Fairy Round Table Realm, Poem of Eternal Mist

However, all the words, the moment they reached her throat, turned into a scalding, bitter torrent, violently crashing against her eyes and nose.

My vision blurred without warning.

Scalding liquid gushed out like a burst dam, silently and surging down her pale, cold cheeks. One drop, two drops... soon they merged into one, soaking her cheeks and also wetting the fabric of Liliana's shoulder.

She tried to speak, but her throat felt like it was blocked by something, and she could only let out broken, suppressed sobs. For two thousand years, no matter what desperate situation, betrayal, or pain she faced, she had never allowed herself to break down so completely, to reveal her vulnerability so defenselessly.

She is Queen Morgan, a British ruler who must be ruthless, strong, and bear everything.

But at this moment, in front of this person, in front of Her Majesty Liliana, that hard and cold shell that had been painstakingly built over two thousand years seemed to crumble instantly, revealing the girl named "Ash" who had never truly grown up and still longed for reliance and understanding.

Resentment, exhaustion, loneliness, fear, the pain of losing everything… all the emotions that had been forcibly suppressed for two thousand years, as if finding their only outlet, surged forth with her tears. She could no longer maintain any composure, like a lost child who had finally found home, burying her face deeply in Liliana's warm and familiarly fragrant embrace, her shoulders trembling violently, letting out a suppressed, sorrowful, almost desperate sob.

Liliana offered no further words of comfort. She simply held the trembling, wounded "child" in her arms tighter and more tenderly. She could clearly feel the almost soul-crushing grief emanating from that body. She didn't know exactly what had happened in the past two thousand years, but Morgan's tears, her numerous wounds, and the deep-seated weariness and despair in her eyes spoke volumes.

This child... has walked alone for too long, carried too much, and lost too much in the long darkness unknown to anyone.

Her hand gently patted Morgan's trembling back as she wept, silently conveying support and understanding. Her purple eyes gazed at the pure sky in the distance, churning with complex and indescribable emotions—heartache, guilt, anger, and a profound pity that transcended life and death.

The wind still gently caressed the grass, bringing a sense of peace, as if temporarily isolating the bloodshed, conspiracies, and impending doom of the outside world in another realm. Only the weeping suppressed for two thousand years within one's heart, in this tranquil realm, recounted an epic and sacrifice so heavy it was suffocating, a story unknown to anyone.

Bloodstained Crowning Ceremony (Part 1) - Fairy Round Table Realm, Poem of Eternal Mist

Exactly on time, the magnificent and solemn doors of Gloucester Cathedral slowly opened, welcoming spectators from all over Britain—or rather, the various forces and representatives forced to attend and witness "history." The air was heavy, a mixture of the coldness of the stone, the decay of the aged wood, and a tense, oppressive feeling, as if a storm was brewing.

According to the almost ironclad tradition of the Fairy Kingdom, passed down for millennia, the legitimate heir to the throne should, in theory, be from the royal clan. This clan prides itself on its noble lineage, rigorous education, and impeccable etiquette, seemingly born to rule. Ironically, however, from the distant "Eternal Calendar" to the recently concluded "Queen's Calendar," neither of the two queens who truly ascended the throne and wielded power—the first Liliana and the last Morgan—was from the royal clan. This is undoubtedly the most biting mockery and blow to the clan's millennia-old self-proclaimed "legitimacy," almost completely eroding their former glory and dignity.

But today, everything seems to be different.

The Queen of Winter, who had ruled Britain with an iron fist for two thousand years, had fallen. The royal clan, long dormant, had finally awaited this long-awaited moment, with the hope of reclaiming the throne, a symbol of supreme power. This was, perhaps, the last time in three thousand years, that the "legitimate" bloodline would inherit the throne. A twisted excitement and impatience filled the air.

In the center of the church, on the specially raised altar, the main character has already made his appearance.

Nocnaria—the current matriarch of the Royal Clan—was dressed in the most extravagant and solemn manner imaginable. She seemed to be unleashing centuries of pent-up ostentatious desire: layers upon layers of gowns, crafted from the most expensive silks, the most dazzling gold threads, and the rarest jewels, so heavy they almost made her struggle to walk. An overpowering, pungent perfume emanated from her like a tangible mist, nearly masking the ancient wax and dust of the church itself. Her face was thickly powdered and exaggeratedly made up, making her otherwise beautiful features appear stiff and strange, like a meticulously decorated but soulless doll. The simply dressed maids surrounding her only served to highlight her stark contrast and incongruity.

In the VIP section below the altar, the Chaldeans and their remaining allies were already seated. Caster's icy blue eyes were fixed on the flamboyant, exaggerated figure on the stage, her hands clenched into fists on her knees, her nails almost digging into her palms. She had to exert all her strength to suppress the surging anger and murderous intent within her. Now was not the time. She could clearly sense that from the moment she stepped into the church, countless cold, scrutinizing gazes had enveloped them like a spiderweb. The fully armed knights of the righteous knights standing in the shadows, the wary royal clan soldiers weaving among the spectators… Noknarria had clearly prepared for a violent crackdown on this "coronation."

Senji Muramasa tilted his head slightly and whispered in Castor's ear, "Don't be impulsive, child. The time is not right."

Castor took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax his tense shoulders, and nodded slightly: "Um... I know."

After a lengthy and insincere exchange of pleasantries, a man in a magnificent priest's robe, with a solemn expression, slowly ascended to the center of the altar. He offered little introduction, immediately launching into the "holy" coronation ceremony. His voice, amplified by magic, echoed beneath the church's soaring dome, brimming with inflammatory passion:

"For two thousand years! The land of the Fairy Kingdom has endured countless hardships! For two thousand years! Queen Morgan's tyranny has ravaged every one of our people, bringing endless suffering and oppression!"

He waved his arms, his voice suddenly rising:

"But—the darkness has passed! Dawn has arrived! We—have won!"

He turned abruptly, bowed deeply to Nocnarria, gestured towards her with his arm, and spoke in a voice full of flattery and reverence:

"Now, please allow me, at this solemn moment, to respectfully invite the esteemed patriarch of the Royal Clan—Lord Noknarria—to crown us, the newest, only, and greatest Queen of Britain!"

"Your Majesty!" He held out a crown adorned with enormous gemstones and gleaming with gold, respectfully presenting it to Nocnarria. "Please accept this crown, a symbol of power and responsibility! Do you have anything to say to your people?"

Nocnaria bowed slightly, allowing the priest to place the heavy crown on her meticulously combed hair. She straightened up, gracefully adjusting her elaborate skirt, then raised her eyes, her gaze sweeping across the room. In a fleeting moment unnoticed, her eyes subtly sent a signal to the shadows surrounding the church and the assembled soldiers.

Almost simultaneously, all the righteous knights gripped their weapons, the royal clan soldiers adjusted their positions, and an invisible killing intent spread like a chilling current.

Nocnarria's face broke into a radiant, almost unnatural smile, and her voice, amplified by magic, carried clearly to every corner:

“First of all—” she drawled, deliberately casting her gaze toward the area where the Chaldea members were, “I must especially thank… my dear ‘friends’.”

Her smile deepened, carrying an undisguised sarcasm.

“Especially—Miss Artoria Caster. If it weren’t for her… ‘duty’ and overcoming all obstacles along the way, I probably wouldn’t be able to stand here so smoothly.”

She paused, as if admiring the astonished or livid expressions on the faces of the audience below.

"How about we give them some...the most sincere 'applause'? To thank them for all their efforts and...sacrifices in 'liberating' Britain!"

The instant the word "applause" was uttered—

"Clang!" "Whoosh!" "Swoosh—!"

The deathly silence of the church was instantly shattered by the sharp sounds of metal scraping against metal and blades being drawn! The righteous knights, royal clan soldiers, and some of the bribed fairies who had been standing or disguised as spectators all simultaneously drew their gleaming weapons! Spears, swords, daggers, crossbows... the sharpness of all the weapons was pointed at the Chaldeans sitting in the center of the arena, seemingly unsuspecting!

The atmosphere plummeted to freezing point. The church was eerily quiet; even breathing seemed frozen, leaving only the cold glint of weapons and countless hostile gazes.

A gleaming dagger was almost poked into Senji Muramasa's nose. The old swordsman, however, remained unfazed, even casually deflecting the dagger with two fingers, his voice booming with undisguised mockery:

"Huh? Is this what you call 'applause,' Your Majesty Nocnarria?" He looked up and stared directly at the newly appointed "Queen" in her magnificent robes on the platform. "Isn't that a bit too 'enthusiastic'? Finally... giving up the act?"

He sneered and glanced around at the menacing soldiers.

"From the very beginning, wasn't your plan to use us 'foreigners' and 'children of prophecy' to clear obstacles for you so you could comfortably sit on this throne? Now that you've achieved your goal, it's truly... 'congratulations'! Should I, on behalf of everyone, give you another round of applause and properly 'praise' you?"

Seeing the Thousand Sons Village still laughing and chatting amidst such a tense atmosphere, Noknarria's eyes flashed with surprise, but then she understood. She turned her gaze to the silent Caster, a knowing yet contemptuous smile playing on her lips. Right, this Artoria Caster possessed the "Fairy Eyes," capable of seeing through the essence of things and the future. Perhaps… from the very beginning, her plans had never truly escaped her notice. It was just that the other party, wary of the Royal Clan's power, had remained patient. Now that she had revealed her true intentions, the other party naturally wouldn't be surprised. Perhaps everything had already been observed by those icy blue eyes.

At this critical, volatile moment, Castor slowly stood up.

She raised her hand, signaling Mash, Ritsuka, and the others behind her who were also preparing to launch a counterattack to calm down and put down their weapons for the time being.

Then, her icy blue eyes, like two bottomless pools of cold water, pierced through the air and locked firmly on Nocnarria on the platform. Her voice was not loud, but exceptionally clear and calm, carrying a power that penetrated the noise and reached the heart, as well as a deep confusion and...heartache.

"Why, Nocnaria?"

She asked, each word like a drop of water striking a cold stone slab.

Why...did you become like this?

“I remember when I first met you in Salisbury…you were proud, but not like that. You spoke of clan responsibilities, and there was still a consideration for the future of Britain in your eyes.”

Her voice rose slightly, filled with suppressed anger and confusion:

"Could it be that, for the sake of this empty glory and fleeting power, you would so readily...abandon the dignity and pride that befit the patriarch of a royal clan?!"

She took a step forward, ignoring the countless sharp blades pointed at her around her, her gaze burning as if she wanted to burn through the other party's gorgeous disguise:

"This throne... is it truly everything you desire?! Answer me, Nocnarria!"

Noknarria's smile twisted abruptly under Caster's questioning, all pretense of elegance vanishing, revealing an almost ferocious resentment and madness beneath.

"Yes! You're right! I've had enough! I'm completely fed up!"

Her shrill voice echoed in the church, carrying centuries of pent-up resentment.

“Castel! You, the newcomer, certainly have no idea what I—our royal clan—went through before this!” She pointed to herself, as if pointing to an invisible, humiliating past. “Before you met me, I was not the clan’s sole leader; I was merely… the second!”

Her voice trembled with excitement:

"The first clan leader... he devoted himself entirely to the fairies, fulfilling his duties with utmost dedication, regarding the clan's honor and protection as his life's mission! And what was the result?!" She swung her arm sharply, as if to sweep away the invisible filth before her. "Those ingrates! Those ungrateful scum! Not only did they not appreciate it, but they also wantonly slandered him, defamed him, and trampled his sincerity into the mud! How glorious our royal clan once was! It was because of them! Because of those ignorant and greedy fairies that we gradually fell, losing our rightful status and respect!"

Her chest heaved violently, and her eyes burned with raging fury.

"It was precisely because of the first clan leader's 'foolish' kindness and tolerance that the filth and baseness inherent in these demons were indulged! In the end, everything we gave was nothing but a laughable and meaningless void! Therefore, I have lost hope in them—in all demons!"

She clenched her fist tightly, her nails digging deep into her palm:

"Since gentle methods cannot bring respect and order, and since goodwill will only be trampled on... then I will choose the most direct and effective method—violent suppression!"

Her gaze swept over the fairies below the stage, whose expressions varied as a result of her words, filled with icy disdain:

“I’ve seen through the nature of fairies! They’re all the same! No matter how good you are to them, no matter how much you give them, they will eventually turn on you! So, I don’t care anymore! I don’t care how many will die or how much destruction will be caused, I only care about the result—to use an iron fist and fear to teach them to obey!”

She looked at Custer again, a near-maniacal smile spreading across her face:

“Morgan didn’t do that, you know? She seemed cold, but she still harbored a pathetic illusion about those hopeless guys. She wasn’t pure enough, not ruthless enough! She couldn’t bring herself to be truly ruthless! So, she failed!”

