Fairy Round Table Realm, Poem of Eternal Mist

"What's wrong?" She tilted her head, her tone flippant yet carrying a hint of barely perceptible wariness. "What... what do you two want to do? Instead of guarding your posts, you're blocking my way?"

“Stop playing dumb, Melusin.” Sylph took a step forward, her voice low and imposing, each word like a blast of cold wind from beneath a glacier. “This time… don’t think you can get away so easily as before.”

Kalia didn't speak, but stood silently beside Sylph. Icy blue magic began to rise and permeate her body, and a layer of frost quickly formed on the ground beneath her feet, accompanied by the soft sound of condensing ice crystals. Her actions gave a more direct and colder answer than words.

Faced with the two's undisguised encirclement and hostility, the last trace of feigned ease on Melusin's face vanished. She narrowed her eyes slightly, a dangerous glint flashing deep within her brown pupils.

“…Heh.” She gave a short, cold laugh. “What do we want to do?”

She slowly assumed a fighting stance. Although she held no blade, the terrifying power that was beginning to surge again within her petite body spoke volumes.

Why don't you show me this through your own actions?

Conspiracy - Fairy Round Table Realm, Poem of Eternal Mist

Just as the rebels and the remaining allies surged toward the capital of Camelot like a flood breaking through a dam, shattering the fragile "peace" built over two thousand years under the Queen's power, the entire Fairy Kingdom was rapidly sliding into utter chaos and betrayal.

A battle fought without gunpowder, yet far more insidious, is unfolding simultaneously in cities and countryside. The various clans, long suppressed by Morgan's iron fist or subjugated out of fear, especially those who had been "blessed" or "sacrificed" by the Queen's policies, now smell the bloody scent of a power shift and begin to incite unrest.

They roamed the streets and alleys, infiltrating fearful villages, using carefully crafted words to bewitch the ordinary fairies who had once chosen to follow the queen because of her power. They portrayed Morgan's thousand-year reign as ruthless oppression, distorted her harsh measures as pure tyranny, and embellished the clans' current "resistance" as "salvation" and "righteousness." Loyalty was denigrated as ignorance, and fear was interpreted as awakening. More and more fairies, either unaware of the truth or already harboring resentment, wavered under the continuous incitement and fear of the unknown future. They began to despise the queen they had sworn allegiance to, instead placing their hopes on the clan lords who raised the banner of "justice."

Morgan's efforts to sustain Britain for two millennia, whatever their purpose, are now being systematically denied and smeared. The order she painstakingly built is being rapidly hollowed out from within. The number of the Queen's followers is melting away like snow under the sun.

-

Morian, the patriarch of the Winged Clan, had particularly complex feelings about all of this.

She lay half-reclined on a soft couch in a temporary residence in Gloucester, her body still wrapped in thick bandages. Her delicate face was pale and haggard, devoid of the radiance and sharpness she once possessed as the head of a clan. When she forced herself to speak, her voice was somewhat indistinct, a far cry from her former eloquence. This wretched state was the painful price she paid for choosing to oppose the Queen, even attempting an assassination—a consequence she had brought upon herself.

However, the physical trauma and illness did not cool the certain obsession in her heart. Even after recovering from a serious illness and still struggling to move, she resolutely threw herself into the nationwide wave of "rectification of names." Only, her methods were more direct, and her goal more clear—she wanted to sever the Queen's last and most powerful arm: the Fang Clan.

The Fang Clan is the absolute symbol of the Fairy Kingdom's military power. This clan, composed of orcs, naturally reveres strength and possesses unparalleled physique, fighting instincts, and a strong sense of collective honor throughout Britain. They are the backbone of the Queen's army, with almost all of the Queen's elite soldiers drawn from their most valiant warriors. In a sense, the Fang Clan's allegiance directly correlates with the strength of Morgan's actual military power.

Chief Woodworth's unwavering loyalty to Morgan made the Fang Clan one of the Queen's staunchest political supporters. However, everything changed drastically after Woodworth's mysterious disappearance following his failed attack on the rebel fortress. Without this powerful and respected leader, the Fang Clan was plunged into chaos. Panic, suspicion, and division spread among the clan members; desertion began, and even small groups were turned by other clans. The once-unified military force was now fragmented, with only a core group of loyalists remaining in the relatively neutral and chaotic Gloucester region, clinging to life, having nowhere else to go and unwilling to break their oaths.

Morrigan's purpose in this trip was cold and cruel: to find these remaining loyalists, and then... to eliminate them completely. She wanted Morgan to lose this last batch of true core forces who might fight for her in her final moments.

-

The Fairy Kingdom, Gloucester.

