Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

"So anyway… that's the gist of it."

After sorting out all the intel he had, Guinevere quickly relayed everything to Mordred.

"If you've got any questions, just ask me directly."

He then fixed his gaze on Mordred, waiting to answer.

"Uhh… mmm…"

But Mordred just looked rather troubled, repeatedly mumbling "uhh, mmm…" over and over. Finally, she gave a firm nod.

"Got it… yep! Totally understood! So, we just have to slash up all those dream incarnations, right?"

"Totally wrong!" A few veins popped on Guinevere's forehead. "If you're going to kill the dream incarnations, wouldn't that mean you have to take out yourself and your daughter first?! Dream incarnations and nightmare incarnations are two different things! You completely missed the point!"

"Ah… it's not that different, right? It's just one word off. Close enough, close enough," Mordred scratched her head and stubbornly insisted, "Anyway, you get what I mean. The stuff you were talking about was way too complicated—I don't have the patience to memorize it all..."

At that moment, something suddenly clicked in her mind. She slapped her thigh.

"Yeah! That's it! You're the scholar, right? Got a smart brain and all? Then all that brainy stuff is your job! Just tell me who to chop, and I'll do it!"

Specialists had their strengths, after all. While Mordred considered herself pretty clever, true intelligence was knowing how to make the most of one's resources. Since this teammate of hers clearly excelled at analyzing things, she could just leave all the mental heavy lifting to him. All she had to do was unleash her specialty—fighting.

Yup, she really was a genius!

Mordred nodded to herself, quite pleased, mentally giving herself a thumbs-up.

But wait a second... did she just hear something strange?

"Daughter? What daughter?"

Suddenly, Mordred lifted her head again, staring at Guinevere.

"What the hell are you going on about? Since when do I have a daughter—ah."

Strangely, the moment she said that word, a hollow feeling stirred in her chest.

Mordred gently pressed her palm to her forehead and muttered, "I... I think I kind of remember… I… really had a daughter?"

Yes… yes! She definitely remembered having memories of this so-called daughter just after waking up from the dream. So why had she forgotten now?

Guinevere frowned at her reaction.

"You forgot? Even if dream memories are fuzzy, you should at least remember the important parts... Anyway, I'm talking about Jack the Ripper's dream incarnation. Back in the real world, when you first met me, you fought her, remember?"

"Jack the Ripper…?" The name triggered a faint sense of familiarity in Mordred, but the memories were as blurry as if censored by a mosaic.

"No good," she muttered while clutching her forehead and shaking her head. "I can't remember... I do recall fighting some Servant when I met you, but I can't recall what they looked like, their identity, features… I don't even remember if it was a man, woman, old or young."

"...I see," Guinevere said with dawning realization. "That must be Jack's skill at work. She has a passive called 'Information Erasure'—after battle, it wipes out all memory of her abilities, true name, and appearance from witnesses and opponents. Though once you see her again, the memories should return."

"Then why are you fine?" Mordred asked. "Why did my memory get wiped and yours didn't? I'm a Saber with B-rank Magic Resistance. You're just a regular human with no resistance at all. Why do you remember everything so clearly?"

"Isn't it obvious? It's because I'm—"

He suddenly stopped mid-sentence.

…Wait a second. Why did he remember?

Not just Information Erasure—most people, Servants and humans alike, had been forgetting their experiences after returning from the dream. Everything felt like a vague illusion afterward. Why was he the only exception?

Was it system protection?

No… probably not. From his long interaction with this B-System, Guinevere knew it prized "realistic simulation" and wouldn't protect him arbitrarily. If it had granted any protection, the system would've notified him.

So whatever was protecting him… had to be something he already possessed.

With that in mind, Guinevere quickly fished around in his coat and pulled out a copy of The King in Yellow.

This time, as he stared at the manuscript, he also brought up his system panel and found it listed among his carried items:

Special Item: Script of The King in Yellow

Type: ???

Rarity: ???

One of only three remaining copies in existence, this mysterious and ominous play seems to radiate a sinister aura. Merely holding it draws the gaze of something high and unknowable.

Depending on the holder, the effects vary.

Current Effect — "Book of Truth": While holding this script, the bearer may pierce illusions under certain conditions. All memory-altering abilities will also have no effect.

As a shard of truth, this manuscript seems essential to unraveling the mysteries of both London and Yth.

"So it's because of this, huh?"

Guinevere mused, flipping open the manuscript again and skimming through. It really did just look like a normal script, nothing more.

Maybe he'd need to read it thoroughly to find anything useful?

He was about to start over from page one when Mordred suddenly grabbed his wrist.

"Hey, uh… what was your name again?"

Thinking back to how Mordred burned those Britannia legends, Guinevere figured it wasn't worth revealing his real name. So he used his other alias.

