Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

"You, sir—please remove your mask."

Chilling to the bone.

At the center of the gathered guests, Guinevere's sword hand began to tremble ever so slightly.

As the eerie chant repeated over and over, Guinevere remained motionless. The guests gradually began to converge upon him. The one nearest—who had bumped into him when he had stepped back—was already reaching out toward his face.

"It's time. Take off your mask. All of us have removed ours—except you."

"Back off!"

Guinevere drew his sword again, the blade resting at the guest's chest, hoping this would drive the figure away like the last one who had offered him food.

But this time, he failed.

The guest pressed forward, heedless of the sword piercing his chest, continuing to approach Guinevere. Blood didn't matter. Death didn't register. The guest simply repeated his question:

"Sir, why won't you take off your mask?"

As the hand reached for his face, Guinevere remembered how these creatures tore out eyes and ripped off faces. Without hesitation, he gripped the hilt with both hands and thrust upward violently, pulling the blade from the creature's chest—then spun it, slashing off the reaching hand.

The severed hand fell to the floor, yet the guest merely paused, looked up, and Guinevere was already swinging again—this time, severing the head cleanly from the body.

"I'm not wearing a damn mask! Happy now?!"

"N-Not wearing a mask?"

Then, as Guinevere steeled himself to hack his way out, a voice rose from near his feet. Looking down, he saw the decapitated head's neck sprouting tendrils, lifting the face back into view.

The head screamed.

"Not wearing a mask! He's not wearing a mask! He's alive!"

The phrase spread like wildfire—an infectious chant echoing through the ballroom.

"Not wearing a mask! He's alive!"

"A living man!"

"Among the dead!"

"An intruder in the land of the dead!"

The guests swarmed toward him.

At that moment, a familiar interface flashed before Guinevere's eyes:

[You have triggered a special mission: Escape from the Depths of Cassilda's Nightmare.]

[Due to external interference, a singularity has formed within this simulation. In order to correct the anomaly, the system will issue a temporary mission. Completing it will yield rewards.]

[As an offering to the gods, you have strayed into Queen Cassilda's nightmare, arriving at an eternal masquerade ball where no living soul remains—all the attendees are undead, forever wandering this land of immortality.]

[You have been discovered. Escape the nightmare—or survive until the next one begins—before they completely kill you and you become one of them.]

[Rewards: +1 random attribute level-up, script of The King in Yellow, Queen Cassilda's Sword.]

[Objective: Survive.]

—Thud. Thud. Boom.

Instantly, Guinevere understood the situation.

Even if the reward list included two things he already had, the fact that the system gave him a mission with only one requirement—stay alive—spoke volumes.

As the first undead guest lunged toward him, Guinevere brought his sword down hard, cleaving the creature's skull from forehead to nose, black blood spurting from the gash.

But the horror wasn't over. The guest, clearly suffering a fatal blow, barely flinched. White fleshy growths erupted from the wound, squirming to close the gap like living tissue. The guest lunged again, hands outstretched for Guinevere's face, mouth still screaming:

"Take off your mask! Tear off your face! Join us!"

Guinevere slammed a foot into its chest, halting its advance. With a twist of his sword, he sliced the rest of the creature's head clean off, then spun in a wide arc. Two more slashes chopped off its arms.

Though the simulation stripped him of artifacts and abilities, his swordsmanship—especially the Supreme Technique and his Windmill Slash—was self-trained. And that training remained.

These things were undead. Decapitation wouldn't stop them. Severing limbs to stall their movement was all he could do.

Yet from the creature's stumps, those same white tendrils began snaking toward him again. Guinevere shuddered.

No more dueling. He turned and ran, cleaving through tentacles as he went.

He first looked toward the archways where he had entered—but they were now swarming with guests. No way through.

Instead, he veered left toward a large terrace. Fewer guests blocked that way.

Thanks to countless simulations—and especially the escape from the Mors horde in Norwich—Guinevere weaved through the crowd, his sword whirling like an electric fan. After slashing away several more limbs and tendrils, he burst onto the balcony.

It was a semicircle, open to a cliffside view. Below, waves lapped at a vast lake. Just beyond the water, a patch of land led into the fog.

A possible escape route.

To the right, protruding rocks jutted from the cliff. About four to five meters below them, a small secluded courtyard could be seen. Two pale-faced guards looked up at him from within, seemingly watching.

A choice: jump into the lake and swim for land—or jump onto the rocks, risk a bad fall, and then try to reach the courtyard and deal with the guards?

The lake seemed safer.

Yet Guinevere hesitated.

The water below... wasn't right. The inky depths seemed to devour light. And as he stared into it, he felt—not saw, but felt—something gazing back.

Just then—a whoosh behind him.

He dropped to the balcony floor just in time to avoid a slashing arm.

Before the undead guest could strike again, Guinevere seized it by the collar and hurled it into the lake.

It thrashed mid-air, flailing helplessly. And then—splash—into the black.

Bubbles. Silence.

