Fairy Round Table Realm, Poem of Eternal Mist

A pitch-black light, deeper than midnight and more intense than despair, tore through the dazzling yet deadly light pollution of the throne room without warning, forcefully piercing between the two!

"Queen."

A deep, suppressed voice, brimming with boundless rage, rang out, carrying a metallic, friction-like quality, yet strangely piercing through the magic's explosive roar.

"Leave this woman to me."

The dark figure landed, blocking Morgan from the trajectory of the attack. It was a tall and imposing figure, covered entirely in jet-black armor, a stark contrast to its former blue-silver radiance. Ominous dark red markings flowed across its surface, as if cast from dried blood and burning hatred. A violent magical force manifested as a gust of wind, spreading outwards from it with a suffocating aggressiveness.

A very subtle crack appeared on Morgan's icy expression. This figure, this voice… how could he be here? And in such a completely distorted form?

Fragments of memories from not long ago flashed through her mind: the reckless summoning ritual, the clan's terrified pleas for dissuasion, and the knight-king who had been summoned from the annals of human history, with whom she shared an inextricable and tangled bond. Part of her initial, and ultimately final, plan—to use his legendary holy sword, said to connect with the stars, to bring an end to this flawed world. However, the "he" who arrived was unable to wield that crucial power, the reason for which remained a mystery. His very existence caused unnecessary turmoil, and ultimately, he chose to depart in silence.

But now, upon his return, he no longer possesses any of his former "glory."

"Didn't expect that, did you, you wretched woman?" The dark-skinned knight tilted his head slightly, speaking to the clearly astonished witch, his words like poisoned ice spikes, "Did you think I would just disappear like that and never come back to settle old scores?"

For the first time, a crack appeared on the priestess's composed demeanor, and her pupils contracted slightly: "How could this be... You should have already..."

"Shut up." The dark knight interrupted her astonishment, slowly raising the king's sword in his hand, which had transformed into a deep dark color and was wrapped in ominous magic, its tip pointing directly at her. "This time, you, the observer who only knows how to chuckle behind the curtain, should make your final exit."

“Even with you now, I can still…” The priestess quickly regained her composure, her magic circuits shining brightly as she attempted to construct an even more powerful spell.

But the words came to an abrupt end.

There was no chanting, no charging, and not even a clear movement. The black-clad knight simply swung the Dark Holy Sword in his hand seemingly casually.

A massive, solid, light-devouring black sword aura detached from the sword, moving silently yet faster than the limits of visual perception, instantly traversing the distance between the two. It easily tore through the multiple magical barriers hastily erected by the priestess, like a hot knife cutting through butter, producing a teeth-grinding cracking sound.

"Cough—!"

The priestess's petite body was hurled away by unimaginable force, crashing heavily into the stained-glass wall at the back of the royal hall. The sturdy wall instantly cracked like a spiderweb. She slid to the ground, her magnificent robes torn, and for the first time, her face lost all pretense, revealing an expression mixed with excruciating pain, disbelief, and... a hint of genuine fear.

She lowered her head, looking at her chest. A gruesome wound lay there, its edges still stained with dark magic that relentlessly eroded and prevented regeneration. This was no simple flesh wound; something more fundamental had been struck.

A sweet, fishy smell rose in my throat.

This time, the mockery completely disappeared from her eyes, replaced by a chilling rage ignited by being thoroughly offended and even hurt.

“Not bad… ‘Arthur’.” Merlin—or rather, the succubus appearing as “Merry”—gently wiped the blood from the corner of her lips. Her smile returned, now sharper and more genuinely intrigued. “You’ve grown quite a bit. This blackened appearance suits your pent-up anger quite well. But—”

Her voice suddenly turned cold, and she raised her right hand to cover her right eye, which shimmered with a strange rainbow.

"I won't let you ruin my fun like this! Try this—'Surroundings of Nightmare'!"

The light from the magic circle suddenly subsided, not dissipating, but rather converging entirely in her palm and eyes. The next moment, her right eye erupted with an extremely dense, almost eerie pink glow! This light was not dazzling, but it possessed an irresistible, pervasive power, instantly filling the entire throne room and staining the space with an ambiguous and dangerous hue.

The aura has changed.

The air grew thick and heavy, as if it had turned into an invisible gel. Even more terrifying was the bone-deep weakness accompanied by a draining force that acted inexplicably on the soul and body. Magic flowed out like a flood, and even more so, some essential element that sustains life was being slowly drawn away within this pink halo!

