Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

She had a strange dream.

It felt distant, a little unpleasant, yet somehow nostalgic.

In the dream, she had returned to a time before she became a knight—a time when she had just learned about the royal blood of King Arthur flowing in her veins. Back then, she was filled with joy and trained hard every day, determined to one day become a knight worthy of standing at her father's side.

She wasn't like how she was now—brimming with resentment and anger toward her father. No, back then she was just an apprentice knight full of hope for the future.

Later in that dream, she had wandered into a bizarre place and encountered a bunch of equally bizarre people, embarking on a rather peculiar adventure together.

The specifics of that adventure had faded from her memory. But a few moments still lingered clearly—like how, for some reason, she ended up with a daughter in the dream.

Did the girl cling to her first, or did she adopt her on her own initiative…? She couldn't remember. That part was blurry.

But one thing was clear: she couldn't say no.

When that faceless girl had reached out to her, brimming with hopeful expectation, she simply couldn't turn away.

Maybe it was because her own lousy father had never once responded to her hopes. Maybe it was because he'd never given her even the tiniest bit of the love she'd long yearned for.

So when she saw a little girl so much like herself—longing for something she had been denied—it stirred something in her. She responded.

What exactly had she done? How had she responded? What did that girl even look like? What was her name?

She couldn't remember. But that was to be expected. Dreams were like that—blurry and fleeting.

Still, being able to fulfill that girl's hope had brought her a strange sense of peace.

Because, for once, it felt like she had finally done the right thing.

In hindsight, it was kind of laughable. Failing constantly in the real world, she somehow thought she could go into a dream and do the right thing there. As if that would make up for all the damage done to her heart.

But still… despite everything, that dream—however short it had been—had brought her joy.

It had barely begun before being abruptly cut off. But even just the beginning of a fantastical knight's adventure was enough to stir something inside her.

That dream, fleeting as it was, had brought back the most beautiful part of her soul.

It was just a shame that no matter how many times she tried to fall back asleep, the dream wouldn't return. The adventure had ended, and it left her with one deep regret:

She never got to thank the first, and most important, companion she had met on that journey.

As for what she wanted to thank him for—

"—Hey."

That voice snapped Mordred awake. Her eyes flew open, and she bolted upright.

And there, waving and casually greeting someone, stood a man.

The silhouette of her companion from the dream began to overlap with this man's face. Mordred quickly shut her eyes again and laid back down.

"I must still be dreaming."

"Hm? Why?"

Guinevere turned to look at her. "Am I really that unpleasant to wake up to?"

"Yes," Mordred replied coldly, reopening her eyes. "I can't accept the fact that my temporary partner is the kind of lunatic who says good morning to corpses."

"Oh come on," Guinevere shrugged with a grin. "I call that optimism. What, would you rather I screamed in terror like some horror movie cliché? That'd be embarrassing."

"So what's going on here?" Mordred cut to the point.

"What do you mean?"

"That corpse," Mordred said, her eyes narrowing. "I feel like he might be the landlord of this place or something. You crashed here for the night, so I figured it was only polite to say hello."

"BOOM!"

Without a word, Mordred casually unleashed a burst of red lightning from her blade, disintegrating the dried corpse and the wardrobe it had been slumped in.

She turned slowly to look at Guinevere, whose movements froze mid-gesture.

"I'm not in the mood for jokes. And I definitely don't want to hear any more of your trashy sense of humor. Understood?"

"Yes ma'am! Loud and clear!" Guinevere sat up straight like a student caught misbehaving.

"I remember this place… vaguely." Mordred's eyes scanned the room. "I think I saw it in that dream. Someone who looked like you said he knew me… Was this the place?"

"Yep," Guinevere nodded obediently. "And that corpse you just zapped was probably the werewolf we fought in the dream."

"Werewolf?" Mordred blinked. "Wait… yeah… I think I remember now. We fought a werewolf here, didn't we?"

"Exactly… You really don't remember much, do you?" Guinevere asked, puzzled. "You can't recall what we did in the dream world?"

"Dude, it was a dream. Who remembers those in detail? Wait—are you saying you remember everything that happened in the dream?"