"Got it."

Guinevere immediately abandoned all thoughts of the lake. With a few more dodges, he leapt for the protruding stone.

There, he paused for a heartbeat—scanned the guards' flintlocks and the stone walls nearby—then jumped down into the courtyard.

The guards stepped forward, swords raised.

Midair, Guinevere kicked off the wall, changing trajectory—and brought his sword down in a deadly vertical slash.

It split one guard from crown to groin.

He released the sword mid-fall, rolled upon landing to absorb the impact.

But pain spiked in his foot.

Twisted ankle.

No time to worry—the second guard was upon him. Guinevere reached for the flintlock on the fallen guard's belt, raised it, and fired.

The bullet struck the guard's forehead. Black blood sprayed.

Yet the undead rose again.

Guinevere swung the musket like a club, smashing its face, then body-checked it into the lake.

He didn't stop. Grabbing the bisected guard's torso—whose writhing tendrils were already reaching to rejoin its lower half—he dragged it to the edge and tossed it into the water as well.

Only once he saw both guards sink into the depths with a trail of bubbles and no resistance did he relax.

This lake didn't just drown—it erased.

Thank the simulations. And that duel against Fairy Lancelot.

He had become, if not a legendary warrior, then at least a battle-hardened veteran.

Looking up toward the balcony, he locked eyes with the guests. None dared follow.

Good.

But then—they moved.

The guests collectively seized one of their own, tearing him into pieces. White tendrils fused the limbs together—forming a grotesque flesh bridge, flung forward onto the rocky ledge.

"…Oh hell."

As they began building a second bridge, Guinevere grabbed Queen Cassilda's sword and limped away as fast as he could.

But then—his pocket trembled.

The small yellow booklet.

He pulled it out.

The pages had changed again:

[A courtyard overlooking Lake Hali. The sky is a dull red, flecked with stars. A domed walkway stretches above. Potted trees stand along the columns. A stone bench rests to the left. This scene begins at night and ends at dawn.]

[(Bickle enters from the right; Bramchas from the left. Bramchas is tall, bearded; Bickle short and clean-shaven. Both wear Cossack-like gray uniforms, armed with muskets. Bramchas leans on his weapon.)]

Guinevere's blood ran cold.

That courtyard. Those props. That sky.

It was here.

The script continued. Strange dialogue. Cryptic warnings. The King in Yellow.

Guinevere raised his head.

All around him, the scene from the play came to life.

Just as he registered this, a powerful wind howled. The ground shook violently. He held onto the railing to avoid being blown away.

Then—just as suddenly—it stopped.

And so did the fog.

The skies cleared. Stars twinkled above. The ancient palace shone in full view.

But the stars…

Were going out.

Not dimming—but being devoured by black pits.

Black holes?

No.

He opened the booklet again. More text appeared:

[The towering city of Carcosa rises across the lake. Several spires pierce the heavens. A small malformed moon descends, obscuring one of the towers.]

Then—tremors.

From across the lake, countless towers erupted upward, scraping the heavens.

A malformed moon dropped slowly behind one of them.

That tower… it looked familiar.

An upside-down clock tower at its base. A dragon-like creature pierced through it.

When the backward-rotating clock struck "twelve," a ripple burst forth—turning into a windstorm that raised waves dozens of meters high.

"Shit!"

Guinevere ran up the stairs as the tsunami rolled in.

He didn't get far.

The wave engulfed him, slamming him through one ancient building after another. Bones cracked. Flesh tore. Organs ruptured.

Only luck kept his skull intact.

Barely alive, Guinevere drifted.

The architecture changed around him—back to Victorian London.

Was he in the city again?

He couldn't tell.

Bleeding out, limbs broken, he whispered:

"What... the hell is this…"

As darkness swallowed his vision, he saw a black spot in the sky.

Another extinguished star?

No—it was growing.

Not in the sky.

Above him.

A black hole descending upon the city.

He had no strength to run.

Then—the booklet flipped open on its own.

New text appeared:

[May the Black Star rise, as it always has.]

And with that, the blackness consumed him.

All sensations faded.

All light vanished.

All thought ceased.

Until—

A ripple passed through the void.

Something stirred.

Then a voice, from afar:

"Hey! You there! Wake up!"

Guinevere's eyes flew open.

A familiar face—Artoria.

"Artoria…?"

But this Artoria was different.

Bolder. Louder.

Roguish.

"A dream…?"

He sat up, dazed—and then he saw them.

A sword.

A yellow-bound booklet.

Queen Cassilda's sword.

And the booklet now titled:

The King in Yellow

"…Not a dream?"

As he stared, stunned, a hand smacked his head.

"Oi! How do you know that name?!"

The girl—identical to Artoria—grabbed his collar and yanked him close, face-to-face.

Only now did Guinevere notice her red-etched armor.

And realize who she was.

"You've met my father, haven't you?"

She stared deep into his eyes.

Word by word, Mordred asked:

"You've met the King, haven't you?"