Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

"Unlucky, unlucky, unlucky, unlucky—!"

Guinevere bolted down the streets of London, sword in hand, scrambling and stumbling as he fled in sheer panic.

This was just his luck. Normally, with the Strength rank he'd gotten from the blacksmith—still within human limits, technically, but enhanced enough to outmatch regular monsters—he'd be able to hold his own. Especially when combined with his outstanding swordsmanship.

But no, it just had to be a Servant.

The moment he recognized Jack the Ripper, he dropped the idea of fighting altogether, turned on his heel, and bolted in the direction where Mordred had vanished earlier, shouting as he ran:

"Mordred! Where the hell are you?! Save me, I'm seriously gonna die here—!"

Mid-sprint, he suddenly ducked low and dove forward. Just then, a petite figure zipped past, missing him by a hair's breadth. The dagger she'd aimed at him struck only air.

"Huh?"

"Eh?"

He heard two startled voices—one nearby, one farther away—but didn't even glance back. He turned sharply and fled in a different direction.

Moments later, he sidestepped again, narrowly avoiding another ambush from Jack.

"So weird..."

After two failed attacks, Jack tilted her head and asked curiously:

"Big brother, do you have eyes on the back of your head? You keep running forward, but always dodge our attacks just in time!"

Guinevere didn't answer. He just darted into a side street and disappeared around the next corner.

"You can't run away forever, big brother~"

Jack wasn't mad. She grinned, picked up her dual daggers, and dashed after him.

As she reached the corner, a sword was already swinging at her face, lying in wait.

"Oh my, big brother does know how to surprise people!"

Unfazed, she ducked under the strike and moved in close, aiming her dagger for Guinevere's chest—but his sword, having finished its wide arc, was already coming back around for another slash.

"So fast—!"

Pressed back by the whirlwind of sword strikes, Jack zipped around Guinevere like a blur. Within a second, she was behind him, ready to strike—

—but his eyes were following her every move, and the sword in his hand followed his gaze. When she lunged, it met her blade.

Clang!

Steel clashed with steel. His sword shot upward, but Jack's motion stalled too.

It was a classic blade lock: heavier weapon versus quicker one. Normally, the one with the lighter weapon would recover faster and regain the upper hand.

Jack didn't understand combat theory—not really. Born from the collective resentment of unborn children, she moved purely on instinct. But even she knew one thing: she was faster.

Which was why the blade that came whipping toward her face a moment later utterly shocked her.

With a sharp slash, she leapt back. A few silver strands of hair drifted down. A shallow cut bloomed on her cheek.

"...Huh?"

She touched her face and looked at the blood on her fingers, then at Guinevere, confusion in her eyes.

"So strange... Big brother, your sword is really fast. But it's so much heavier than ours! Are you cheating?"

"Cough, cough cough—"

Guinevere suddenly dropped to one knee, wracked by a fit of coughing. White smoke rose from his skin, and his flesh hissed like it was being corroded.

"Damn it... Dark Fog of London..."

He glanced at his trembling right hand, sighed, and muttered:

"Cheating? Nah. That's just swordplay—using the rebound from a parried strike to instantly launch the next one. Basic mechanics, really... You wanna talk cheating? Let's talk about your Noble Phantasm."

Although he'd become a skip-happy speedrunner in Fate/Grand Order once the game hit 2.0, Guinevere used to be a lore-obsessed fan. He recognized Jack's Noble Phantasm instantly:

—Barrier-Type Noble Phantasm: "Dark Fog of London."

It was inspired by Jack's MO—always killing under cover of heavy fog—and enhanced with the legacy of London's historical smog disasters, particularly the Great Smog of 1952 that killed thousands. Because in the Nasuverse, popular imagination can shape a Heroic Spirit's powers.

So this fog wasn't just for show. It corroded the flesh and saturated the air with magic particles. For an ordinary person, prolonged exposure was fatal.

Unfortunately, Guinevere was exactly that: an ordinary person.

The fog wasn't what killed you—but it would definitely mess you up.

"'Swordplay... rebound force...' We don't really get what you're saying, big brother!"

Jack beamed as she nodded enthusiastically.

"But since you're so strong, we'll stop playing and get serious now!"

With that, she took a crouching stance, like a predator ready to pounce. Purple light shimmered along her blades, and she began to chant:

"—From this moment forth, let Hell begin."

