Fairy Round Table Realm, Poem of Eternal Mist

"boom--!!!"

A powerful shockwave swept out from the not-yet-completely-collapsed passage behind him, like an invisible giant hammer, slamming into his back!

"puff--!"

Lipkaner felt as if his internal organs had shifted, spitting out a mouthful of blood. Like a kite with a broken string, he was violently thrown through the air by the force, tracing a pathetic arc before crashing heavily onto the muddy ground outside the exit! The heavy impact made his vision go black, almost causing him to faint. Warm liquid flowed from his ears—blood. His bones felt like they were shattered, covered in dirt, gunpowder, and his own blood.

He lay on the ground, panting heavily, greedily inhaling the relatively "fresh" but still smoky air outside. A feeling of exhaustion from surviving a catastrophe, mixed with excruciating pain, swept over his body. He struggled to lift his head and saw a sturdy old locust tree not far behind him, standing silently in the dust raised by the explosion, its branches and leaves swaying in the blast wave.

“…I…I survived…” he murmured, a twisted expression of relief, more painful than crying, squeezed out on his face. He subconsciously tried to move toward the locust tree, as if he wanted to rest against it, even if only for a moment.

However, in that one ten-thousandth of a second when his mind was most relaxed—

"Whoosh-!"

A sharp, piercing sound tore through the air!

"Pfft!"

An arrow, its tail still trembling slightly, pierced his right shoulder blade with perfect accuracy, the very point where he had just managed to prop himself up! The immense impact slammed his upper body back into the ground!

"Ah—!!" The excruciating pain made him scream.

Before he could react—

"Whoosh! Thud!" The second arrow pierced his left thigh!

"Whoosh! Thud!" The third one pierced his right thigh!

"Whoosh! Thud!" The fourth one pierced through his left elbow joint, which was supporting him on the ground!

Four arrows, swift as lightning, ruthless and precise, pierced through his four limbs! Lipkaner didn't even see where the arrows came from before the sudden, excruciating pain completely stripped him of his ability to move. His entire body was firmly "nailed" to the spot, unable to move! Each wound sent piercing pain through him, and blood quickly stained his clothes and the soil beneath him.

He raised his head in despair.

As the smoke and dust cleared, a figure, like a vengeful goddess emerging from a pool of blood in hell, slowly appeared from the other side of the explosion's smoke screen.

Kalia. Covered in blood, her long golden hair clung haphazardly to her pale cheeks and bloodied neck, her icy blue eyes burning with a rage and destructive desire that could freeze the soul. In her left hand, she gripped a gleaming, jagged long saw, while her right hand was clenched into a fist, her knuckles white from the force, her nails digging deep into her palm.

She walked slowly, her steps heavy, clearly her injuries severely hampering her movements. But with each step, the clattering sound of her footsteps, a mixture of mud and blood, seemed like the clearest death knell against the backdrop of deathly silence, broken only by the faint echoes of distant explosions and the crackling of flames, striking Lipkaner's already fragile nerves with each resounding thud.

The footsteps brought a suffocating sense of oppression, a naked and undisguised murderous intent, and an overwhelming and chilling despair.

“No…no…don’t come any closer…” Lipkaner tried in vain to twist his body, trying to escape, but was firmly held in place by four arrows. The extreme fear finally overwhelmed his last shred of reason; the warm, wet sensation of incontinence soaked his lower body, and a strong, foul stench filled the air. His body trembled uncontrollably, his teeth chattering, unable to utter a complete sentence, only broken, incomprehensible gasps escaping his lips.

Kalia walked up to him and stopped. She looked down at the traitor sprawled on the ground, wretched like a beast awaiting slaughter, her eyes filled with no pity, only an unfathomable chill.

She bent down, reached out her blood-stained left hand, grabbed Lipcan's shirt at the chest, and ripped it open!

"Rip—!"

The sound of tearing fabric was particularly jarring. Lipkaner's shirt was roughly ripped open, revealing a thin, pale chest covered in cold sweat and dust. The cold metal restraint fell to the muddy ground beside him with a clatter, rolled twice, and came to a stop.

Lipkaner's pupils contracted sharply, the shadow of death completely enveloping him. He wanted to beg for mercy, to plead, to promise everything, but only a weak breath escaped his throat: "Don't... beg... me..."

"Dream on."

Kalia's voice was low and hoarse, yet every word was like a knife, shattering all his illusions.

"If I don't kill you... I, Kalia... am unworthy to be called a Fairy Knight!"

The moment she finished speaking, she raised the long saw in her right hand.

The jagged, cold light reflected in Lipcan's pupils, which were dilated with extreme fear.

"No—!!!" he let out a final, incoherent, and piercing wail.

"laugh--!!"

The sharp saw blade sliced ​​into the skin of Lipcanl's chest without any resistance, easily tearing through the fragile flesh, and then pressed against the ribs below.

Kalia gripped the saw handle with both hands and began to pull back and forth with force.

"Crunch... crunch... hiss..."

