Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

But contrary to Gawain's sarcasm, the young Jack standing across from him seemed completely unfazed. Her eyes were fixed only on Gawain—on Gawain, now in a woman's body.

"Mommy!"

She bounced forward two steps and spread her arms, as if asking for a hug.

"Mommy,"

she repeated again.

"...Sigh."

Looking at Jack's expectant little face, Gawain let out a soft sigh. After glancing around for a moment, she suddenly bolted off in a certain direction.

"Mommy?"

Puzzled, Jack followed after her—only to see Gawain rummaging through a nearby trash bin, pulling out a chunk of wood. One end of it had a twisted nail embedded in it, lending the otherwise ordinary stick a bit of lethality.

Then, gripping the stick tightly in her hand, Gawain turned back toward the little girl trailing behind.

Ever since she had been dragged into this space—this illusion or whatever it was—all of Gawain's original weapons had disappeared. Looking around, this was the best makeshift weapon she could find.

"Mommy…"

Seeing the look on Gawain's face, Jack shrank back slightly and took a cautious half-step away, fear creeping into her expression.

"You don't like us… do you?"

"It's not about liking or not liking,"

Gawain said, lowering her eyelids and approaching slowly with the stick in hand, her voice tinged with resignation.

"You're pitiful… I know. I do feel sympathy for you."

"But—"

Raising the stick high, she continued,

"I'm sorry. As a vengeful spirit who keeps seeking out new targets and killing them... you don't deserve to live in this world."

Then, she swung the stick downward, the nail-tipped end aimed straight at Jack.

But at that moment, Jack suddenly ducked, dodging the blow. She turned and sprinted away on her tiny legs.

She was surprisingly fast. Gawain tried to give chase, but her high heels slowed her down. In frustration, she kicked them off and began running barefoot.

Even so, the time lost removing the shoes allowed Jack to widen the gap between them. By the time Gawain turned a corner into an even darker street, the little girl had vanished.

Stick in hand, Gawain scanned the area, searching for any sign of Jack. Just then, she heard a faint series of footsteps from behind.

She tried to turn, but was too late—Jack had already leapt onto her back. A glint of steel flashed: a small, rusted dagger stabbed directly into her.

Caught off guard by the ambush, Gawain staggered forward in pain.

Behind her, she heard Jack let out an ecstatic gasp.

"Wow!"

As blood spurted from Gawain's wound and splattered across her, Jack's eyes lit up. With the innocent voice of a child, she exclaimed:

"So warm!"

But in the next moment, Gawain rammed herself sideways into a wall, shifting her weight and slamming Jack into the stone.

"Ah—!"

Jack cried out in pain. Her grip on the dagger loosened, and she began to slide off. But Gawain had already turned around, gripping the stick like a sword.

With a heavy swing, she struck Jack square in the face.

The nail punched through her eye socket and smashed her head against the wall with a sickening crunch.

Then, with a sharp tug, Gawain yanked the stick free. The embedded nail tore out Jack's eyeball along with it—red and white gore mixing together in a grotesque display.

Gawain didn't flinch. She raised the stick again and brought it down on the trembling, twitching Jack huddled in the corner—over and over, until blood splattered in all directions.

After a few more blows, Jack stopped moving. Still unconvinced, Gawain landed several more strikes before finally stepping back and gasping for breath, leaning on the stick.

It wasn't just her appearance—in this illusion, her body had indeed been replaced by that of a common prostitute. Her strength and stamina had dropped accordingly. That brief chase and skirmish had already left her winded.

And yet, even now, she couldn't relax.

This wasn't over. The third stage of the nightmare spawn couldn't be this simple. As long as she remained in this body, the illusion hadn't ended.

But how was she supposed to break free? If killing Jack wasn't the key, what else was left?

Or… was this just another phase? Did she have to endure even more scenes to finally destroy this nightmare spawn?

As these thoughts swirled, her vision suddenly blurred. A wave of dizziness hit her like a tidal surge. When her surroundings came back into focus, the scene had changed again.

The sound of rushing water reached her ears. Gawain realized she was now standing by the Thames.

Ahead, she saw a woman dressed similarly to herself, holding what appeared to be a lump of flesh, half-wrapped in cloth, oozing blood.

No… not a lump of flesh. It was a baby.

A tiny, malformed baby, barely the size of a hand, its body covered in blood and filth.

It was a fetus—no more than two months along. Limbs barely separated, skin not yet formed, the deep red shape curled in on itself like a clump of meat.

The woman gazed down at the tiny thing, tears trailing down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry. I really am… But I can't give birth to you."

"If you want to blame something, blame this world… This world doesn't allow you to be born."

Crying softly, she gently tossed the tiny fetus into the dark waters of the Thames.

No great splash followed. The small life vanished into the black tide, swallowed by the relentless current of a dark and unfeeling era.

"No wonder…"

Staring into the inky river, Gawain suddenly understood something.

No wonder the mission description had said that Jack, as an embodiment of accumulated resentment, resonated with the countless wrongful deaths in London…

They were all the same—innocent souls crushed beneath an unstoppable shadow.

The First Industrial Revolution: one of humanity's most important epochs. A time of invention, genius, progress. Great minds carved their names into history with ink, sword, machine, and brilliance.

But no matter how dazzling the progress, the darkness born alongside human society never vanished. It evolved in tandem with the light, growing stronger in the shadows behind the grandeur.

