Fairy Round Table Realm, Poem of Eternal Mist

"I don't want to stay in this kind of place anymore."

She took a step towards the pit. Her steps were unsteady, yet unusually firm.

"The only 'god' that Mother fears... the terrifying one... Cornunos..."

A slow, twisted smile spread across his lips, a smile devoid of any joy, only endless mockery and self-abandonment.

"Hahahaha...how about..."

She opened her arms, as if to embrace the bottomless darkness, to embrace the ultimate nothingness that could end all suffering. Her hoarse voice suddenly rose, transforming into a shrill and frantic declaration that echoed throughout the empty royal city:

"—You should all just disappear!!!"

At the edge of the cold pool of blood, Bawanshi staggered to her feet. Her left high heel had been lost in the chaos, so she simply swung her right one away as well. Her bare feet trod on the cold stone, the remaining blood sticky. Step by step, she moved towards the enormous crater behind the royal city, a crater that seemed to swallow all light.

"pat...pat..."

In the silence, only the irregular, limping footsteps echoed, pounding against the empty, unsettling hall. Each step seemed to take her further away from the world behind her. She didn't look back at the figure on the throne; she dared not. The dark pit grew larger in her eyes, like a silent, long-awaited gaping maw.

It's over. That's it. Nothing more is needed: this fate of repeated humiliation, this eternally belated salvation, this suffocating loneliness... and this useless self that failed to stop the tragedy.

She stopped at the edge of a precipice. The wind swept upwards from the abyss, ruffling her disheveled hair and carrying an indescribable, ancient, and decaying aura. She leaned slightly forward, below her endless darkness.

"Don't jump! Bawanshi! No!!!!"

The sound ripped through the silence. It was so familiar—her mother's voice, always stern and weary, now sharp, frantic, even cracking. Accompanying the shout was the rapid, almost staggering sound of running footsteps, quickly approaching from the depths of the royal city behind her.

Bavanshi froze. Half of her body was already suspended in the air, and she turned her head extremely slowly, little by little.

It was Morgan.

It wasn't the cold shell on the throne, but a living, breathing Morgan, her long hair disheveled, her face as pale as paper, her purple eyes filled with near-terrified panic. She was rushing towards them recklessly, her queenly demeanor completely gone, like the most ordinary mother about to lose her child.

Bawanshi looked at her, a strange smile suddenly blooming on her face. There was no joy of salvation in that smile, only an extreme weariness and… a mocking sense of relief. Look, Mother, you haven't been "late" after all. But this time, I chose not to wait any longer.

Under Morgan's horrified gaze, just as his outstretched hand was about to touch the hem of her clothes, Bavanshi closed her eyes, her body leaning forward completely, and fell into the all-consuming darkness.

"Bavanshi!!!!!!!!!!"

A piercing scream exploded behind me, then abruptly stopped, as if someone had choked me.

Morgan lunged to the edge of the pit, reaching down in vain, her fingertips brushing against the cold air and the biting wind rising from the abyss. She remained frozen in that position for a few seconds, then her legs gave way, and she collapsed to the ground. All she could see was the swirling, bottomless darkness, and the small figure rapidly disappearing within it.

Again.

These two words were like a red-hot branding iron, searing her soul. Why? Why is it always like this? No matter how hard she tried to plan, how ruthlessly she ruled, trying to reverse that damned fate, to protect that faint glimmer of warmth, she always ended up watching it shatter and fall before her eyes. Her throat felt like it was being choked by an invisible hand, unable to utter a sound, only scalding tears sliding unimpeded down her cold cheeks, drop by drop, hitting the stone slab beneath her.

"Don't cry, Ash."

A soft, ancient-sounding voice suddenly broke the stagnation of despair.

"You have to be a strong mother in front of your daughter."

Morgan looked up abruptly.

The first Queen Liliana, now standing quietly atop her throne, her posture as elegant as ever, seemed never to have left this pinnacle of power. In her arms lay peacefully Bavanshi, eyes closed, as if she had simply fallen into a deep sleep.

The immense shock left Morgan speechless for a moment. Hope mixed with deeper doubts left her frozen in place.

Neither of them noticed that a dark red bead, shrouded in ominous black energy, slipped from Bavanshi's tattered pocket. It rolled silently across the ground, following the cracks in the stone slabs, and plunged straight into the bottomless pit.

The bead continued to fall until it was smashed by the tip of a huge, jagged antler that resembled that of an ancient deer in the darkness.

"Snapped."