A grating, metallic screeching sound, mingled with Lipkaner's inhuman, heart-wrenching screams, echoed across the clearing surrounded by explosions and flames. With each pull of the saw, penetrating deeper, the agony intensified exponentially! Lipkaner's face was contorted in extreme pain, his eyes bulging, his body convulsing, his limbs, bound by arrows, thrashing wildly in vain, only causing more blood to gush from his wounds.

Despair, utter and hopeless despair, like the thickest ink, soaked into his face, which was etched with betrayal and sin. His screams grew weaker and weaker, yet never ceased, as if he were using the last of his strength to resist this excruciating torture.

Kalia remained expressionless, seemingly deaf to the screams and oblivious to the warm blood splattering on her face and body. Her movements were steady and resolute, her eyes fixed only on the target that had to be opened and destroyed. The rough saw blade scraped against the hard ribs, sending bone fragments mixed with flesh and blood flying. One rib was sawed off, then a second… The excruciating pain made her arm tremble slightly, her hand split open, but she paid no heed.

Finally, a bloody gash, wide enough to allow an arm to pass through, appeared in Lipcan's chest.

Kalia tossed aside the long saw, which was covered in blood and flesh. She stretched out her right hand, fingers spread, and without hesitation, plunged it deep into the warm, bloody cavity!

Fingers pierced through the broken ribs, avoided the still-twitching lungs, ignored the slippery tissue and rushing blood... and finally, precisely and firmly, grasped the still-beating, warm heart!

The instant the touch came, something seemed to flash intensely in Kalia's icy blue eyes.

Then, she suddenly clenched her fists tightly!

"Pfft—!!!"

With a chilling thud as flesh was forcibly torn apart, and a final, almost inaudible groan of death from Lipcanl's throat, Kalia ripped his still-beating heart out of his chest!

Blood gushed from the empty cavity of his chest like a fountain. Lipkaner's body convulsed violently, then stiffened completely, his head tilting limply to one side, his bulging eyes staring fixedly at the gray sky, filled with the last, boundless fear and pain.

Breathing has stopped forever.

Kalia stood there, covered in blood, her right hand still clutching the heart that was slowly losing its warmth and ceasing to beat. Warm blood dripped down her arms and fingertips, pooling into a small dark red puddle at her feet.

A few seconds of deathly silence.

She slowly released her grip.

"Clap."

The heart fell into the muddy pool of blood, like discarded garbage.

Then, she casually tossed the long saw, stained with blood and flesh, aside.

Without glancing again at the corpse nailed to the tree with a hollow chest, she turned around and, dragging her wounded and bloodstained body, began to walk slowly and laboriously in the opposite direction from the locust tree and the explosion ruins.

With each step, a dark red, deep footprint was left on the muddy ground soaked with blood and filth, winding forward.

The great revenge has been achieved.

He personally killed one of the murderers who directly killed His Majesty.

but……

In my chest, there was no sense of relief or joy as I had expected, only a colder, more empty void...

The queen who would call her "Kalia," who would occasionally show concern beneath her sternness, who was the only queen she was willing to be loyal to and entrust everything to... is no longer here.

Behind this "victory" bought with blood and pain lies a home and meaning she has forever lost.

Ahead, there was no throne where His Majesty awaited, no royal city to protect, and not even a "place" to return to.

Only boundless, seemingly capable of swallowing everything...

dark.

And so, covered in wounds and blood, like a lost soul in the wilderness, she stumbled step by step into the unknown, deep night. The firelight and blood behind her gradually blurred, and finally, along with that sinful corpse, she was left on the path from which there was no turning back.

Manchester Flames - Fairy Round Table Realm, Poem of Eternal Mist

Between the cold jade thrones, the former solemnity and majesty were gone, replaced by deathly silence. The wind howled through the broken window frames, like a mournful cry. Crystalline blood trickled and congealed on the cold stone slabs, reflecting the shattered light of the dome. Morgan lay there, her magnificent dress soaked in dark red. Her once violet eyes, which always held supreme majesty and profound weariness, now stared blankly into the void, unclosed, as if to etch this final scene of betrayal into eternal death. In those eyes, there was no anger, no astonishment, only a… frozen, unfathomable grief, as if she had fallen into eternal silence with a final, unuttered sigh.

Bawanshi knelt on the edge of this pool of blood.

Her outstretched hand hovered in mid-air, her fingertips just an inch from Morgan's cold wrist, yet it trembled, unable to fall. It was as if that single touch would shatter some false barrier she desperately maintained, letting in all the terrible realities. Her face was blank, paler than the throne itself, except for her crimson eyes, which always flickered with capriciousness, cruelty, or a barely perceptible dependence and fear. Now, they were wide open, the pupils shrinking to pinpoints, reflecting that glaring red.

The silence was expanding, squeezing her eardrums and producing a sharp ringing sound.

Then, the sound was broken by an extremely faint, breathy sound, as if it were leaking from the deepest part of the lungs.

"Ah……"

A short, abrupt, and utterly unfunny laugh.