"Henry Jekyll. Just call me Jekyll."

"Weird name… whatever, not important."

Mordred waved it off, sounding impatient.

"Come with me. We're going to find that Servant you called Jack the Ripper."

"But I still need to study this script," Guinevere said, troubled. "We're still clueless about the far side of the dream. This manuscript could be crucial to what happens next…"

"Ugh, quit whining already, let's go."

With that, Mordred yanked him by the shoulder and started dragging him out.

"We can look at it after we find her."

"Oh? Getting all worried about your discount daughter now?" Guinevere glanced at her sideways with a teasing grin. "Never thought the rebellious knight Mordred would have such a tender side."

"You talk too damn much," Mordred snapped, visibly flustered. "Whatever. Come or don't, I'll go alone."

"Alright, alright, I'm coming."

Guinevere shook his head and stuffed the script back into his coat.

"But before that, give me a little time to throw together a couple gas masks. We'll be in serious trouble if we stay in that fog too long."

"Then hurry up," Mordred said, looking out at the seemingly endless mist beyond the door. "I'm not exactly the patient type."

"Understood."

As a pharmacology professor, Guinevere naturally kept gas masks around for experiments. All he had to do was check if the ones in his lab, some a decade old, were still usable.

Fortunately, luck was on their side. After patching up a few worn parts, he had two working gas masks ready.

Though their effectiveness against that eerie fog remained untested, it was better than nothing. And so, with masks in hand, he and Mordred set off.

"Just so you know—while you might think of her as your daughter, she might not see you as her mom. Don't forget you slashed her pretty hard last time."

As they walked, Guinevere couldn't help but warn her.

"If negotiations go south and she attacks, don't hesitate. Retreat immediately. Her Noble Phantasm, Maria the Ripper, is no joke. It's manageable by day, but if she activates all its conditions at night, you won't stand a chance."

"Yeah yeah, got it. Geez, you're just like that bastard Merlin—always nagging like some old hag."

Her tone was impatient, but Mordred noticeably slowed her pace and her face turned serious. She'd clearly taken it to heart.

"So, nerd. Where should we look?"

"Back where we first fought her. She's a Masterless Servant with no fixed goal. She'll probably linger near her original summoning spot. Even if she's left, it's our best shot at finding clues."

"OK! One more thing—mind if I princess-carry you?"

"Princess-carry? What—"

Before Guinevere could finish, Mordred waved her hand, dispelling her armor into spirit form and replacing it with a wildly revealing outfit: an open red leather jacket, a micro crop top barely covering her chest, and tiny shorts—her fair, toned skin practically glowing in the misty air. Guinevere's eyes involuntarily locked on her.

Unlike a certain Queen of Blankets who kept piling on layers, Mordred had zero shame and maximum heat.

Before he could ogle further, she closed the distance in a flash, bent down, and in one swift motion scooped him up—arms under his knees and behind his back.

A full-on princess carry.

"Hold tight!"

And with that, she kicked off the ground with explosive force, cracking the concrete beneath her. Then, like a rocket, she blasted down the street with Guinevere in her arms.

All he could do was scream:

"WHAAAAAAAT—THE—HELL—ARE—YOU—DOING—SLOW—DOWN—DAMN—IT?!"

No doubt about it. The rebellious knight who felled King Arthur was a monster. Her stats were insane—better than her own post-death "Holy Sword Savior" variant.

With a leap like a cannonball, she launched herself ten meters into the air. The sheer acceleration pinned Guinevere to her chest. And the drop? Like a rollercoaster from hell—he was sure his heart was about to burst.

Damn it! He wasn't like her with her absurd A-rank stats! His endurance had only just scraped up to E-rank with his latest quest reward. If she wasn't careful, he'd die from whiplash alone!

Out of sheer survival instinct, he wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and pressed his head firmly against her chest, hoping to soften the next impact and avoid a snapped neck.

But then—he felt her whole body stiffen.

"Hey! Where do you think you're putting that head of yours?!" Mordred barked, blushing furiously. "Quit nuzzling!"

"Then slow the hell down!"

Guinevere screamed, eyes full of panic.

"Focus! Focus! I said FOCUS! Watch out—building ahead! Don't crash!"

God have mercy, he wasn't having a single impure thought. Yes, that taut, athletic, slightly soft but also firm feminine form was… temptingly huggable—

But now was not the time.

This crazy chick could move. She jumped high. She ran fast. She had no brakes!

If he slipped out of her arms, he wouldn't just fall—he'd splatter.

And by the way—

Even though she'd ditched the armor for a regular outfit to avoid jostling him to pieces—

Guinevere still couldn't feel a single bit of softness pressing against his head.

It was like lying on a damn steel plate.

His skull was starting to ache.