Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

All in all, for a variety of rather embarrassing reasons, Mordred stopped running not long after picking up Guinevere and dashing a few steps.

"Screw it, I can't take this anymore. You're a grown man, aren't you? How can you be such a coward?"

With an irritated grunt, she tossed Guinevere aside like a sack of potatoes, letting him land squarely on his rear and likely splitting it into eight pieces. She muttered curses under her breath as she turned away from him and glanced down instinctively at her chest.

But the next moment, she quickly switched her outer clothing back into armor, sealing that area off from contact with the outside air—as if doing so could magically erase what had just happened.

Before Guinevere even got the chance to climb up while clutching his sore behind, her armor clicked and clanked into motion, transforming once more. Her previously opened helmet clamped shut again, covering her face and the gas mask in one seamless motion.

"Can't blame me... You're a Servant, so you probably don't care, but I'm just a regular human. With that speed, even the impact of landing could've killed me… I'm telling you, I danced with death twice in just that short while."

Still rubbing his aching tailbone and hissing through his teeth in pain, Guinevere got up from the ground. But as the memory of what he had just done sank in, his movement suddenly froze.

It had been pure instinct born of fear, a desperate bid to cling to something—anything—for safety… But had he just… headbutted Mordred's chest?

And not even with his hands first. His face. Right into her chest.

Wait…

As a seasoned Azur Lane player, he'd always assumed Mordred was... modestly built at best. But this? Was he really going to survive this?

Come on, this was Mordred we're talking about. The one who practically had "bad temper" written into her character sheet. Treat her like a woman? She'd cut you. Treat her too much like a man? Still cut you. Either way, the outcome was a sword to the neck. And he, poor unfortunate Guinevere, had just teamed up with her temporarily—and now this?

Thinking of what might come next, Guinevere suddenly realized… his butt didn't hurt that much anymore.

"Uhh... so, um... I can explain…"

"Go ahead," Mordred said coldly.

Crap. That tone. Why did it sound like she was giving him a chance to say his last words before beheading him?

Guinevere gulped, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead as he faced her unblinking stare.

"...J-Just now, that thing I did to you... it wasn't on purpose! I swear! I was just panicking, totally driven by fear, and I just reached for whatever was close…"

While Guinevere stammered on in a desperate attempt to justify himself, Mordred suddenly shrugged, her tone unexpectedly indifferent.

"I thought you were going to say something important… That's it?"

"Uh?" Guinevere blinked, then shrank his neck like a scolded quail. "I mean, if you're not convinced by that reason, I also—"

"No, I mean, you spent all that time talking like a nervous pigeon, and this is what you had to say?"

Mordred cut him off.

"I seriously thought you'd found something urgent and needed to tell me... It was just a boob graze, who the hell cares."

"...What?"

Guinevere.exe has stopped responding.

"Seriously, not a big deal," Mordred said nonchalantly. "Who do you think I am? I've been through more battles than I can count. I crawled out of fields soaked in blood. You think I'd get flustered over this?"

"Out there on the battlefield, people get wounded. Happens all the time. You patch each other up. No one gives a damn about gender or propriety when lives are on the line… So yeah, you gotta look, gotta touch, big whoop. Life's more important."

As she finished, Mordred patted Guinevere firmly on the shoulder.

"So like I said—no big deal. Don't dwell on it. Now move your ass, we're heading out."

And with that, Mordred strode off ahead, her armored boots clanking on the pavement.

"...Oh, uh, right!"

Guinevere blinked for a second before sighing in relief and quickly following. So that was it. He'd forgotten Mordred wasn't the delicate sort. She was a battle-hardened tomboy. Stuff like this probably didn't faze her at all. Maybe he'd overreacted. She was actually... kinda easy to get along with?

Feeling much more at ease, Guinevere caught up beside her. Hoping to lighten the mood, he asked casually:

"By the way, why did you put your helmet back on all of a sudden? Don't you already have a gas mask?"

Mordred turned her head sharply.

"Because I freaking felt like it. What's it to you?"

She snapped, storming ahead again. Guinevere was left standing there, bewildered, and silently retracted his earlier judgment of her being "easy to get along with."

