Fairy Round Table Realm, Poem of Eternal Mist

“No…this shouldn’t be…” Morgan, no, at this moment she felt more like that bewildered girl named “Ash,” her heart overwhelmed by intense panic and shame. This appearance—silver hair replacing golden, eyes filled with the weariness and coldness of millennia, bearing the weight of countless souls and infamy—was the last thing she wanted to be seen by the person before her. What the previous generation loved was that innocent, naive Ash, still holding onto hope for the world, not this cruel ruler named “Morgan.”

She wanted to escape, but was gently yet resolutely imprisoned in place by an invisible force.

"Hey..." The first queen, with her back to her, suddenly spoke softly, her voice ethereal yet carrying a hint of barely perceptible loneliness, "Am I... that much that you hate me, Ash?"

“No! No! Your Majesty!” Morgan almost blurted out, stammering, “I…I just…why would you…I actually…”

Tense, panicked, a long-lost sense of fear as if she had been caught doing something wrong by an elder, and deep-seated grievances and longing—all these emotions intertwined and clashed, shattering her usual cold mask completely, and her voice was filled with a sob that even she herself disliked.

The first queen, Liliana, finally turned around slowly.

When her gaze fell upon Morgan, a complex and profound tremor flashed clearly in her purple eyes, which seemed to have seen all the vicissitudes of life. Shock, regret, understanding... and a deep weariness.

"...Is that you, Ash?" Her voice was soft, as if afraid of disturbing something. "What...what have you been through all this time?" Her gaze lingered on Morgan's now silver-white hair, where countless years and heavy burdens had been etched. "Could it be that you have already..."

“Your Majesty…I actually…” Morgan opened his mouth, a thousand words stuck in his chest, but he couldn’t form a complete sentence. Only his eyes were burning and sore uncontrollably.

Looking at the "girl" before her, her expression one of barely suppressed tears, Liliana instantly understood. No further explanation was needed; that look in her eyes, that loneliness and resolute determination born from bearing everything, from crushing and rebuilding herself… she knew it all too well. Just like herself back then, after losing everything, embarking alone on that irreversible path to domination.

This is no coincidence. Why would I, who was banished from Paradise long ago and whose time should have been frozen forever on the day the dynasty collapsed, meet my successor in this way at this moment? Is it a lingering mercy from fate? Or the final echo before the world lines converge?

She sighed softly, a sigh that carried a resonance and helplessness that transcended time. Now is not the time for reminiscing or questioning.

Liliana floated closer, reached out, and her fingertips, just as they had done thousands of years ago, gently touched Morgan's—or rather, touched Ash's—forehead. The touch was cool, yet carried a strange, timeless tenderness.

“Fragrant Ash,” her voice calmed, carrying an undeniable guiding tone, “now is not the time to talk about these things. You still have… things that must be accomplished.”

Morgan looked up abruptly, her purple eyes brimming with lingering moisture and urgency: "Wait, Your Majesty! I have something else to say..."

Before she could finish speaking, the boundless white surroundings suddenly twisted and spun, as if being frantically sucked into an invisible vortex! The scene quickly faded and dissipated, along with the gentle yet illusory figure of the first queen, turning into shattered specks of light.

"Well--!"

Morgan opened her eyes abruptly, breathing heavily. Before her were the familiar ceiling curtains, and beneath her lay the soft, royal bed. She remained frozen in mid-air, her outstretched hand still seemingly carrying a faint, ethereal, cool touch on her fingertips.

Was it a dream...?

Her heart was still pounding violently in her chest; the shock and tremor were terrifyingly real. She slowly withdrew her hand, propped herself up, and turned to look out the huge floor-to-ceiling windows of the palace.

In the distance, the outline of Camelot City appeared in the gradually brightening sky, while on the more distant horizon, ominous smoke and magical glow began to spread and rise, like a heavy curtain being drawn back for the final battle.

She gazed at the sky gradually being stained by the flames of war. In the depths of her icy purple eyes, the last trace of hesitation and vulnerability belonging to "Fragrant Ash" was completely suppressed, replaced by the cold and resolute awareness belonging to Queen Morgan.

