Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

Why did she suddenly pass out...?

Could she have been injured during the fight with Jack?

It made sense. After all, it was nighttime, and the thick fog only made things worse. If Jack's Noble Phantasm targeted women, then unless a Servant had curse resistance or some kind of defense skill, they'd be insta-killed on contact.

Even though Mordred didn't seem to be injured in the fight, Jack's Noble Phantasm could be activated from a distance. If Mordred was hit by even a fraction of its aftermath, it would be enough to cause her harm.

With that in mind, Guinevere immediately knelt down, reaching out to check Mordred's condition.

But... he quickly ran into a problem.

Even if Mordred didn't kill him on the spot for daring to examine her body under the guise of checking injuries—how the hell was he supposed to check her condition through that armor?

He frowned at her rigid, heavy-looking full plate.

As Guinevere stared, puzzled and frustrated, he suddenly heard a strange sound coming from Mordred.

He blinked, momentarily stunned. And then, when he realized what the sound was, his expression turned... complicated.

For a moment, he felt like an idiot for having panicked so much, scrambling around like a headless chicken.

"She's just... asleep?!"

Mordred was snoring.

Letting out a long sigh, Guinevere grabbed hold of her armor and hoisted her onto his back with some difficulty.

"Unbelievable... If you're gonna make me carry you all the way back to base, at least de-materialize your armor first. This thing weighs a ton! I'm tired too, you know..."

Yawning, Guinevere adjusted her weight on his back, quickly got his bearings, and began heading toward his temporary residence.

Since this place had now been transformed into the Fourth Singularity, it was dangerous to linger. If another monster showed up while Mordred was snoozing on his back, he'd be totally screwed.

Wait—hold on.

After just a few steps, Guinevere suddenly froze in place. His face darkened.

Mordred. Mordred was a Servant.

Servants didn't need sleep. Especially not in an unsecured location, surrounded by who-knew-what kind of threats. Hell, even he—someone native to this place—didn't dare fall asleep here.

So how could Mordred?

Which meant... there was only one possibility.

She hadn't fallen asleep by choice. Something was affecting her, forcing her into slumber. Some kind of external influence.

And it wasn't just her. He was feeling it too.

He had just woken from a deep, nightmarish sleep. By all logic, he should've been fine, but now, that heavy wave of exhaustion was back, so intense it made his knees tremble.

He could barely keep his eyes open.

Clenching his jaw, Guinevere made up his mind and stabbed his own thigh with his sword, hoping the pain would snap him out of it.

It didn't work. The sleepiness crushed the pain in seconds, and his body began to sway uncontrollably.

"Damn... it... I can't... sleep here..."

"I need... to find... a safe place..."

The streets of this version of London were far too dangerous. If he passed out here, he really would be done for.

Gathering the last dregs of his willpower, Guinevere scanned his surroundings until his eyes landed on a house nearby, half-choked in tall weeds. He dashed over, raised his sword, and smashed it down through the doorframe, slicing through the lock and the wooden beam barring the entrance.

One powerful kick later, the door burst open. He hauled Mordred inside.

"Hello?! Anyone in here?!"

No response.

Dumping Mordred on the floor, he slammed the door shut, jammed her ridiculously large sword across the handles as a makeshift barricade, and sprinted deeper into the house.

Luckily, the house was small—just two stories, barely a few dozen square meters. In seconds, he confirmed it was empty, then chose a small, enclosed room on the second floor.

He rushed back to the entrance.

At this point, his body was on the verge of collapse. There was no way he could carry Mordred upstairs properly. So he just grabbed her by the leg armor and started dragging her.

Naturally, this meant her head bounced along the floor, knocking against every stair step on the way up. It sounded like some strange percussion instrument from a futuristic jazz band.

Was it a pleasant sound? If so, maybe it was a pleasant head.

But there was no time to care.

Guinevere himself was barely staying upright. He just needed to get them to safety—now.

He finally dragged Mordred into the room, slammed the door shut, and toppled a wardrobe to block the entrance.

It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.

Just as Guinevere allowed himself a brief thought of relief, the wardrobe's doors swung open... and a corpse rolled out.

It had clearly been dead for a while. Its twisted face stared directly at him.

"...Goddammit. The damn closet really was haunted."

Muttering under his breath, Guinevere gave in. His head drooped, and he collapsed into unconsciousness.

When Guinevere next opened his eyes, everything was exactly as he had left it—the overturned wardrobe, the layout of the room...

Except the corpse was gone.

He blinked. Then frowned.

Wait—where's the body?

The answer came quickly. Because he could now hear it.

Heavy breathing... right behind his head.

Without hesitation—perhaps out of pure reflex—Guinevere dove forward, just as a loud "CRACK" sounded behind him, like jaws snapping shut.

He twisted around.

A gaping maw lunged at him.

"MODRED! LITTLE HELP HERE?!"

Guinevere screamed as he threw up his hands and managed to wedge them into the creature's jaws, halting its bite by inches.

Now he could see it.

A werewolf.

Two meters tall, blood-red eyes, starving and feral. Tattered clothes still clung to its body—clothes that matched exactly what the corpse had been wearing.

Not that it mattered.

The creature's breath reeked. Guinevere could see blood strands and brown-yellow gunk clinging between its teeth.

