's ring, and collapsed, positioning his body beside Guinevere to avoid harming him further.

As Astart's blood coursed into him, Guinevere felt renewed power flowing through his veins. He inhaled deeply, glancing at the fallen knight. "I understand." He murmured. "Your wish, I will honor."

Thus, sustained by loyal sacrifice and blood, Guinevere rose again, ready to continue the fight and fulfill his promise.