Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

"Received unknown stimulus."

"Received unknown transmission."

"Core processor… the brain has received an unknown signal."

The draconic form still streaked through the sky, but after having taken Guerrier's desperate, self-sacrificial thrust head-on, the great wound sapped Albion's circuitry—and its simplest, rawest thought processes began to change.

"I don't understand. This is… pain."

"Too much pain."

"But… cannot compute."

Dragged from its cold mechanical logic by sensations it was never meant to feel, the dragon's subconscious rushed to halt the overload—and steered its full processing power back to its primary mission:

"Target acquired: ground unit—humanoid—one."

"Close-quarters weapons locked on. Engaging."

"Core output boosted."

"Advance—to maximum velocity."

"Objective: destroy target."

Once more the crimson comet streaked low above the ruins, homing in on Guerrier like a missile. But this time the impact did not go as before.

As Albion's spear-point rammed into Guerrier's flesh, Guerrier answered with a punishing blow of his own. The tempest of their collision shattered the air itself—blowing away rubble, hurled allies and enemies alike—and in that rare moment Albion let out a pained cry.

Its armor-forged skull bore a crack where Guerrier's fist had struck; dark ichor welled from the fracture. Guerrier, too, was thrown clear—his arm shattered where it met Albion's hide—but when he steadied himself, he saw Albion forced to halt its charge.

"Ha. So that's how far a punch will get me?" Guerrier muttered. He tested his legs against the rutted ground, feeling his restored strength—thanks to the last of Aster's blood—flow through his veins. His attributes, diminished by curse, had climbed once more:

• Strength: A++

• Agility: A++

• Magic: A+

• Endurance: A++

• Luck: A

Albion still held the edge, however—its A+++ Agility and vast reserves of resilience made it a nightmare to contend with. Worse, its mastery of the skies let it pull away and recover at will.

Guerrier ground his teeth. They needed a decisive edge—and fast. At that moment, Altria's voice rang out behind him:

"Guerrier—catch!"

He felt something—an uncharacteristically gentle weight—land in his hand. It was Percival's holy spear, abandoned on the field where Percival had fallen. Altria's cry followed:

"You said you needed a weapon. Use this! It's the only thing that can kill a scourge of fire!"

Guerrier turned the white shaft over, recognizing its rune-etched length. True: this spear drew upon the wielder's life force to achieve its sanctifying power—a perfect match for his vampiric needs.

"You're sure you want to hand me your comrade's weapon?" Guerrier asked. "That's aiding the enemy."

"Stop talking nonsense!" Altria snapped, her eyes bright with tears and determination. "If you won't take it, I'll die trying to give it to you—Percival would have wanted it this way!"

Guerrier paused, then nodded. "Very well. If Percival were here, he'd agree."

He hefted the sacred spear, felt its cold power, and faced Albion once more, raising his voice:

"Holy Spear… the court is now in session."