The black knight, who was about to charge again, suddenly froze, as if bound by invisible chains. Every step felt like a thousand pounds, and even breathing became difficult and painful. Beside the throne, Morgan also groaned, gripping the cold armrest. His fingertips turned white from the force, and for the first time, a look of almost physical pain and helplessness appeared on his usually icy face.

"Heh... How about it?" Merlin's voice trembled with pleasure as he watched the two struggle. "Even you can't be immune to the power of 'Side of Nightmares,' can you? This is one of my very essences... So, along with your magic and life force, become nourishment for my garden!"

The combination of illusion and the Mystic Eyes reveals the final manifestation of the power of the Nightmare of Earth. There are no fancy techniques, only the most direct stripping away. Theoretically, there is only one way to fight back—interrupt the caster. But with power being frantically drained, and even standing firm being a struggle, this has become an almost impossible task.

Merlin's laughter, a mixture of smugness and pure malice, sounded incredibly grating to the Black Knight's ears, like a dull knife scraping against his nerves. Disgust, anger, and a long-simmering hatred directed at this "bystander" burned fiercely under the influence of his weakness.

Kill her.

We must, right here, kill her!

The thought erupted like magma, overwhelming the heaviness of his body and the weakness of his soul. A low, beast-like roar escaped his throat as he slammed his black holy sword into the ground for support. His knees trembled, yet he pulled his body inch by inch from the invisible pressure. Each tiny movement was accompanied by the groans of his bones straining under the weight and the excruciating pain of his magic being forcibly drained, as if he were truly carrying a mountain on his back.

Merlin's laughter abruptly stopped, a genuine look of astonishment flashing in his iridescent eyes. He could still... move? He could still resist this absorption that originated from his very essence?

In the instant she was filled with surprise and doubt, the black knight had already stood up straight! Dark red engravings flowed wildly on the armor, and the Excalibur that had been stuck in the ground was slowly pulled out. On the blade, there was not pure darkness, but a kind of extremely restrained and compressed purplish-black light began to gather. At the core of that light, a heart-palpitating destructive impulse surged.

"Give it to me..." He gripped the sword with both hands, raising it above his head, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth, a mixture of blood and resolve, "Die! You wretched woman!!"

"Take this—Excalibur Morgan! [Oath of Vengeance: Black Star]!"

This is entirely different from the dark holy sword of the other "Artoria". It is not the nothingness that devours light, nor the despair that denies everything. It is centuries of entanglement, the resentment of being placed on the chessboard, the accumulated hatred for the indifference of the bystanders in "Paradise", and the strong will to protect those behind him at this moment. All emotions are fused into one, turning into the purest and most targeted fire of "revenge"! The restraint of the scabbard still exists, but it restrains and compresses this violent power, just to pour it onto a single target!

No proof needed, no argument required, just a clean break!

boom--!!!

The purplish-black pillar of light was no longer a torrent, but transformed into a roaring bolt of destructive lightning, condensed to its extreme, tearing through the viscous pink domain and shooting straight towards Merlin! Merlin's expression changed drastically, and his hands moved rapidly, instantly creating a series of dazzling and sturdy magical barriers that bloomed in front of him like deadly flowers.

However, it was useless!

The purplish-black lightning, carrying an unstoppable will of vengeance, shattered layer upon layer… the barriers, like fragile glass, one after another, exploding into countless fragments of light. No matter how quickly Merlin accelerated the construction, or how she changed the defensive spells, the light pressed on relentlessly, drawing ever closer to her!

Finally, in the reflection of Merlin's suddenly contracting pupils, the purplish-black light completely engulfed her figure. In the light, she clearly saw the black knight's eyes, burning with fierce hatred and without the slightest hesitation. That gaze was icy and piercing, freezing the playfulness in her heart completely and turning it into real, long-lost... fear.

"Click... snap..."

A series of crisp cracking sounds rang out. Not only Merlin's last defense, but also the massive barrier that enveloped the entire Camelot Palace, collapsed into countless magical remnants under the impact of this terrifying power concentrated at one point.

The light gradually faded.

The throne room was in complete disarray, yet it strangely returned to "normal," as if the all-consuming pink light and black lightning were merely an illusion.

Except... in the center of the throne room, there lay a figure with disheveled silver hair, torn clothes, and a breath so faint it was almost extinguished, lying in a pool of crimson blood that was gradually spreading.

Morgan, suppressing her lingering weakness and discomfort, immediately stood up. With a wave of her wand, dozens of sharp cones of light instantly appeared, precisely surrounding Merlin and blocking all possible escape routes. She knew all too well how difficult and cunning this woman was.

This time, Merlin didn't disappear immediately, nor did she rise with a smile. She struggled, bracing herself on her elbows, trying to lift her upper body, but slipped and fell several times. Finally, she managed to turn her head slightly, looking at the black-clad knight approaching step by step, carrying a sword, and the queen behind him with a complex expression. Blood continued to spill from her mouth, staining her pale lips red.

“Cough…cough cough…You’re really capable…” Her voice was weak, yet it still carried that irritating, subtle smile. “This time…you won, 'Arthur'…Heh…You’ve released all the emotions that have been building up for hundreds of years…no, perhaps even longer…in this one sword strike…”

The tip of the black knight's sword stopped an inch before her brow. Dark magic flickered within the blade.

“Go back to your Avalon, Merlin.” His voice was low and hoarse, carrying the weariness of a fierce battle and an undeniable air of expulsion. “Don’t let me… see your disgusting face again.”

Merlin seemed to want to say something more, but in the end he only twitched the corners of his mouth and let out a barely audible sigh.

The next second, without warning, countless dazzling and ethereal pink petals appeared out of thin air, enveloping her like a gentle whirlwind. The petals danced and swirled, carrying a dreamlike aura that didn't belong to this space. Under Morgan's cold gaze, the petals, along with the dying figure within them, rapidly became transparent and thin, finally dissipating completely into the air.

All that remained on the floor was a pool of dark red blood, gradually losing its warmth and shockingly visible, silently testifying to the brief but intense deadly struggle of hatred and expulsion that had just taken place.

-

In Avalon, within the Flower Tower of Yongchun, the secluded tranquility was shattered by subtle ripples of magic. Pink petals drifted down from nowhere, gathering, shaping, and finally coalescing into a disheveled, weak figure.

The tower's owner, the white-haired nightmare demon, was already sitting leisurely to one side, even holding a cup of flower tea that had been brewed sometime earlier. He looked at the "other self" that was struggling to take shape on the ground and could barely maintain its physical form, and his face showed an expression that was a mixture of understanding, helplessness, and a subtle hint of mockery.

"Oh dear," he sipped his flower tea, his voice leisurely, "look who's here? Isn't this 'me' who enthusiastically went to 'participate in the plot' but ended up going too far?"

"Merry"—the nightmare from another world—seemed somewhat disoriented. She struggled to support her semi-transparent body and looked around. When her gaze fell upon the familiar yet unfamiliar scenery of the Flower Tower, and upon the composed "Merlin," whose essence was so different from her own, a clear look of astonishment and wariness finally flashed in her iridescent eyes.

"This is...your Avalon?" Her voice was weak, filled with disbelief. "What do you want to do? Do you intend to...do you want to..."

"Relax, relax~" Merlin of this world waved his hand, his tone still relaxed, but with an undeniable certainty, "I have no intention of doing anything excessive to 'myself'. Besides..." He glanced meaningfully at the other's cracked and dim spirit core, "In your current state, can you withstand any more torment? You're barely managing to maintain your existence."

"Merry" fell silent. The near-shattering pain and unprecedented weakness emanating from the depths of her spirit core confirmed the other's words. She tried to mobilize her magic, but all she received in response was a hollow, piercing pain and an even more intense sense of dissipation.

"Sigh, this is the end of it." Merlin of this world put down his teacup, his smile unusually absent, his gaze becoming somewhat complicated, as if scrutinizing a misguided and troublesome mirror image. "You can't do anything anymore. Just stay here obediently. In your current state, you can't even leave this tower, let alone return to your 'paradise'."

He stood up, walked to the window, and gazed at the ever-blooming, dreamlike sea of ​​flowers outside the tower. His voice carried a rare, almost admonitory calm:

"It's about time... to stop and take a good 'rest'. Me from another world."

Whether it's the "observer" who once assisted a king but ultimately chose self-exile, or the "participant" who viewed the world as a theater and took pleasure in stirring up trouble, both, under the name "Merlin," are perhaps essentially abnormal beings who exist outside the bounds of common sense. One may achieve nothing, indulging in his own petty hobbies; the other sees the joys and sorrows of all things as a source of amusement, leaving behind only a mess. Neither can be considered "correct," nor is either desirable.