He wanted to run—but the beast's powerful claws gripped his shoulders, pulling his head closer and closer to its maw.

"Screw this!!"

Just as those jaws were about to close, Guinevere raised his knee and kicked the werewolf square in the groin.

Blessedly, werewolves still felt pain. Real pain.

The monster howled, doubling over, giving Guinevere just enough time to wrench himself free. He drew his sword and swung at its neck.

The blade met resistance—its hide was thick—and only carved a shallow wound.

Worse, the werewolf turned its glowing red eyes on him again.

"Ah... crap."

Guinevere smiled nervously.

"Peace treaty?"

With a snarl, the werewolf backhanded him across the room. He smashed through the wardrobe and the door, tumbling down the stairs to the first floor.

When he finally managed to sit up, dazed and bleeding, he saw...

Mordred.

She was sitting at the base of the stairs, staring into space.

Her armor was gone, replaced by a traveler's cloak and tunic that looked... outdated. Her long ponytail had unraveled and now fell loosely over her shoulders. Her face looked... softer. Younger.

Like she had aged backward.

Still... it was definitely Mordred.

Thank God.

"MODRED! THERE'S A DAMNED WEREWOLF UPSTAIRS! KILL IT!"

He yelled.

But Mordred just blinked at him, confused.

"Who are you calling Mordred? And who are you? How dare you shout at a prince?"

"...What?"

Guinevere blinked.

"If you're not Mordred, then who the hell are you?"

"I am Prince Vortigern, son of Queen Cassilda!"

She puffed out her chest with pride.

"Ca—Cassilda?"

Guinevere stared at her.

"Hah! Scared you with my royal lineage, did I?" she grinned. "Then kneel before—"

"Goddammit... I'm dreaming again."

Mordred blinked.

"Dreaming? What do you mean—AHH!"

The werewolf dropped from above, landing right beside them, roaring.

Mordred screamed.

Guinevere cursed under his breath. This version of Mordred was clearly useless.

He bolted.

"I'M NOT STAYING HERE TO DIE!"

"Wait! Don't leave me alone!"

Mordred scrambled after him—but slipped and faceplanted.

The werewolf turned its attention to her.

"HELP ME! PLEASE!"

Hearing her panicked, tearful scream, Guinevere's steps faltered.

"Damn it... Why is dream-Mordred such a damn crybaby?"

Cursing again, he turned back, yanked Mordred's sword from the doorway, and charged in.

He hurled the massive sword like a spear.

The werewolf flinched, avoiding a fatal hit, but still took the blade to the shoulder, roaring in pain.

Guinevere followed up with a kick that drove the sword deeper, then switched to another blade—the so-called "Queen Cassilda" sword—and lunged for its mouth.

Having learned from last time, he aimed for the soft parts.

The werewolf snapped its jaws shut just in time, clamping onto the blade. Another paw came swinging.

This time, Guinevere wasn't fast enough.

It tore across his chest, gouging three deep wounds, and sent him flying into a barrel, which shattered on impact.

His sword skittered away—landing at Mordred's feet.

The werewolf advanced on Guinevere again.

"MODRED! DO SOMETHING!"

But nothing came.

Once more, the werewolf struck.

Guinevere tried to dodge, but it was no use. He was too wounded.

The creature's claw skewered his shoulder, pinning him to the floor.

It opened its jaws—

And then—

SPLURCH.

A wave of hot blood hit him.

A loud thump. Silence.

Only Mordred's panicked breathing and the sound of dripping blood remained.

Guinevere slowly opened one eye.

The werewolf's head was gone.

Its neck sprayed blood onto the floor.

Mordred stood nearby, her hands still wrapped around her oversized sword, her body soaked in gore.

It was a perfect strike. Clean. Fast. Accurate.

"…So you can fight when you want to," Guinevere muttered, finally collapsing onto his back.

"You waited until I was nearly dead just to make a dramatic entrance, huh?"

"Wha—No! I didn't mean to! I didn't want to let you die...!"

She looked on the verge of tears.

Guinevere blinked. Then sighed.

"…Okay, maybe you really aren't Mordred."

"If you don't want your savior to die," he said weakly, "you'd better find a first aid kit or something…"

But Mordred didn't move.

She stared at her sword. Then muttered her name a few times.

Suddenly, she jumped.

"Ah!"

"…What now?"

"I just remembered! I'm not Vortigern… I am Mordred!"

She straightened.

"Yes! That's right! I'm the daughter of the great King Arthur!"

"…The great King Arthur?"

Guinevere's expression twisted in horror.

"And you called yourself a girl?!"

This was not the Mordred he knew.

The Mordred he knew would explode if anyone praised Arthur. And she'd throw a fit if anyone called her a girl—or, conversely, insisted she wasn't. She was like a walking emotional landmine.

And yet...

She was clearly younger. Shorter. Softer.

"…So... uh, if you're Arthur's kid, does that mean you've joined the Round Table yet?"

"Huh? No, of course not. I'm not even a knight," she said, scratching her cheek. "I only just found out I'm Arthur's daughter recently…"

"…Shit."

So this Mordred was still in her noob phase. Not even knighted yet.

Guinevere wanted to ask more.

But as the blood loss caught up to him, dizziness overwhelmed his senses.

His vision narrowed.

And then everything went black.