A barely audible cracking sound. Thick, purplish-black magic surged forth like a living thing, rapidly meandering and seeping along the grotesque horn, greedily absorbed by the colossal being beneath it. Beneath the horn, in the depths of absolute darkness, something that had slumbered for countless ages seemed to stir slightly…

Camelot Royal City at the current time

The royal city of Camelot was now deserted and deathly silent. In a makeshift bedroom, Bavanshi lay silently, eerie bluish-black lines faintly visible beneath her skin, her life force as weak as a candle in the wind. Morgan and Liliana stood by the bedside, continuously channeling pure magic, desperately trying to maintain the lifeline that was about to snap completely.

Da Vinci stood a short distance away, his lips moved, but he ultimately chose silence. Any explanation—regarding the mental torment of the Court of Disillusionment, the irreversible erosion of the Morse poison, the cellular disintegration, like a body irradiated by the most virulent radiation—was at this moment merely a knife adding to the pain. The old and new, unbearable scars on Bavanshi's body already spoke of a cruelty far beyond words.

At the other end of the room, under the continuous and gentle infusion of magic from Castor, Nokreina struggled to open her eyes. Her gaze was unfocused, and the flame of her life flickered like a dying candle.

"Why didn't you kill me..." she coughed, her breath weak, "Anyway... I won't live much longer..."

“That’s true.” Caster crouched down beside her, his blue eyes clear and resolute. “But there’s something I need to know. I think I understand your reasons for betraying us. Now, it’s all settled… So, what are Aurora and Corra ultimately going to do? And what do you know about the first Queen, Liliana?”

Nokleina's unfocused pupils focused slightly as she looked at Caster, revealing a faint, almost pitying, bitter smile.

“Aurora… and Corra? Too late… Their last wish was for Cornunus… to descend upon Britain. Even if we kill them now… it won’t stop it…” She gasped for breath, her voice lower. “As for the First Queen… information… I only overheard… the two of them… and a very mysterious voice… discussing…”

[Fragment of Memories]

Aurora's voice carried her usual sweet laughter, but with a hint of cold calculation: "It seems that only such a 'script' can be called perfect, isn't it? Ash and Castor alone can't put on a stage play that's exciting enough."

A deep, muffled male voice, seemingly masked by layers of noise, rang out, its tone as casual as if discussing the weather: "That's right, exactly. The three necessary 'pieces' must be all together for the show to come to a perfect close. Think about it, how can a grand performance be incomplete? Liliana, you must return to this stage and bring this all to a 'perfect' conclusion."

Corra's voice intervened, tinged with cautious skepticism: "But Liliana is, after all, a being from two thousand years ago. Do you have any ingenious method to 'invite' a 'ghost' that has vanished for two thousand years back to Britain?"

The indistinct male voice chuckled softly, brimming with confidence that he was in complete control: "You don't need to worry about that. I've already arranged everything. The 'me' on the other side has already finalized the details of the script. The only missing 'actor' is Liliana, the one banished from Paradise... Heh, getting her 'on stage' is no difficult task for me."

The visuals and sound abruptly ceased, as if severed by a sharp blade.

As Nokreina's feeble narration ended, the air in the room seemed to freeze instantly. Liliana, who had maintained her elegant and composed demeanor, stiffened almost imperceptibly for a moment, as if pierced by an invisible thorn. Throughout the entire history of the Fairy Kingdom, she knew of only one person capable of orchestrating every joy and sorrow, every life and death, as if it were a "script." That was her unresolved issue, the White Dragon most deeply lurking in the Fairy Kingdom—Vortigern.

Deep within her memory, ancient images surged. In the distant past, during her reign, Vortigern had disguised himself as a sharp-tongued and cunning merchant, moving among the clans and silently sowing the seeds of greed and strife. Later, he suffered an unexpected defeat in a public debate and vanished without a trace. But Liliana never forgot him. The truth behind the demise of her two most trusted first-generation fairy knights, Monica and Herlanders, only became vaguely apparent to her after many years, as if the indistinct shadow of that white dragon lingered in their wake. At that time, though she lacked concrete evidence, some intuitions, weathered by a thousand years, often came closer to the truth than any evidence.

Morgan immediately noticed Liliana's subtle change, and alarm bells rang in his mind: "Your Majesty, could it be...?"

Liliana exhaled slowly, a sharp glint flashing in her ancient eyes: "Ash, the situation may be more complicated than you think. Vortigern... may be more than one 'individual'. The 'merchant' who operated in my time may only be one of them. Another 'him' may have already infiltrated your time, changing his appearance and identity. As for who he is now... we know nothing."

"Wait!" Ritsuka suddenly exclaimed, a memory flashing through her mind like lightning. "Could it be that what Bagst said in Autumn Forest was referring to..."

“Bagust? She’s one of your subordinates,” Liliana turned quickly to Morgan, her tone unusually urgent. “You sent her to the Autumn Forest to search for Vortigern, didn’t you? What happened?”