"Hehe...haha..."

The laughter grew louder, becoming intermittent and high-pitched, echoing in the empty royal hall, only to abruptly stop at each turn, turning into broken sobs. She raised her hands and covered her face, her shoulders heaving violently.

"Hahaha... Hahahaha... Waaaaah..."

Laughter and sobs were completely intertwined, indistinguishable from one another. Tears streamed from between her fingers, washing over her face stained with dust and blood. She wasn't mourning; it was more like a pure, animalistic outburst, a scream of despair from extreme fear and incomprehensible pressure.

“I couldn’t stop them… I saw it… I clearly saw it!” Her voice came through her hand, muffled and distorted, each word as if squeezed out of her throat with all her might. “That traitor Lipkaner… Aurora’s hypocritical smile… Nokleina’s knife… They surrounded me… I… I was scared… I couldn’t move! I just stood there! Like a piece of wood! Like… like those bastards in the village who used to watch me get beaten and stoned!”

She abruptly lowered her hand, tears streaming down her face, but a frenzied, self-destructive flame ignited in her eyes as she stared intently into Morgan's unclosed eyes, as if accusing the dead queen or lashing out at her own soul.

“Mother…Mother was…stabbed through! One sword! Two swords! So many swords! Blood…so much blood…more than ever before! Kalia is roaring, Sylph is screaming, they were trapped outside that damned barrier…they must be dead too…all dead…hahaha…hahaha…because I’m useless…because I’m still that ‘good-natured’ Bavanshi…that useless piece of trash who only ever waits for others to save him!”

Fragments of memory surged uncontrollably, not from this life, but from a more distant, more blurred cycle of reincarnation—the coldness of countless times falling in mud or pools of blood, the countless times in despair seeing that figure, draped in starlight or burdened with a heavy mission, rushing to his aid, those purple eyes always filled with sorrow and helplessness, and that repeated, heartbreaking sob: "I'm sorry... I'm late again..."

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, Witch, I still died in the end this time..."

That was the voice of my distant past self, faint and filled with remorse.

Morgan's voice seemed to echo in his ears, clearer and more desperate than ever before. It was no longer the queen's command, but the plea of ​​a mother on the verge of collapse: "Live violently! Live cruelly! You can't survive without it... Please... Bavanshi... Just this once, just this once... If you can survive here..."

But did I do it, Mother?

Bavanshi staggered to her feet, her bare feet stepping on the edge of the cold pool of blood. The sticky texture made her nauseous, yet a strange, maternal feeling arose within her. She surveyed the vast, empty royal city, which now seemed incredibly small and suffocating. Everyone was gone; the victors had departed with their ambitions and schemes, leaving behind only this cold shell, a symbol of the end of an old era, and an abandoned, useless "daughter."

Loneliness, like the coldest ice water, instantly overwhelmed her. It wasn't just physical solitude, but a detachment from the meaning of existence. Morgan was dead. The "mother" who had pulled her from the mire, given her the name "Tristan the Fairy Knight," indulged her whims, and would silently sit by her bedside when she awoke from nightmares… was gone. The only being in this world who could possibly understand the tiny, humble longing beneath her twisted nature had vanished.

Caster… that prophetic child who looked at me with those innocent, slightly naive eyes at the ball in Gloucester, trying to understand “happiness”… she’s gone too, isn’t she? Heading towards her mission, towards something she was destined to save or destroy. Everyone has gone, all with their own direction, all with their own purpose.

just me……

"Heh...heh..." The hoarse laughter rang out again, but this time it was devoid of tears, leaving only a dried-up, burnt-out emptiness. She shook her head, retreating step by step, away from Morgan's body, as if the corpse itself had become a source of pain. Her gaze wandered aimlessly, finally settling on the huge, seemingly bottomless pit behind the royal city.

She had always known about that pit. Morgan never allowed her to approach it, and even when he mentioned it unintentionally, a deep-seated fear, perhaps imperceptible even to herself, would flash in the Queen's eyes. It was something that even the previous Queen Liliana feared, a nightmare that Morgan's immense magical power and ruthless rule could never escape—Cornunos. A breeding ground for calamity, a "god" that could devour everything.

A strange calm, mixed with utter despair, slowly seeped into Bavanshi's very being. The frantic tears stopped, leaving only a blank, almost dazed expression on her face. She looked at the dark pit, then slowly turned her head, glancing at Morgan, who lay forever asleep on the throne, before looking out the window at the British land that was about to be engulfed in flames and chaos due to Aurora's instigation.

All sounds are fading away, all colors are fading. The world has become a monotonous, nauseating gray canvas. Exhaustion, an unprecedented exhaustion, spreads from the depths of my bones. It's not physical fatigue, but a weariness of the soul that has been repeatedly battered and ground down, until it can no longer be pieced back together.

“That’s… enough,” she murmured to herself, her voice as soft as a sigh.

In her crimson eyes, the last glimmer of light belonging to "Bavanshi" was extinguished, replaced by a void and destructive darkness.