The once-celebrated capital of revelry is now permeated with an atmosphere of decay and unease. The shadow of war has driven away the pleasure-seeking nobles, leaving only empty, ornate buildings and idle vagrants. Among them are the remnants of the Fang Clan, leaderless and like stray dogs. For them, past glory and discipline are gone; scavenging for scraps and struggling to survive in Gloucester has become the norm.

They wandered numbly, occasionally glancing at the smoke rising in the direction of Camelot, their hearts filled with endless bewilderment and a fatalistic sorrow. No matter how powerful Her Majesty the Queen had been, no matter how hard she had tried to maintain order, the inevitable destruction seemed inescapable. The gears of fate could not be turned by anyone.

In the midst of this daily numbness and despair, an extremely faint yet strangely familiar magical fluctuation, like a stone thrown into stagnant water, instantly stirred ripples in the senses of all the remaining orcs!

This fluctuation...this feeling...

No doubt about it! It's the patriarch! It's the aura of the Woodworth family boss!

Overjoy instantly overwhelmed reason! The clan leader, missing for days and whose fate was unknown, had actually returned?! Hope ignited like wildfire in their despairing hearts! Without any hesitation, and without bothering to discern whether the fluctuation was real or whether its source was suspicious, all the remaining members of the Fang Clan who sensed this magical power, like wolves smelling blood, simultaneously rushed towards the direction from which the magic originated!

The source of the magical fluctuations points to the Central Ballroom, once the most prosperous and glorious symbol of Gloucester.

Once a place of elegant attire and vibrant music, it was a weekly social gathering for the nobles of the Fairy Kingdom. Now, war has rendered it deserted, its glory faded. The magnificent buildings still stand, but the interiors are empty, leaving only ornate decorations, a vast, empty dance floor, and silent corridors—like a vast and exquisite tomb, burying past splendor and quietly awaiting… the impending bloody feast.

As the last panicked orc rushed into the once magnificent but now eerily empty ballroom, the heavy, gilded doors slammed shut behind them!

"boom--!!!"

It wasn't just the sound of a door closing; it was a deep, resounding thud, like the jaws of some colossal beast snapping shut, causing even the magnificent chandelier on the hall's dome to tremble! The instant the door closed, all the mechanisms and handles attempting to open it from the inside became meaningless. It was no longer a door, but rather an absolute barrier welded to the space itself.

"What's going on?!"

"Open the door! Open the door now!"

"Damn it! Use brute force to break through!"

Panic spread rapidly. The powerful orcs rammed into the barrier with their shoulders, tore at it with their claws, and even pounded the unyielding door and nearby walls with their weapons. Sparks flew as metal clashed against stone, and roars and crashes echoed through the hall, yet the barrier didn't even tremble slightly. It was impregnable, severing all hope and trapping them in this magnificent cage.

Just as these bewildered and confused beasts were caught in a state of panic, a voice, carrying undisguised sarcasm and a certain inhuman weight, came from the highest point above them, like thunder rolling down from the clouds:

"Hehehehe..."

The laughter was amplified in the spacious, resonant structure of the hall, sounding particularly distant and chilling.

The Fang Clan members were startled and looked up in unison—

Through the stained glass windows of the high dome, they saw... "the sky".

No, that wasn't the sky. It was a face so enormous it defied comprehension, almost filling their entire field of vision as they looked up! The face of Morian, the patriarch of the Winged Clan!

At this moment, she seemed to have transformed into a Titan overlooking the world. To her, the magnificent ballroom dome was perhaps merely an opening in a low, toy roof. She was slightly bent over, bringing her enormous face, pale with a sickly pallor and a twisted smile, close to this "opening," like a mischievous child curiously observing ants in an anthill. Her proportionally magnified purple eyes reflected the tiny, terrified beastmen below, like black dots, gleaming with a pure and cruel pleasure.

The unimaginable size difference created a sense of oppression, like solid ice water, instantly seeping into the marrow of every member of the Tooth Clan, making their bodies stiff and their blood almost frozen.

"Hello—" Morian's enormous lips parted and opened, her voice booming, with a slow, deliberate tone, as if she were toying with her prey, "tiny...insects."

"Mollian!!" A burly orc captain, barely suppressing his fear, roared hoarsely, "What are you doing here?! Where is Chief Woodworth?! You... what do you want?!"

“Oh? You mean… that stinky, hard-as-nails dog who only knows how to wag his tail at the Queen?” Morian’s huge face showed an exaggerated, malicious expression of regret, but her voice was so light it was chilling. “Unfortunately, he… has probably already gone to ‘over there’ to wait for you.”

She paused, looking down at the beastmen below who had turned deathly pale and their eyes wide with rage at the news, her smile growing sweeter and crueler.

"As for what I want to do?" She tilted her mountain-like head slightly. "The Fairy Kingdom now... no longer needs the existence of your Fang Clan. You... are just a nuisance, remnants of the old era."

