Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

"Um… little sister, why are you here all alone? Where are your parents?"

Just as Mordred was about to step forward without a care, Guinevere grabbed her by the shoulder.

"Wait—don't go near her yet, Mordred."

"Huh? What's wrong?"

Mordred turned, surprised, but when she saw Guinevere's serious expression, she froze for a moment before realizing:

"That little girl… is something wrong with her?"

"…Like you, she's also a Servant—and a very dangerous one. Be on your guard," Guinevere said.

"Well said," Mordred nodded earnestly. "So what exactly is a Servant?"

…Damn, I forgot to explain what Servants and Heroic Spirits are.

"…In short, think of a Servant as someone incredibly powerful and deadly in combat," Guinevere whispered. "You might have lost some memories, but she fought us before. She's not as harmless as she looks… got it?"

"Understood…"

Mordred nodded, then carefully raised her sword at the girl, bracing herself to strike at the slightest provocation.

At the same time, the little girl noticed them. Her eyes lit up, and she set off across her short legs toward Guinevere and Mordred, calling happily as she ran:

"Mommy! Mommy!"

"Mommy?" Mordred blinked. "Why's she calling me mommy… or is she calling you? Is she your daughter?"

"Do you even hear yourself?" Guinevere snapped. "Look at me—do I look like a woman? How could I be a mother?"

"True… but…" Mordred hesitated. "…Still, it seems odd she's calling me."

"Jack the Ripper's quirk is calling everyone 'Mommy'!" Guinevere said lowly. "Don't let her cute looks fool you—she's not someone you can befriend. Get ready to fight."

"But… she isn't showing any intent to attack?"

Mordred pointed at the approaching white‑haired girl, doubt on her face.

"I sense no hostility, and she's unarmed… Sorry, but if she shows no threat, as a knight‑in‑training, I can't just swing my sword at a little girl."

This is unbelievable—Mordred hesitating on Jack the Ripper? No one would ever believe it! Normally she'd strike without hesitation, but here she truly wants to be a noble knight.

While they whispered, the little girl reached them, looked up at Mordred with shining eyes, and called:

"Mommy!"

Mordred's sword rose in front of her as she said coolly:

"Stop."

The girl obediently stopped, blinked at the sword, and reached out to touch its blade—an innocent gesture that made Mordred's eye twitch.

"Um… little one, where is your mother? Why are you here alone?"

Mordred asked gently. "Do you need me to take you to her?"

But the girl didn't answer. She simply shook her head and pointed to Mordred:

"Mommy!"

"Er… you must have the wrong person," Mordred said, embarrassed. "I'm not your mother…"

"Mommy?" The girl's eyes filled with tears. "Y‑you don't want me anymore?"

Mordred stepped back, distancing herself. She turned to Guinevere, whispering:

"Are you sure she's dangerous? I feel no hostility from her."

"…I'm not certain," Guinevere admitted. "Perhaps she really is harmless… for now."

Mordred cast him an exasperated look. "So what do we do? Should we take her to her mother?"

"You won't find her," Guinevere said. "She's not human. At her core she's a collection of grudging spirits—the aborted children of Whitechapel, bound by the desire to return to a mother's womb. They've murdered several women in their search for that home. That's who she is… do you understand?"

"Aborted… spirits?" Mordred's eyes went wide. Even her sword hand hovered uncertainly.

"…In that case," Mordred said after a moment's thought, "we should keep her with us. I'll… act as her 'mother' for now. How about that?"

"?" Guinevere's eye twitched. "Do you hear yourself? You want to pretend to mother a spirit that wants to crawl inside your womb? Are you sure you're the real Mordred?"

"Um… is that not allowed? And why does it matter whether I'm Mordred or not? Is there another Mordred in this world?" Mordred asked innocently. She then pointed at the unarmed little girl. "She's unarmed, right? We can watch her. If she moves suspiciously, I'll strike."

Mordred even gave Guinevere a conspiratorial wink. "Don't worry—I've trained a long time. I'm quick to act."