Guinevere groaned aloud.

"Oh come on, you're seriously popping your Noble Phantasm now?!"

But Jack was in her own world, continuing her incantation:

"—We are flame. We are rain. We are power..."

Realizing it was no use, Guinevere turned his head and shouted:

"Mordred! Are you seriously just going to keep watching?! If you don't help me now, I'm dead!"

From above came a faint tsk of annoyance.

"—Slaughter descends upon this place."

"—Maria the Ripper!"

Just as Jack's chant concluded and she lunged forward, a horned figure dropped from the sky. A massive crimson blade carved an arc through the air, swinging straight at Jack.

She reacted quickly—redirecting her blades toward the attacker—but she had no time to reset her Noble Phantasm's target.

Her knives were smacked away, and the sword came down hard. Though she barely dodged, the tip still carved into her chest and abdomen, spraying blood.

"Ugh—That hurt! You—!"

Clutching her wound, Jack screamed. She looked up to shout again, only to see the armored warrior stepping forward and swinging a second time without hesitation.

She barely avoided the strike and vanished into the fog, escaping with her high agility and her Assassin-class stealth.

"Tch, quick little brat..."

The armored warrior clicked her tongue, then turned toward Guinevere.

"Oi. You still alive?"

"Hah..."

Relieved, Guinevere flopped onto his back, totally spent.

"Thanks to you? Barely. A little later and I'd be toast."

"That how you talk to someone who just saved your life?" she grumbled.

Her helmet split apart with a hiss of mechanical parts, collapsing into her shoulder armor. Her horns folded down. Mordred's face appeared.

"If you'd saved me the moment you returned, I might have been a bit more grateful," Guinevere said wryly. "But I heard your voice back when I dodged her first attack. You were already watching, weren't you?"

He held up his fingers to show a small gap.

"So yeah. Still grateful, but not that much."

"Hah!"

Mordred stomped up and kicked him back to the ground.

"Want me to just leave you here to die instead?"

"You won't."

Lying there lazily, Guinevere sighed.

"You still need me to find your father, remember? You won't let me die."

"...Shit."

Well, that was inconvenient.

She had realized it was a trap and rushed back quickly—but seeing Guinevere get chased around so pathetically had... amused her.

It felt good, honestly. Especially knowing he might have ties to her "dear old dad."

Hero saves clown? What a setup. Might as well let him suffer a bit first and then demand answers later. But she hadn't expected to get caught watching.

Mordred coughed awkwardly and turned her head.

"I was just... assessing your strength. I don't want to be dragging deadweight around, especially if you're too weak to help find my father."

"Sure, sure," Guinevere rolled his eyes. "So, what's the verdict?"

"Eh. Passable, I guess. Physically pathetic, but your swordplay and little tricks are interesting."

She picked up his sword and examined it.

"Using the reflection to track me while running? Not bad. Clever enough."

"Oh, I'm honored."

"But—" she suddenly changed tone, "you're too soft. You had a clear shot to take her head off, and you pulled the strike. Why?"

"You hesitated because she looked like a kid, didn't you?"

"Huh?"

Guinevere blinked, then laughed bitterly.

So she misunderstood.

He never hesitated. He wanted Jack dead. But the problem was...

He just couldn't.

He glanced at his trembling right hand.

He'd barely held his ground against her. Her strength was monstrous, her agility terrifying. And during their blade clash, his right hand—the one guiding the sword—had taken the brunt of the shock.

In Meyer's German longsword style, it's the left hand that generates force, and the right that fine-tunes control.

But after that parry, his right hand was toast.

No control, no kill shot.

And Mordred had taken it as mercy.

He opened his mouth to explain, but then Mordred spoke again.

"You know, that kind of naive idealism... reminds me of someone I hate. But at least I won't have to worry about you stabbing me in the back."

"...?"

Guinevere blinked.

Wait... Did this misunderstanding actually work out in his favor?

Sensing that, he immediately decided not to correct her.

"Well then," Mordred said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I guess that means we're officially partners now."

"No objections," Guinevere nodded.

Though... her voice sounded a bit weaker than before?

"Good," she said. "Now take me to your base... I just need to... rest a little..."

And with that, her eyes rolled back—and she collapsed.

Guinevere flinched too late, letting her fall with a loud thud.

...Wait, what?

He stared, utterly baffled.