Before she finished speaking, she raised her finger, which was like a pillar supporting the sky for the orcs, and with a playful and casual air, gently pressed it down on the most densely packed spot among the orcs below.

The movement was slow, slow enough for the orcs below to clearly see how the shadow of the massive, patterned fingernail descended. But the "slowness" was merely a visual illusion; the power and coverage contained within made any attempt to dodge a joke.

"Do not--!!!"

The desperate screams abruptly ceased.

"Pfft—!"

A muffled, viscous thud resounded, enough to make one's stomach churn. Where the finger fell, several strong orcs, along with the ornate floor tiles beneath their feet, were instantly crushed into a pool of filth—a mixture of bone fragments, minced flesh, and scraps of cloth. Blood and gore splattered like rotten tomatoes, staining the surrounding floor and walls.

Absolute size and overwhelming power. Any pride in physical skills, brute force, or even the courage to face death becomes laughable and meaningless in the face of this cataclysmic "gigantic" transformation.

A melodious and lively classical dance tune suddenly began to echo in the bloody slaughterhouse, its sound seemingly coming from nowhere.

A look of ecstasy appeared on Morrigan's enormous face. No longer content with simply crushing her, she began to dance in this "miniature landscape" of the ballroom.

She lifted her skirt (the shadow of which could cover half the hall) and, like a noblewoman attending a grand ball, gracefully twirled and glided. Each step was accompanied by desperate fleeing and shrill screams below, followed by dull thuds and the cracking of flesh and bone. She danced a cruel waltz, randomly and lightly crushing and flattening each fleeing "black dot."

Blood, like splashed red paint, bloomed and splattered beneath her enormous dancing shoes. Broken organs and severed limbs were flung out with her movements, adhering to the walls, pillars, and even the murals on the high dome.

"Run! Run now!!"

"Doors! Windows! Anything! Break it!!"

"Ugh—!!!"

The orcs went completely mad, their survival instincts driving them to try and escape by any means necessary. They no longer attacked Morian, but instead frantically scratched and pounded at the surrounding walls and closed windows. Their claws scraped futilely against the walls, which were as hard as spatial barriers, producing a piercing noise until the tips broke off, flipped up, and bled profusely. They rammed their heads and bodies against the walls until their heads were broken and their bones were fractured, but the cage remained impregnable.

Morrigan's dance steps changed, from a waltz to a tap dance with a faster rhythm and stronger pauses.

"Da! Da da! Da! Da da—!"

The enormous dancing shoes pounded the "ground," producing a heavy, drum-like thud that created an eerie and terrifying duet with the melodious music. Each precise and powerful stomp meant that at least one orc in the area was utterly crushed and turned into a bloody pulp! Blood gushed out like fountains from the edges of the dancing shoes, mixing with bits of flesh and bone, tracing brief and shrill arcs in the air before cascading down, turning this once most luxurious hall into a living hell.

"Haha...hahaha...ahahahaha!!!"

Mollyanne's maniacal laughter, like a tsunami, drowned out all the screams, crashes, and music! The laughter was filled with the pleasure of revenge, the exhilaration of release, and a twisted excitement of utter descent into brutality and a desire for control! The torment and humiliation she had endured at Morgan's hands seemed to be released in this moment through the cruel slaughter of these "queen's loyal dogs"!

She was immersed in the thrill of the bloody dance and slaughter, her enormous body moving with increasing passion and wildness.

Below, the desperate escape and futile struggle gradually faded. The sounds of flesh being repeatedly trampled and crushed, the crisp cracking of bones being completely shattered, and the ubiquitous, viscous liquid splashing together formed the final symphony of hell.

The view was obscured by a huge shadow and splashes of scarlet.

My hearing was filled with frenzied dancing, maniacal laughter, and the agonizing cries of the dying.

I can't see anything anymore.

I couldn't hear anything anymore.

Only that Titan-like shadow continued to dance tirelessly and joyfully over the pool of blood and severed limbs, until the last faint breath of life was extinguished and annihilated in the face of this absolute power and cruelty.

The remnants of the Fang Clan—all were wiped out.

The Fairy Kingdom, the territory of the royal clan.

Under the highly inflammatory rhetoric and meticulous planning of Aurora, the chieftain of the Wind Clan, an unprecedented and surging anti-Queen wave swept across most of Britain like wildfire within hours. Countless street walls were brutally plastered with leaflets and posters distorting facts and uttering the most insulting accusations; statues and portraits of the Queen were splattered with filth, pierced with daggers, and smeared with vicious curses; the air was filled with the ashes of burning Queen banners and cries of rebellion. What might take days or even weeks to brew in the pan-human history of the fairy kingdom was swiftly ignited and detonated in this land of easily stirred emotions and deeply buried fear and resentment, transforming into a near-frenzied torrent of destruction.