"Fine…" Guinevere sighed, stepping back and resting his hand on his sword hilt—silent approval.

After all, it made sense: Mordred had no memory of fighting Jack the Ripper in this dream‑world, so she couldn't bring herself to strike a child. And she truly was a capable swordswoman (that one clean beheading of the werewolf proved it).

"But," Guinevere warned, looking at the still‑bright sky, "keep to daylight. After night falls, stay away. Once night comes, she'll fulfill all conditions for her Noble Phantasm—instant death at her whim. You will be dead, no matter your skill. Understand?"

"Understood. Thanks for the warning."

Mordred nodded, then approached the little girl—who looked on with hopeful eyes. But as she neared, she realized she had no idea how to comfort a child. Seeing tears in the girl's eyes, she froze… then looked to Guinevere for help.

Guinevere's brow furrowed—this was surreal. A toddler‑Mordred pretending to mother a spirit‑toddler? He sighed.

"Alright… follow my lead," he said calmly. "Speak softly."

"Okay!" Mordred said, nodding earnestly.

He drew a steady breath and spoke:

"There, there—don't cry, don't cry. Mommy's here… are you okay?"

Mordred repeated word‑for‑word, gently:

"There, there—don't cry, don't cry. Mommy's here… are you okay?"

Satisfied, Guinevere nodded. Then:

"Good. Now, gently pat her head."

Mordred dutifully echoed:

"Good. Gently pat her head."

"?" Guinevere raised an eyebrow. "Wait—you—"

"You—" Mordred mimicked.

"Hey, what the heck—" Guinevere exploded. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Making fun?" Mordred blinked. "What does that even mean?"

Guinevere squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. No anger—she was just a child after all, anxious to "mother" and flubbed the words.

He opened his eyes again—and saw the girl actually patting her head. Then, noticing Guinevere's furious expression, she laughed:

"Wow! It really works!"

Mordred spun around and gave Guinevere a thumbs‑up:

"You're amazing!"

Guinevere was speechless—what else to do but go with it?

He was pretty sure he'd stumbled into a nursery-themed singularity where he was the only teacher—and a male one, at that.

…In the end, bizarre as it was, it worked—more or less. Mordred gently took the little girl's hand—let's call her Little Jack—and told her to come along to the police station. The child happily agreed, as long as Mordred held her hand.

Mordred worried briefly that Little Jack's stride might be too short—but to her surprise, the child proved incredibly hardy, even outpacing Guinevere at times. She gazed around curiously but never pestered them or slowed them down.

Guinevere, formerly convinced of imminent danger, now began to doubt himself… until something shifted.

They hadn't noticed as dusk fell. A distant bell tolled, and the sky's light shifted subtly.

Mordred saw it first. "Hey? Why is the light red… Why's the sky turning dark red?"

"No, that's wrong…" Guinevere said, his expression darkening. He'd seen this sky before—back when he first emerged from the Queen's chambers in the dream.

"The sky turns this color at night… oh, right!" He snapped his fingers—someone in that house had warned that London—no, "Iri" after all these changes—became far more dangerous after dark.

What danger awaited once night fell?

As Guinevere pondered, Mordred uttered a low cry, clutching her head and trembling.

"What's wrong, Mordred?!" he called out.

"My… head…!" she groaned, pressing her palm to her temple. "It hurts… like it's splitting open… something… something is surfacing in my mind… like the memory of my trainee‑knight days?"

"Training memories?" Guinevere asked, stunned. Had she regained some memories? Why now…?

Then he looked upward at the faint red glow in the sky—there! The moon's position. In that dream, the moon had been red: a blood moon.

"Could the blood moon's rise be affecting Servants in the dream?"

"No—wait—if that's true…" he said, frowning. He stepped forward, eyes shifting past Mordred to Little Jack.

Hadn't the housekeeper mentioned a weeping child spirit?

And in that moment, a soft crying echoed from before them, confirming his fear.

Guinevere's heart sank as he saw Little Jack clutching her head, surrounded by dark, vengeful mist—like restless souls rising around her.