Morgan frowned, recalling carefully for a moment: "Baghster's visit was just a routine inspection. After she returned... she was indeed unusually silent, and stayed in Manchester for a long time afterward, rarely venturing out."

“Wait… I’m a bit confused.” Castor pressed his forehead, trying to sort out the information. “Your Majesty, and… uh, Your Majesty’s Majesty? Never mind the form of address for now… Autumn Forest, isn’t that where Oberon and his fairies are stationed? How is it related to Vortigern?”

“Child, you have never witnessed Vortigern’s true terror.” Liliana’s voice calmed, yet carried a chilling edge that seemed to penetrate the ages. “His ‘destruction’ takes a form beyond our ordinary understanding. That being named Oberon… perhaps, is one of Vortigern’s disguises in this era. I am merely giving an example; after all, Vortigern’s greatest skill is perfectly imitating and thoroughly disguising himself as any character.”

Upon hearing this, a chill ran down everyone's spine. Every moment spent with Oberon in the past was instantly re-examined, shrouded in an eerie shadow.

The self-proclaimed "Fairy King" Oberon's behavior was indeed full of inconsistencies: he always appeared and disappeared at inopportune times, his whereabouts were a mystery; in many crises or attacks, he was often the first to "cleverly" escape or simply disappear; he frequently left alone under the pretext of "gathering intelligence," with no fixed return date... These details, which were once attributed to his eccentric personality or other important matters, now connected together, point to a chilling possibility.

How could a "companion" so coincidentally leave just before each danger strikes? And how could it maintain such an elusive and elusive state for so long?

However, suspicion is just suspicion. Without concrete evidence, any accusation is merely a castle in the air. The group suppressed their surging doubts and unease, exchanging heavy glances, temporarily swallowing this startling hypothesis. Only the faint hum of the medical equipment and Nokleina's increasingly weak breathing remained in the room, as if foreshadowing a larger storm silently brewing.

In the territory of the Wind Clan, in a cold and dimly lit secret room.

Aurora stood with her back to the door, her posture still upright and elegant, as if the scene before her was not a mess, but her own personal art gallery. Melusin knelt on one knee, her silver armor cracked and charred, her once-flexible dragon wings drooping limply at her sides, several gruesome wounds still oozing dim light. She kept her head down, not daring to look at the expression on the Wind Clan Chief's face, even though it was undoubtedly exactly as she remembered—always carrying a beautiful yet cold arrogance that looked down upon all living beings.

“Lady Aurora…I…” Melusin’s voice was dry and hoarse as she tried to defend herself, even if it was just to beg for a chance to explain.

“Enough.” Aurora interrupted her without even turning around. Her voice was like the finest polished glass, clear and melodious, yet utterly devoid of warmth. “No need for further words. I have no reason to continue ‘investing’ in you. You can’t even handle a newly resurrected first queen… ‘The Last Dragon’s Remains’? Ha, what a pathetic title.”

That contemptuous sneer pierced Melusin's remaining pride like an ice needle. She jerked her head up, a desperate plea flashing in her eyes: "Lady Aurora! Please give me another chance! Next time, I promise—"

“An opportunity?” Aurora finally turned around slowly, her face bearing a perfectly timed, almost cruelly bewildered expression. She raised an eyebrow slightly. “Melusin, haven’t I given you enough opportunities? Time and time again, you’ve messed things up, wasting my resources and expectations. You are of no value to me now. Stay here quietly; perhaps this is where you truly belong.”

With that, she didn't glance at the wounded dragon fairy on the ground again, and walked straight to the door. The heavy door slammed shut behind her, cutting off the last ray of light and leaving Melusin completely abandoned in absolute darkness and silence.

In the sealed room, only Melusin's heavy, unsteady breathing and her own increasingly faint heartbeat remained. She remained kneeling for a long time before finally collapsing backward and slumping into the cold sofa. Darkness enveloped her, and the surrounding silence was so profound that one could hear the dust settling. Perhaps, this utter silence and exile was most fitting for her now—a state of utter emptiness, where even the meaning of her existence had been denied?

On the other side...

Manchester. The place that Bagst once considered his last haven and home.

The once orderly streets are now wantonly smeared with dark red and charred stains. Mangled bodies lie sprawled in various contorted positions, congealed blood reflecting a nauseating sheen under the eerily beautiful yet sinister pink light of the sky. The air is thick with the stench of blood, the acrid smell of burning flames, and a… sweet, decaying odor unique to fairies who have fallen into Moss's form.

A living hell. No other words can describe it.