At this moment, the "source" and core of this torrent—the clan leaders and their confidants—are gathered in the grand yet cold council hall of the King's Clan. The air is thick with the excitement of a successful conspiracy, a greed for power, and a cruel anticipation of an imminent "great achievement."

Two figures stood out starkly on the floor in the center of the hall.

One was Woodworth, the former chieftain of the Fang Clan. This orc leader, who once awed Britain with the title "Grand Duke of Heat," was now a shadow of his former self. His core—the Beast Core, the symbol of power and life—had been forcibly removed, leaving only a horrifying void in his chest, its edges still bearing charred burn marks and dried scabs. He lay paralyzed on the ground, barely breathing, his once-powerful body withered and emaciated from the rapid loss of life force. Only the occasional twitch of his eyelids proved that he was not yet truly dead.

Lying not far from him was the fairy knight Tristan, Bavanshi. The once spoiled and willful "little princess" was now emaciated, her face ashen, shivering on the cold ground. Her right arm was severed at the shoulder, the wound roughly bandaged, oozing dark red pus and ominous black mist—the lingering traces of Merlin's poison and curse. After Belial gained the power of Woodworth and deemed her useless, he discarded her like a broken toy, carelessly tossing her to Aurora for "care."

Aurora, the wind fairy chieftain known for her outward purity but inward cruelty, treated her in a way that can be easily imagined. Bawanshi suffered treatment worse than that of a prisoner. She was considered the lowest of the low, kicked and verbally abused at will. The pain of her severed arm had not yet subsided, and the dual torment of mind and body had brought her to the brink of collapse.

“Tsk,” Aurora said in her extremely elegant tone, her words cold as she casually nudged Bavanshi’s side with the tip of her high heel. “This little bastard is quite resilient. So many days have passed, and she’s still not dead. She’s really… an eyesore.”

Before she finished speaking, she suddenly raised her foot and stomped hard on Bavanshi's abdomen with the hard heel of her jeweled shoe!

"puff--!"

Bawanshi's body shuddered violently, and a large mouthful of foul blood mixed with stomach acid and clots gushed from her mouth, splattering the ground and her own disheveled hair. She no longer had the strength to scream, only convulsing violently and gasping for breath.

The surrounding clan leaders and confidants watched coldly, none showing the slightest sympathy. In their eyes, both the former Grand Duke of Pai Re and the disgraced fairy knight were now worthless pawns, or pitiful sacrifices to achieve their ultimate goal.

Nocnarria, the matriarch of the Royal Clan, raised a glass of blood-red wine and leaned languidly against a luxuriously cushioned chair. A cruel smile curved her beautiful red lips: "Lady Aurora, please calm down. It would be a waste to let this little thing die like this. I... am very much looking forward to seeing the wonderful expression on Her Majesty the Queen's face when she witnesses her most 'beloved' daughter taking her last breath in front of her."

Her voice was sweet, yet carried a chilling edge like a venomous snake.

The former patriarch of the Earth Clan, Lipkaner, swept his sinister gaze over the two "burdens" on the ground and interjected, "Korra is right, they are still useful. The key now is to ensure that the 'keys' from the foreign lands can reach Morgan smoothly. Bagst has already made it clear that he will not turn back. The biggest variable lies in the remaining two—Kalia and Sylph. Their loyalty to Morgan is almost foolish, and they are our greatest concern."

Aurora elegantly straightened her flawless cuffs and said calmly, "Those two loyal dogs are indeed troublesome. However... it's not like there's no way to deal with them."

Upon hearing this, Lipkaner's gaunt face revealed a smug, sinister smile. He extended his withered palm, and a murky magic crystal ball appeared out of thin air, hovering above his hand. Inside the ball, light and shadow flowed, revealing a corner of Camelot's central square—in the scene, Melusin was fiercely battling Sylph and Kalia, their energies clashing and dust billowing.

“We anticipated these two stumbling blocks from the very beginning of the plan.” Lipkan’s voice hissed like a viper’s tongue. “The ‘massacre’ at the rebel fortress was carried out at our behest. The purpose was to completely shatter their psychological defenses and plant seeds of hatred and resentment in their hearts. The ‘scene’ left behind… ah, there were traces of misleading magic that I had carefully arranged. Now, they have indeed poured all their anger on that self-righteous ‘strongest’.”

He watched the fierce battle within the crystal ball as if he were watching a meticulously choreographed drama.

“Look, what a spectacular display of 'fratricide'.” A malicious glint flashed in Lipkaner’s murky eyes. “I suppose… someone is even more eager to see this than we are?”

Nocnaria set down her wine glass, slowly rising to her feet, her magnificent gown trailing across the cold floor. She walked to the enormous mural in the hall depicting the achievements of past rulers, tilted her head back, her eyes burning with an undisguised thirst for the pinnacle of power, her voice trembling slightly with excitement: