Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

When Bavantzy began channeling her own blood to heal Guinevere, his entire approach shifted in an instant.

Where before he'd been on the brink—scurrying to extend the fight—he now attacked with unrestrained ferocity. Decapitations, once lethal wounds, became flashes healing at her command. Free from caution, he charged forward again and again, recklessly throwing himself into every clash.

Even the Fairy Kingdom's greatest knight, Lancelotte, found this relentless onslaught unnerving. No wonder in the last simulation, once he recovered, he had smashed through the entire allied host. In demon form, Guinevere was like a slab of steel—no blow would fell him, and he would simply surge forward, trading blows until he tore through any defense.

And as long as Bavantzy fired another "blood arrow" into his mouth, he would spring back to life, undeterred.

It was unthinkable…how unstoppable he would become if he continued to develop like this. No—she'd seen exactly that invincible rampage just moments ago, and she refused to let history repeat itself.

"Bavantzy really drew a dangerous combination of cards," Lancelotte murmured coldly. If she gave him even a moment's respite, Guinevere would grow beyond her ability to stop.

So she did not hesitate. "But watch closely—you're not the only one who can pull cards."

Prideful as she was, Lancelotte had seldom used her fated draws—her own strength was more than enough. Yet after her stinging defeat last time, she reconsidered. To secure greater power, she summoned forces beyond herself.

By luck—or the system's design—most blessings she drew were draconic in nature, many requiring her true dragon form to wield. The non-dragon gifts had crippling drawbacks she dared not risk. But among the dragonoid artifacts, one perfect technique remained:

She swept her hand through the air.

"By the name of ancient dragons, command the storm—forge it into a blade."

At her tightening grip, crimson lightning coalesced in her palm. It twisted and writhed, forming a massive thunderblade of flickering red storm.

Across the hall, Guinevere's eyes went wide. Wait…that move is…

"Bolt of Lancesances!" she shouted, lungs echoing with divine authority.

Noble Phantasm: Bolt of Lancesances

"…Vick, Vick, why do you not answer me?"

Rank: B

Type: Anti‐Army Noble Phantasm

A sacred invocation from a distant cosmos, channeling the power of ancient dragons. This blade summons a crimson thunderstorm to sweep all foes away.

If wielded in true dragon form, its power swells unimaginably.

Lancesances is sister to the ancient dragon Folsances. Legend says she once walked as a human, serving as a priestess and knight to the dragon faith, and of all knights she loved most the Round Table champion, Vick.

Melusine loved this Phantasm—not merely for its might, but for its red thunder and the buried message. Its crimson storm evoked memories of a golden spear suffused with red lightning—once held by someone dear to her.

And the legend of a dragon who loved a mortal knight mirrored her own: she, too, had shed her dragon aspect to bear the name "Lancelotte," so she might stand beside the one she loved.

Thus she would crush any obstacle between her and that future reunion.

Still, trapped in the dungeon, she tempered her strike. She reduced its range and force to the bare minimum needed against Guinevere.

When her blade swept, the walls beside them splintered into dust. The thunderblade gouged the corridor wide, shattering stone and sending cracks racing across ceiling and floor. One wrong move, and the whole prison would collapse, burying them beneath rubble.

Guinevere saw the storm's advance and sprinted clear—despite the narrow corridor, he could not outrun the spreading lightning. Folding himself low, he took the brunt of the residual bolts to shield Bavantzy and Altaïlia. The scarlet storm roasted him from within, bones searing, leaving him paralyzed. Then Lancelotte drove him to the floor with a final decisive blow.

"Next time I sever your head, it won't come back," she whispered.

Her scabbard spun outward—

But Melusine suddenly froze. A prickling shiver ran down her spine, alerting her to danger behind her.

"Not a farewell spell from Morgan, is it?" Melusine called.

"How could it be?" Bavantzy answered—but Melusine vanished from sight.

Where did she go?

"Not so fast, my pardoned prisoner," Melusine's voice sounded from Bavantzy's back.

Heart in her throat, Bavantzy spun around—only to see Melusine's blade falling where she'd just stood.

"—"

Before she could react, the blade descended.

And then—nothing.

No pain. No wound. No flash of steel.

Behind Bavantzy sounded a dull thud and a gasp. Melusine lay flat on her back, eyes wide with bewilderment.

"Ah!" Bavantzy cried, stumbling backward.

Melusine scrambled up—only to trip on…something. She tumbled again.

"What is—"

Guinevere's eyes tracked to her feet. There lay a rusted iron hoop, twisted from jail bars.

"Are you kidding me?!" Guinevere shouted in disbelief.

"Sorry—just passing through!" Altaïlia called over her shoulder, yanking Bavantzy to her feet.

"Run, run, run! Before that klutz figures it out!"

"Right—go!" Guinevere took off, and Bavantzy followed.

Better to flee than to fight: Lancelotte's strength was overwhelming, and Guinevere had no inkling of her other hidden cards. Survival meant escape.

"Who's the klutz now?" Melusine roared.

She slapped the floor, and lightning floated her aloft—deciding her balance far too unreliable to trust her boots.

Altaïlia, emerging from deeper shadows, stepped briskly behind Melusine and slapped the ground once more—this time with a simple iron mirror.

"Huh—what a mirror—haha…!"

Melusine's laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, tearing from her throat in harsh bursts. She collapsed, helpless with mirth:

"HAHA…what's happening…Why am I laughing…HAHAHA—"

And just as abruptly as it began, the laughter died. She tried to rise—only to trip again over that very same iron hoop.

Alone in the twisted dungeon, Melusine could neither stand nor fight. The two fugitives had vanished into the corridor.

No matter how you looked at it…that was the real power of a random draw.