Aurora's seduction was like a spark thrown into a parched grassland, instantly igniting the selfishness, jealousy, and violence that the fairies had suppressed for millennia. The so-called "rebellion against the Queen" quickly devolved into a pure, cathartic frenzy that swept across the entire land. Smashing, looting, burning, and killing... the unleashed malice spread like a plague, and every bit of resentment and rage that grew provided nourishment for "Cornunos," who had long coveted the darkness. Mos's figure continued to grow in the streets and alleys, his low, hoarse roars and frenzied laughter weaving a sonata of hell.

Bagst stood in the very center of this chaos.

Her golden pupils reflected the leaping flames, the crumbling buildings, and her own kind tearing and trampling each other. Confusion, an overwhelming sense of bewilderment, overwhelmed her like icy water. Why? Why had everyone who worked together, occasionally argued but ultimately managed to live in peace, turned into this? Killing each other, destroying their home—what was the purpose?

What she wanted was always very simple: a quiet corner where she could live peacefully, without constantly being on edge dealing with the Queen's demands or the pressure of her mission. How wonderful it would be to stay in Manchester, like before, indulging in the mundane and small joys of daily life, and while away the time.

But reality, in its most brutal and ruthless manner, crushed that insignificant hope.

The flames drew near, the heat distorting the air, the scorching air lifting the stray hairs from her forehead. The shock and bewilderment on Bagst's face slowly faded like the receding tide, replaced by an empty void, as if her soul had been ripped away, leaving only a delicate but lifeless shell.

"I...don't want to think about it anymore..."

Since I can't understand it... then... never mind...

Why... do I suddenly feel... so hungry?

What is this feeling of emptiness...?

What... happened to me?

"……never mind."

"Devour it all."

The leaping flames completely engulfed her vision. A scorching heatwave enveloped her, licking at her armor and skin. Amidst the towering flames and raging shadows, Bagst's tall figure, step by step, slowly but resolutely, walked deeper into the flames and chaos, until finally being swallowed up completely.

The streets of Manchester are now a scene of devastating revelry, and a lone knight who has quietly vanished, heading towards an unknown end.

The Fairy Kingdom, Oxford, the territory of the Winged Clan.

The severe injuries sustained from that brutal interrogation prevented Morrigan from leaving her manor. Ostensibly recuperating, she secretly continued her inquisitive and analytical pursuits. The tumultuous events following Morgan's "fall," and the numerous illogical ripples within them, constantly troubled her.

Aurora… and her hidden accomplices, their fanaticism in pushing Britannia toward destruction seems impure. It's more like following a predetermined, obsessive path, performing a multitude of inexplicable "redundant" operations beyond what appears necessary. And recently, the news of the reappearance of the first Queen, Liliana, has pushed this incongruity to its peak. How can an entity that should have vanished completely two thousand years ago return "unharmed" at this moment? This violates the most basic principles of cause and effect and common sense.

Filled with these conflicting questions, Morrigan, enduring the dull pain in her limbs, limped to the tall bookshelf. Her slender, pale fingers brushed the dust from the heavy spines of the books, finally pulling out an ancient tome containing secrets from the era of the previous queen. The pages rustled in her hands, the yellowed paper interwoven with blurred illustrations and obscure ancient fairy script.

Suddenly, her fingers stopped.

“The script…?” she murmured, her purple eyes narrowing slightly as she stared intently at a passage describing Queen Liliana’s later reign. The passage repeatedly mentioned the phrase “surrounded by the script.” The book subtly implied that many of the first queen’s decisions and experiences in her later years were not entirely autonomous, but rather as if she had been drawn into an invisible, pre-set “story” framework. It was this constraint that accelerated the collapse of her rule.

The word struck her like a lightning bolt, instantly cleaving through the fog of memory. She suddenly recalled a fragmented conversation she'd overheard long ago, on the outskirts of the Aurora outpost. That indistinct male voice, that cold tone that viewed everything as a stage and its actors… how strikingly similar it was to the fragments Nokleina had revealed before her death!

She eagerly sifted through more related records, cross-referencing ancient legends with scattered pieces of information. Clues began to piece together like scattered puzzle pieces in her sharp mind—the mysterious merchant "Sherlock," who was active during Liliana's era, known for his acerbic wit and cunning… His whereabouts subtly overlapped with many key events; behind his behavioral patterns, there always seemed to be a long-term, far-reaching "preparation" purpose…

A chilling scene slowly emerged.

The truth, perhaps, is this: the entire Fairy Kingdom, from the time of its first queen, Liliana, spanning three thousand years, was not a product of natural evolution. It was a vast, meticulously planned, and ruthless "performance." All the rise and fall, tragedies, loves and hates, betrayals, even Morgan's iron-fisted rule and Castor's pilgrimage mission, had long been written into an unseen "script." And the "playwright," hidden deep within the shadows of history, patiently and meticulously orchestrated each scene.

"It's too late, wise Morian!"

A cold, slippery voice, with a strange echo, suddenly rang out from very close behind her.