What was bound to happen... finally arrived.

In the center of the rebel stronghold, a deathly silence, like solidified asphalt, weighed heavily on the breath of every survivor. The scene before them had long surpassed the realm of "battle" or "death"—it was a meticulously arranged, brutal exhibition painted with despair as its canvas.

Gareth lay there, her blond hair stained crimson. A horrifying laceration ripped across her throat; her right eye, along with part of her cheekbone, was gone, leaving only a dark, blood-soaked hole. Most fatal were two massive, crisscrossing puncture wounds across her chest, nearly severing her into four pieces, fragments of her armor deeply embedded in her flesh. She remained kneeling, her broken spear lying beside her, as if even in death she was trying to protect something behind her.

Beside her, Sei Shonagon lay quietly, her face frozen in a final shock and a lingering sense of bewilderment. The fatal wound seemed to be only a clean slash across her neck, but the perpetrator was clearly not satisfied—dozens of knife wounds of varying depths covered her body, like some ugly signature of venting anger or declaring victory, staining her once flowing clothes with tattered blood.

The enemy deliberately left the bodies intact, even adjusting the angle and posture of their fall to ensure that their returning comrades could see the entire horrific scene at a glance. On those two young faces, fear was eternally frozen, and deep within their withered eyes, the ferocious face of the perpetrator or an incomprehensible horror seemed to still be reflected, sending chills down one's spine.

Fujimaru Ritsuka's fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, sending a dull pain through him. He stared intently at the two once vibrant figures, his chest heaving violently, finally managing to squeeze out only a few dry words: "At least... let them..."

“Damn it! If only I had… if only I hadn’t left…” Percival slammed his fist into the charred log beside him, sending splinters flying. His voice trembled with self-reproach and rage. “How could the Queen’s troops…”

“This is not something His Majesty would do!” Caster abruptly interrupted him, her voice choked with emotion yet unusually firm. She stepped forward, her icy blue eyes sweeping over the horrific scene, struggling to maintain the composure of an analyst. “Percival, His Majesty may be ruthless, but he would never issue such… such a blasphemous order! This act is intended to crush us. Someone… knows us very well, knows how to destroy our sanity and morale in the most cruel way.”

She took a deep breath, as if trying to suppress the stench of blood and grief that filled the air: "Now... say nothing. Let them... rest in peace."

A familiar, nauseating sense of powerlessness gripped Ritsuka once more. This wasn't the first time such a scene of farewell had played out across the five Lostbelts. The bridges to victory always seemed to be built from the bones and blood of comrades. Each "advance" meant another unbridgeable chasm behind her, another name that would pierce her heart in the still of the night.

Beside the makeshift graves, the earth carried a damp, chilling scent. After burying Gareth and Sei Shonagon, a cold consensus was reached in silence: a hidden enemy was lurking, watching the cracks in their hearts. This person knew their emotional bonds intimately, and might even have briefly approached them in some guise. Their aim was to shatter their fighting spirit with the most personal pain before the final battle. Who was it? No one knew. Only this profound grief and vigilance could be carried into the battlefield that was destined to be even more brutal.

***

Camelot, the undisputed heart of the Fairy Kingdom, stands majestically at the center of the land. It is both a prosperous capital welcoming visitors from all directions and an iron fortress with unprecedented military strength. And the strongest force protecting the royal power is not the ordinary Knights of the Righteous, but the elite Queen's Army, directly under Queen Morgan's command.

These silent giants, averaging over three meters tall, are clad in heavy bronze armor, their helmets sculpted in the majestic shape of horse heads. Their weapons are no ordinary craftsmen, but specially crafted magical spears with sharp axe blades extending from both sides, combining piercing, slashing, and parrying capabilities. Even more terrifying is that each of the Queen's soldiers is a master of lightning, capable of imbuing their spears with raging thunder for ranged attacks, or using their impenetrable armor and superb martial arts for overwhelming close-quarters combat. They are the extension of Morgan's will, the true backbone of the royal city's defenses; their very existence is enough to instill fear in the vast majority of rebels.