The more brilliant the miracle of civilization, the more immense the shadow it cast.

Behind the shining legacies of human pioneers lay the crushed bones of the forgotten. Individuals buried beneath the dust of that relentless age.

Among them, the prostitutes of London—those who traded their bodies just to claim a tiny corner in the gleaming city—how could they find the strength to protect the small lives that accidentally sprouted in their wombs?

Naturally, the only fate awaiting such unwanted children… was a splash in the Thames.

Whether it was those unborn babies or the prostitutes butchered by Jack the Ripper, in the eyes of history, they were nothing but ripples in the water.

The unstoppable era to them… was like the cosmic terrors of a Lovecraftian mythos. Unknowable. Unopposable. Fate itself.

Then, once again, Gawain's vision blurred. The scenery around her remained unchanged, but the woman ahead had become someone else—another prostitute, holding another malformed fetus, slightly larger this time.

"I'm sorry... I can't be your mother. If I keep you, I'll starve too…"

"Wait, stop—!"

Gawain tried to speak, but the woman had already flung the baby into the river.

Another splash. Another change.

The third woman. The fetus again a little larger.

"I'm sorry, my child… This world doesn't bless your birth."

"Wait—!"

Another splash. Another shift.

Fourth woman. The baby now almost the size of a full-term infant.

Gawain tried to run, but her body was too weak. She took two steps—and the child was gone.

Then the fifth. The sixth. The seventh…

The babies grew larger, but each splash was just as small. And Gawain could do nothing.

On the ninth scene, something changed.

There was no woman. Only the river.

Then she heard crying—from her arms.

Looking down, Gawain found a fully developed newborn lying in her embrace.

A real baby.

Eyes open, arms reaching up toward her, babbling incoherently as if asking for a hug.

So that's it. This time, she was the mother.

Staring at the infant, her eyes grew complicated.

"What are you trying to say...? That even you wanted to be born?"

"But it's too late. You're dead. Even your vengeful spirit was exorcised by a passing magus. What remains is a shadow of the past—a mere fragment of a nightmare."

"You... will never be born into this world."

At her words, the baby suddenly stopped moving.

A thick black mist began to seep from her body. The anguished wail of a baby rang out, piercing Gawain's ears like needles, invading her mind.

And then—just like that—the illusion shattered.

The river, the night, the pain all vanished.

Gawain's body rapidly returned to her true form.

Only the baby in her arms remained the same, crying loudly.

And in those cries, she heard Jack's distant, broken voice:

"...I want... to go back... into Mommy's belly..."

"—" Gawain gritted her teeth.

"What happened?"

A voice came from behind her. Even without looking, Gawain knew it was Mordred.

Reunited at last.

But her presence only strengthened Gawain's resolve.

Holding the baby high, Gawain muttered,

"Sorry... but the only place you can return to... is the Throne of Heroes."

Then, she swung the baby down, head-first, toward the ground.

But the expected splatter never came.

Instead, a blinding pain struck Gawain's skull—like being hit with a sledgehammer.

She collapsed instantly.

Though nothing seemed to touch her, blood began to seep from her scalp, dyeing half her face red.

Unbearable pain. Dizziness. Deafening ringing. Her vision blurred.

She could no longer think.

Then the baby moved.

Clutching two tiny daggers in its little fists—struggling, comically—it began to crawl toward the fallen Gawain.

As it did, it accidentally cut its own hand—but the wound vanished instantly.

Instead, a deep gash opened on Gawain's palm.

"What the hell…"

He groaned, suddenly noticing a long umbilical cord connecting his belly button to the baby's.

Their fates… had become one.

"Oh come on…"

Realizing resistance was useless, Gawain gave up struggling.

The ringing grew louder. The hallucinations and psychic trauma had taken everything from him.

Just then, as the baby reached Gawain, lifting a dagger toward his throat—another hand reached in.

Mordred.

At last.

She grabbed the baby's tiny hand.

And even as the baby tried to stab her with the other dagger, Mordred didn't resist—she simply picked the child up and held her close.

"There, there... Don't cry. Mommy's here…"

Jack kept stabbing. Over and over.

Mordred winced in pain, biting her lip, but never let go.

Then, softly, she said:

"You kept saying… you wanted to return to your mother's womb, right?"

"But… I think I understand. What you truly wanted… was warmth. Love. Because the womb is a place filled with warmth and love."

The stabbing stopped.

"I get it. I really do… Because I wanted that too."

"That's why I understand you. That's why… I want to grant your wish."

She gently stroked Jack's head.

"I can't let you into my womb… But I can give you a warm hug. Will that do?"

"Really?"

The baby looked up at her, her voice faint.

"You're not lying?"

"Of course not," Mordred smiled. "I'm going to be a king. Kings don't lie."

"Can we… call you Mommy?"

Jack asked, as the last of the dark mist melted away from her body.

"You already asked that, remember?" Mordred replied. "My answer hasn't changed."

"Then... is it really okay?"

Jack asked one last time, a trace of worry in her small face.

"They all said… we weren't meant to be born. That we weren't blessed…"

"So what?"

Mordred smiled down at her.

"Neither was I."

At those words, the final trace of resentment vanished from Jack's body.

She reverted to her original form—the little girl they had first encountered.

Looking up at Mordred's face, Jack softly whispered,

"Mommy?"

"Mm," Mordred nodded gently.

"I'm here."

And with that, all the ominous visions melted away.

Gawain and the others returned to where they had begun.