"Yeah, why? Am I the only one?"

"Wait, if you remember everything, then that means…" Mordred suddenly perked up and grabbed Guinevere by the shoulder, her armored gauntlet digging into his skin.

"You remember… um…"

But halfway through, her expression turned puzzled.

"What? What do I remember?"

"I… don't know. I feel like I've forgotten something really important." She rubbed her temple in frustration. "Ugh. Whatever."

Not dwelling on it for long, she changed the subject.

"Anyway, you seem to know a lot about all this. Tell me—what the hell is going on here?"

"Well…"

Guinevere hesitated for a moment, then gently pushed her hand off his shoulder.

"I'm not entirely sure myself. That's why I need to check something before I can answer you properly."

"So this is the place you wanted to check?"

Stopping in front of a modest-looking house, Mordred frowned and eyed the building.

"Looks totally normal to me. Not much different from the last one."

"Well, that just means your instincts are sharp," Guinevere said in a deliberately smug tone. "Because yes—it is just a normal house."

Mordred glared at him. "Do you like wasting my time?"

"Chill, would you?" Guinevere smiled, pulling out the gun he had picked up earlier and stepped forward to knock.

"Hey buddy! It's us again! Say something if you're alive! Same rules as before—if you don't answer, I'm shooting the lock!"

As if to prove his point, he fired a shot into the air.

Before he could aim at the lock, hasty footsteps echoed from within, followed by a familiar voice.

"Wait, wait! Don't shoot the lock! If you break it, the fog's gonna come in—wait a second… Didn't I say that before?"

There was a pause, then the man inside seemed to realize something.

"Oh! I remember now! It's you two! You were just in my dream, weren't you?!"

Guinevere's eyes lit up. "Hey, so you remember us?"

"Sort of… fuzzy, but yeah. Didn't you ask me some stuff in the dream?"

"Exactly," Guinevere said. "Sounds like you only remember part of it, huh?"

"Yeah…"

"And you're not surprised to see us in both places," Guinevere added, "which means you already knew the dream was connected to this reality."

"I mean… yeah? Isn't that obvious?"

"Did you forget who I said I was in the dream?" Guinevere grinned. "I'm an exorcist—sent here to investigate the anomalies in this area. Naturally, I came back to ask a few more questions."

"Ohh! Right! Now I remember!" The man inside sounded excited. "Ask away! I'll tell you everything I know!"

"Great. First question: You know this is London, right?"

"Of course."

"Then why did you call it 'Ethi' in the dream?"

"Uh… did I?"

"What do you know about 'Ethi'?"

"Nothing. What is that?"

"Then how about these names: Cassiruda, Adonis, Ayla, Vochter. Ring any bells?"

"None."

So the residents of reality know nothing about the dream city… Guinevere thought. Must be preprogrammed memories embedded for the dream.

He continued, "Alright then, tell me—what exactly is going on in London right now?"

"Well… it's nothing too complicated," the man said. "It started about two weeks ago. No one knows if it's pollution or what, but the fog in London suddenly became… weird. Some folks say they saw strange dolls or robots in the mist—creatures that attack people."

"But you haven't seen them yourself?" Guinevere asked.

"No, and neither have my neighbors. It's just a rumor."

"So why are you hiding indoors if it's only a rumor?"

"Because the fog does have a problem!" the man said, clearly shaken. "Anyone who breathes in too much starts having nightmares—those same ones you two were in. And if you die in that dream, you die in real life. Worse—your soul gets stuck in that dream and tormented forever!"

"You know Martin from Harry Street? I saw him get killed by a monster in the dream, and now I haven't seen him since. He's probably dead!"

"Oh?" Guinevere raised an eyebrow. "But if you already breathed some of the fog, why are you still afraid of it?"

"Because it's about dosage!" the man cried. "I only inhaled a little before I knew better. So now I only have short half-hour dreams. But people who get exposed too much? They fall asleep and never wake up! Some of my neighbors have been out cold for days!"

He paused, then looked at Guinevere through the window nervously.

"Wait a sec… You've been walking around in the fog for ages. Don't you have any kind of protection?"