At this moment, having lost all her power and with her spirit origin on the verge of collapse, "Merry," facing the "containment" and "examination" of her other self—which was not hostile but even more disheartening—finally could not even maintain the last shred of a feigned smile. She lowered her eyes and remained silent.

The third force that stirred up the fairy kingdom, the entertaining "Merlin Project," has thus temporarily come to an end.

-

At the same time, outside the Fairy Kingdom's rebel fortress.

Exhausted from the fierce battle of Darlington, the Chaldean group dragged their heavy steps and finally caught sight of the blurry outline of the distant camp before dusk. However, when they were still dozens of meters away from the camp, an ominous premonition suddenly gripped everyone's hearts.

Scattered on the ground were no longer familiar path markers, but broken, chipped, and filthy swords and spears, like ugly scars that pierced the tranquility of dusk.

"This is...!" Mashu's exclamation choked in her throat.

Without a word, a cold, unspoken understanding compelled everyone to abandon their weariness and sprint toward the camp. The closer they got, the more pungent the stench of rust and ash became, and an ominous, deathly silence replaced any semblance of life they remembered, even in the most difficult times.

Then they stormed through the camp gates.

Time seemed to freeze at that moment.

What came into view was no longer the familiar, simple houses and busy figures, but... mountains of mangled bodies. The rebel flags were torn and trampled into the mud and blood. In the open space in the center of the camp, the traces of the battle were the most gruesome, with charred craters and deep cuts scattered everywhere.

In the center of that mess, two figures quietly leaning on each other pierced the hearts of every pair of eyes that looked over.

Gareth, the pink-haired female knight, her armor shattered, her spear broken beside her, her body covered in terrible penetrating wounds, yet she still maintained a kneeling posture, trying to protect something, her purple eyes gazing helplessly into the void, devoid of all light.

Beside her lay the writer's retainer, Sei Shonagon, her pen broken. Her face, usually languid or mischievous, was ashen, life extinguished. Only the dark bloodstains beneath her silently testified to the final tragedy.

The setting sun, like blood, spilled across the desolate camp, casting a cold and cruel afterglow over the piled-up corpses and the two eternally silent companions. A despairing silence, like the heaviest boulder, weighed heavily on the shoulders and hearts of every survivor.

Royal City Showdown (Opening) - Fairy Round Table Realm, Poem of Eternal Mist

This was a pure, flawless realm. As far as the eye could see, there was an endless, almost sacred expanse of white, so pure it was unsettling, as if the world had never been tainted by any color or filth. Consciousness floated slowly upwards, like drifting on a milky-white deep sea.

Wait... what's that outline in the distance?

With difficulty, Morgan focused his gaze, and as his senses gradually returned, he was startled to realize that he was not in his familiar throne or bedroom, but suspended in the center of a vast, empty, pure white space. There were no boundaries, no reference points, only absolute "whiteness." This was not the deception of an illusion, but more like some kind of ritualistic field that touched his very core.

"Eh...?" She subconsciously let out a short, breathy sound, trying to activate her magic, but her body was too heavy to obey her commands.

Then, she saw it.

In what seems like the "distant" end of the world, a figure sits quietly, like the only soft, warm hue on a white canvas.

Her long, golden hair, so similar to his own former color, cascaded down to her knees. She wore a light, milky-white armor, its style ancient and elegant, belonging to the long-vanished era of the "Eternal Calendar." Even with her back turned, the familiar yet chilling aura of majesty and loneliness emanating from that figure caused Morgan's heart to clench, almost stopping.

Impossible... This is absolutely impossible!

She wanted to retreat, to escape, but her feet seemed nailed to the spot. An irresistible force held her firmly in place, compelling her to slowly drift closer to that figure.

"Why...why..." A dry voice squeezed out from her throat, trembling without her even realizing it, "You're...here...?"

The figure seemed to have heard her whisper and moved slightly.

When the distance was close enough to see the details clearly, Morgan's last bit of hope was shattered. The curve of that profile, those deep, wise purple eyes that seemed to gleam even in stillness, and that simple crown that had long since vanished with history but was now clearly visible in his hair... every feature pointed to a being that should never have been there again.

Her creator. Her mentor. She once looked up to, followed, and ultimately... succeeded her in her solitary position—the first queen, Liliana.