She stood tall, the crown on her head reflecting a dazzling light under the lamp:

"And now—I! Nocnarria! am the new and only queen of the Fairy Kingdom!"

Her voice suddenly rose, carrying an almost provocative tone:

“Cast, you can’t be that clueless, can you? Even if it weren’t me sitting in this position today, it would be you! What do you think the destiny of the ‘Children of Paradise’ is? Do you think the paths taken by the first Queen Liliana and Morgan are fundamentally different from yours?!”

Since the first year of the Queen's calendar, when the first royal clan chief, who upheld goodwill and responsibility, was betrayed and killed by the very fairies he had tried to protect, Nocnarria's last vestige of warmth and expectation for her people was extinguished. In its place ignited a raw, deep-seated rage towards these "wolves in sheep's clothing," these "ungrateful creatures." In her eyes, it was precisely the fairies' pure yet twisted emotions, their chaotic nature lacking the clear boundaries of good and evil found in pan-human history, that led to this tragedy.

She too became "pure"—purely pursuing power, purely craving dominance, and purely no longer trusting any warmth. She didn't care if there were still dissenting voices within the clan, nor where her actions would lead Britain. She was tired of playing the role of a "good" guardian, dominating and crushing at will, using the most direct power to make all the fairies bow down—this was the "order" she truly craved deep within her heart.

Morgan had also practiced tyranny, but in Nocnarria's eyes, it wasn't "pure." Morgan was always haunted by the shadows of the past, burdened by an overly heavy "responsibility" and a twisted "love," unable to embrace pure, unbridled rule like Nocnarria. Therefore, she chose to join forces with Aurora, pushing the situation into deeper chaos, solely to build a kingdom entirely under her will upon the ruins. Now, with the crown in hand, her ambition seems within reach.

-

"Do you think—you'll get what you want?! Nocnarria!!!"

A cold, calm voice, yet imbued with boundless majesty and rage, boomed out without warning from behind the church, like a thunderclap!

That sound...

Nocnarria's smug, almost manic expression froze instantly, replaced by utter horror and disbelief! She jerked her head toward the source of the sound—

The heavy church door, which should have been tightly closed, had been silently pushed open a crack at some point.

A figure, against the light filtering in from outside, slowly entered this hall filled with intrigue and murderous intent.

Her long, silvery-white hair swayed gently behind her, and her dark blue queen's robes, though stained with traces of undried blood and dust, remained crisp and elegant. Fresh bruises and minor wounds clung to her cheeks, testifying to the fierce battle and injuries of the recent past. Yet, her icy purple eyes shone brighter and sharper than ever before, like the undying stars of the polar regions, fixed firmly on the crowned figure on the platform.

Queen Morgan.

She, who should have been hacked to pieces and bled to death among the royal throne, is now standing here unharmed!

"No...no way...!" Nocnarria screamed, her pupils contracting in utter shock. "Why are you still alive?! You should be dead! I saw it with my own eyes...!"

Her words came to an abrupt halt.

Because, beside Morgan, another figure stepped in as well.

She was a woman slightly taller than Morgan. Her long, golden hair, as radiant as sunlight, was the same color Morgan once had. She wore a classic, elegant blue light armor as an inner garment, covered by a simple white cloak. Most breathtaking were her deep eyes, as if they held the essence of starry nights and violets—the purple pupils forming a striking and strange contrast with Morgan's icy blue eyes.

When the blonde, violet-eyed woman's face was fully revealed to all the fairies in the church—

Time seemed to have truly stopped.

A tremor, originating from the depths of their bloodline and etched into their racial memory, a mixture of boundless awe and extreme fear, swept through every elf present like the coldest wind! Their bodies began to tremble uncontrollably, their faces ashen, as if they were witnessing something that should never have existed in the world... mythology itself.

The first queen.

Liliana, the Child of Paradise, the founder and terminator of the Eternal Era, the first "savior" and the final "conqueror" in British legend!

That being, who should have vanished along with the Eternal Calendar two thousand years ago, is now standing shoulder to shoulder with Morgan at this final place that will determine the future of Britain!

Even Caster, due to this unimaginable turn of events, widened her icy blue eyes, staring incredulously at her ancestor who shared a similar origin with her, yet was far more ancient and majestic.