The atmosphere at the pre-departure battle meeting was heavy and tense. The final plan was full of risks and determination: the troops would split into three groups and launch a simultaneous attack from the north, east, and west, deliberately leaving the relatively weak south as a psychological escape route (which was likely a trap in reality), and finally meet up in front of the Queen's Palace in the center of the royal city to confront Morgan directly.

Each city gate would be guarded by a slew of elite cavalry led by sergeant knights, with the troublesome Queen's soldiers inevitably mixed in among them. The movements of reinforcements from the Wind Clan and the Royal Clan were also uncertain. However, the greatest uncertainty came from those few cavalry knights whose strength far exceeded that of ordinary people.

“Remember,” Percival pointed to the rough city defense map, his gaze sweeping over everyone, “if you encounter ‘her’—the fairy knight Lancelot (Melusein), or ‘her’—the fairy knight Mordred (Silph), never fight alone, and never even engage them lightly. Send a signal immediately and wait for reinforcements to arrive. Their power… is from another dimension; blindly challenging them will only result in needless sacrifice.”

Everyone nodded in silence, their faces filled with deep apprehension towards the two "monster" opponents.

Percival took a final deep breath, pressing the markers representing different attack routes heavily onto the map, his voice resolute: "Do you all understand? What follows is the battle that will decide everything. This is not only for the future of Britain, but also for the life and death of every one of us who is still standing here! There is no turning back, only victory!"

He raised his fist, his eyes burning.

After a brief silence, the suppressed fighting spirit and determination to die erupted into a deep roar that echoed through the ruined fortress:

"oh--!!!"

Amidst grief and resentment, the surviving warriors stepped out of the fortress and launched their final and most arduous charge toward the magnificent royal city shrouded in the silence before the storm.

-

Battle flags fluttered, and hooves thundered. The remnants of the resistance and the allied forces of the clans surged forth like three breached dams in the deepest darkness before dawn, relentlessly attacking the magnificent walls of Camelot.

To the west, Percival led the charge, the faint glow of his holy spear like a guiding star in the morning mist, followed by the remnants of the Manchester army and some of the royal clan warriors who still wished to follow him, their silence fueling their burning desire for revenge.

To the east, the figure of Senji Muramasa in heavy armor and Caster in robes walked side by side. The Wind Clan's troops moved swiftly like shadows. They did not fully trust each other, but at this moment, overthrowing the queen was their common, short-term goal.

To the north, Fujimaru Ritsuka, Mashu, and Da Vinci personally led the main force. This was perhaps the most dangerous route, and also the spearhead pointing directly at the heart of the royal city. Every soldier's face was etched with the resolute determination of fighting with their backs to the wall.

Before the battle cries had even officially begun, the pent-up killing intent and grief-stricken anger, like a tangible dark cloud, pressed heavily upon Camelot.

Meanwhile, atop the towering defensive walls of the royal city, the garrison stood ready. Apart from the absent elf knight Tristan (Bavanshi), almost all of the Queen's sharpest blades were present. The phalanx of the righteous knights was imposing and solemn, but even more chilling were the Queen's soldiers, standing like bronze statues at key junctures.

At the top of the watchtower, the fairy knight Gareth—Kalia—gripped the railing tightly, her knuckles white from the force. Her gaze was fixed on the familiar figures at the forefront of the northern army formation, her heart clenching as if gripped by an invisible hand, a sharp pain shooting through her. Was she really going to… face these children with swords drawn?

Her gaze unconsciously searched anxiously through the surging crowd, sweeping over faces that were either angry or resolute, but she still couldn't find the two figures she was particularly concerned about—the lively and brave knight, and the writer who always had a lazy smile but whose pen could produce beautiful words.

Anxiety quickly spread. She abruptly turned to the fairy knight Mordred-Sylph beside her, whose expression was equally grave, her voice trembling almost imperceptibly: "Gareth... and Sei Shonagon? Didn't they go with Ritsuka and the others?"

Sylph's lips pressed into a stiff line, her eyes brimming with suppressed rage. She didn't answer immediately, but took a deep breath, as if forcibly suppressing some surging emotion deep within her chest, before squeezing out a low, hoarse voice through clenched teeth: "...No need to look anymore. They...are already dead. By those 'remnants'."

"What?!" Kalia was struck dumb, her pupils contracting sharply. The stone railing beneath her creaked under the weight. "Dead? Who?! Who did this?!" Her voice rose abruptly, a mixture of shock, rage, and profound grief. She had been given the knightly name "Gareth," and had always harbored complex feelings of admiration and protectiveness towards that younger generation who shared the same name and shone with pure brilliance. This devastating news had come too suddenly, too cruelly.

Seeing that Kalia was about to lose control, Sylph suddenly raised her hand and pressed down hard on her shoulder. The force was immense, carrying an undeniable sense of restraint. "Calm down! Now is not the time!" she whispered, her hot breath brushing against Kalia's ear. "If you act out now, it will only disrupt everything... Don't worry," her voice lowered further, a cold, venomous hatred seeping out, "this score... will be settled sooner or later. When that happens, 'she'll suffer."

As she spoke, Sylph's gaze, as if drawn by a magnet, slowly shifted to the tip of another, even taller tower not far away. There, the fairy knight Lancelot—Melusein—stood alone, his silver dragon wings reflecting a cold luster in the gradually brightening daylight. She slightly moved her wrists and neck, her expression calm to the point of indifference, as if the fierce siege battle about to erupt below was nothing more than a "performance" worth anticipating.

This is the "monster".

Deep within Sylph's eyes, ice and fury intertwined. From the very beginning, the motives of Albian's remains were never pure. Every action she took precisely served a hidden will, pushing the situation into deeper chaos and despair. Sylph knew this all too well. Although Melusin seemed oblivious to the scrutinizing and hateful gaze emanating from afar.

But in Sylph's heart, she had already prepared a list of "greetings" for her.

Just before Ritsuka and the others rushed back from Darlington, an inexplicable unease drove Sylph to sneak back to the rebel fortress. What she witnessed went far beyond what the word "battlefield" could describe. It was a deliberately constructed, brutal slaughterhouse. Corpses piled up like mountains, blood soaked the soil, and most appalling was the way the dead were treated—the horrific scenes of Gareth and Sei Shonagon need no recounting, and the heads of some ordinary soldiers were severed, hanging like medals of victory or threatening totems in the most conspicuous places in the camp, swaying gently in the cold wind.

Even with her resilient nerves forged through countless battles, she felt a chilling cold and a physical nausea at that moment. Scattered around were pieces of armor and flags bearing the Queen's insignia, the operation seemingly flawless. But Sylph was absolutely certain: it was not the work of genuine Queen soldiers. The blatant cruelty, the almost ostentatious atrocity, seemed more like a carefully orchestrated frame-up, a "just execution" disguised as the Queen's army.

"So it really is you, Melusin!"

A silent roar exploded in her heart, her nails digging deep into her palms, bringing sharp pain, but it was nothing compared to the hatred in her heart.

From the very beginning, your aura was ominous... To please the woman behind you, for her twisted plans, you were willing to extinguish the last glimmer of hope that might illuminate the future of this fairy kingdom...

She stared at the silvery-white figure, as if trying to see through the beautiful exterior to the cold, ruthless core within.

Unforgivable... Melusine. This blood debt, I, Sylph... will settle with you to the very end!

Royal City Showdown – Fairy Knight Bedivere – Fairy Round Table Realm, Poem of Eternal Mist

On the west side of Camelot, the troops led by Senji Muramasa and Caster, relying on the agility of the Wind Clan and the powerful breakthrough abilities of the two Servants, tore through the loose defenses of the Purgatory Knights and quickly arrived at the designated main battlefield at the west gate.

Before the heavy city gates, the square was empty. The once densely packed ranks of defenders now tacitly retreated to both sides, making way for a passage. It was as if the curtain of a stage had been drawn back, and the true "protagonist" had been waiting here for a long time.

She stood alone in the center of the arena, her dark armor outlining her agile and dangerous figure. Her blood-red eyes were like frozen sunsets, containing not madness, but a colder, more shrewd light honed by countless battles. She was the Fairy Knight Bedivere—or rather, the water fairy Maquia, bearing that title. Her infamy had once resounded throughout Britain; she was ruthless in achieving her goals, readily plundering the innocent and destroying families. Even now, in her delicate position, the oppressive aura and bloodthirstiness born of countless battles remained undiminished.

Castor stopped, his staff lightly touching the ground. His icy blue eyes met hers, and his voice was steady: "What's meant to happen will happen. Machia, are you... ready?"

Machia's lips curled into an almost mocking smile, her blood-red pupils shifting slightly as they swept over Caster and the young, red-haired swordsman beside her. "Prepare?" Her voice carried a metallic quality. "That's what I should be asking you, Caster. I'm not dead yet; it's not your place to pity me. You'd better etch His Majesty's words into your bones—on the battlefield, there's no room for 'personal feelings.' If you still harbor any naive thoughts, turn around and leave now; perhaps you can live a few more moments."

“Of course I understand.” Castor answered without hesitation, his gaze unwavering. “Whatever our past may hold, whatever you’ve done to me… none of that matters now. Machia, I will not hold back, and I ask you—give it your all!”

"Heh..." Maquia chuckled, her aura suddenly becoming thick and dangerous. "That's exactly what I've been waiting for!"

Before she finished speaking, she suddenly pulled her right foot back and then slammed it heavily onto the ground with incredible force!

"boom--!"

It wasn't an earthquake, but a roar caused by the violent stirring of water veins deep underground! Three violent waterspouts, each over two meters in diameter and carrying debris, burst forth from the ground in front of her, like giant pythons raising their heads, roaring towards Caster and Senko Village with the force to crush everything!

Before the water arrived, a foul stench already filled the air.

"Back off!" Senji Muramasa shouted, his figure already charging forward like an arrow released from a bow. In his hand, instead of the usual sword, blazing white flames roared and surged from his palm during the charge, instantly condensing into a huge, crescent-shaped blade of fire!

"cut!"

The flaming blade slashed down from mid-air, colliding violently with the foremost water tornado! The extreme heat and the raging torrent clashed fiercely, erupting in a deafening roar and billowing white mist. Ultimately, the flaming blade prevailed, cleaving the water tornado in two and vaporizing it! Its momentum continued; the blade shattered into three thin streaks of fire, which, as if possessing a life of their own, hurtled along the ground, instantly reaching Machia's feet, their tips piercing the earth—

"Flame Prison, rise!"

Buzz! The three fire lines suddenly expanded, transforming into blazing pillars of fire that shot into the sky, quickly intertwining to form a cage of flames that completely engulfed Maquia's figure!

However, a disdainful snort came from within the firelight.

"A small trick. Water formation wall."

Countless tiny water droplets mysteriously seeped from the dry stone floor, rapidly converging and rising to form a continuously flowing, several-foot-thick ring of water around Machia. Flames burned upon it, erupting with violent hissing sounds and dense steam, yet could not penetrate it even an inch.

Then, something unexpected happened!

"Whoosh whoosh whoosh—!"

Several subtle yet sharp whooshing sounds tore through the steam curtain! Those were several high-pressure water droplets compressed to their limit, moving at speeds imperceptible to the naked eye! They precisely pierced through the gaps in the flames, heading straight for Senji Muramasa!

Senji Muramasa's pupils contracted, and he swung his sword to block.

"Clang! Crack!"

The first droplet of water struck the blade, producing a deafening clang like metal clashing, followed by the sound of the blade shattering under the weight! Almost simultaneously, the second droplet grazed the outside of his arm—

"Ugh!" A searing pain suddenly shot through the skin! The skin that had been rubbed by the water droplets instantly became red, swollen, and cracked, as if it had been rubbed by a high-speed rotating, scorching grinding wheel, rather than being hit by "water".

The attack was far from over! More water droplets, like a torrential downpour, shot out shrilly from the rising steam, still locked onto Senji Muramasa!

"Guardian of Edin!" Caster's incantation rang out just in time, and a semi-transparent magical shield instantly unfolded in front of Senji Muramasa. Dense water droplets struck the shield, producing rapid, popping sounds like raindrops hitting banana leaves. The shield's light flickered violently, and cracks even appeared.