After all, unlike Artoria, he didn't have the mystical "Fairy Eyes," and thus couldn't possibly know what was going on inside Mordred's head right now:

—Damn it, is this guy dense or just pretending? Didn't he used to be all smart and analytical? Where did all that go?

Mordred cursed inwardly.

The real reason she put her helmet back on… was because she didn't want anyone seeing her current expression. Because it must've looked...

...Forget it. Don't even think about it.

She raised a hand, half wanting to touch her face. It felt strangely hot… No, it wasn't just her face. Her whole head felt warm. A little dizzy too. Like a fever. What the hell? Was this another side effect of the mist?

But as soon as her fingers touched her helmet, she remembered it was already on. She cursed herself for being an idiot and dropped her hand.

What the hell's going on with me? I feel like I'm getting dumber... Is this mask of his even working? It feels like the mist's effects are even worse now...

Thinking that, her annoyance toward Guinevere surged. She shot a glare back at him—but with the helmet on, he couldn't see her face, and simply looked back, confused.

But if she had to name the true source of her annoyance...

She looked down at her chest armor.

All that talk about "warriors don't sweat the small stuff" was a total lie. She'd never let anyone—even fellow knights—see her armor off, let alone help bandage any part of her body. She'd always toughed it out alone, dragging her injured body back to her room, patching herself up in silence.

Especially her back. If she couldn't reach it, she'd just wash it off roughly and slap on a bandage, relying on her abnormally high endurance to tough it out.

All because she had to hide her identity as a woman—just like her father had done. She was the heir. Naturally, she'd follow suit.

Which is why she never took her armor off around others. Never showed her face. Never let down her guard.

If it weren't for that need to hide who she was... she wouldn't have picked such a revealing modern outfit after becoming a Servant.

So—

Mordred placed a hand over her chest armor.

That feeling just now… what was that? It felt weird. No one's ever... rested their head there before. It was… ticklish? Like, hair ticklish?

—Wait.

She realized it.

That damn bastard probably left some of his hair in there!

Damn it, what a pain in the ass... Sure, it was nothing for someone with her training. But still, now every step she took felt itchy.

Itch, itch, itch—it was driving her crazy.

She was getting angrier just thinking about it.

No, she had to hit him a couple times to vent.

Mordred suddenly stopped and turned around to face Guinevere.

"Huh? What now?" he asked.

"Is it still hurting?" she pointed at his butt. "You've been rubbing it for ages."

"Of course it hurts," Guinevere sighed. "You practically broke my tailbone when you threw me... It's killing me."

"Oh, good. That's a relief." Mordred nodded seriously.

Guinevere: "...What?"

And then, faster than he could react, Mordred closed the distance and smacked him right on the tailbone.

"OWWWW!"

As Guinevere howled and jumped in pain, Mordred burst into laughter—genuine, unrestrained, and full of catharsis.

And even though she knew Guinevere couldn't fight back, some primal instinct told her to run. So she spun around and bolted, laughing maniacally.

All of Guinevere's earlier awkwardness, shame, and guilt evaporated instantly.

Face twisted in fury, he gave chase.

"You damn psychopath!"

Hearing his furious scream only made Mordred laugh harder. The lingering frustration in her heart vanished completely.

—Although... something still felt off.

After running for a while, Mordred glanced at her hand, then at Guinevere chasing her while clutching his butt. Suddenly, she slapped her forehead.

"Shit. I've become a pervy delinquent."

"That's not a pervert! That's just a brat being a menace!" Guinevere shouted back.

But then, Mordred suddenly froze.

Just as Guinevere caught up, ready to tackle her in righteous fury, she held out a hand to stop him and made a silencing gesture.

"Shhh—keep it down. Something's up ahead."

Guinevere immediately fell silent. His twisted expression straightened into focus as he turned his eyes forward.

From ahead came the sounds of continuous combat—loud clashes and thuds.

There were two groups engaged. One side had three individuals: a girl in black armor wielding a massive shield, an orange-haired girl providing backup nearby, and a third—a tall woman with twin Chinese longswords, wrapped in a thick sweater and sporting an absurdly long ponytail.

Despite her quiet glasses-wearing appearance, her fighting style was brutal—like a berserker.

As for their opponent?

There was no need for introductions.

It was none other than Bavanzi.