Fairy Round Table Realm, Poem of Eternal Mist

"The timing of this 'discovery' is terrible for you. You are ultimately just an insignificant little character in 'my' writing. Erasing you is just a matter of a casual stroke of the pen."

Morrigan's heart clenched, and she whirled around! However, her severely injured body slowed her reaction, and in the instant she turned her head—

laugh!

A razor-sharp, cold light, accompanied by a piercing shriek that seemed to tear through the air, slashed down head-on!

The violent impact prevented her from feeling pain immediately; she only felt a chill in her chest, followed by a gush of scalding liquid that soaked her clothes and splattered onto her pale cheeks and the bookshelf behind her. The blood didn't flow slowly, but rather, propelled by the terrifying force, it burst forth like a red mist.

Amidst the scattering of blood droplets and her momentarily blurred vision, she could barely make out the attacker's outline: a man with short, jet-black hair, his face shrouded in shadow. Behind him stretched thin, transparent wings, resembling those of a giant insect, humming softly. Most striking were the grotesque claws extending from the tips of his mutated arms, claws gleaming with a chilling scythe-like light. At that moment, a drop of viscous blood slowly gathered and dripped from the sharp claw tip.

"Tick."

Blood droplets splattered on the floor, the sound eerily clear in the deathly silent study.

Mollyan fell backward uncontrollably, her back slamming heavily against the cold floor, dissipating her last bit of strength. Her vision began to be encroached upon by a spreading dark red, followed by a chilling darkness creeping in from all around. Strange… it was the height of summer outside, so why did it feel so cold? The light was also rapidly fading, everything familiar in the study becoming blurry and dim, finally sinking into boundless darkness.

Before her last vestige of consciousness faded, what her remaining senses caught was her own pair of beautiful purple eyes that had once reflected countless wisdom and thoughts, their brilliance irreversibly fading little by little into lifeless ashes.

Morian, the patriarch of the Winged Clan, known as the "Sage," perished silently. Like a line of insignificant words, she was casually and thoroughly erased from the vast script of "Britain" by the pen of the invisible "playwright."

A Cold Dish - Fairy Round Table Realm, Poem of Eternal Mist

At the entrance to the study in the territory of the Winged Clan, where the air was thick with the stench of blood.

The air distorted slightly, and fine, almost invisible, powdery light dust slowly settled. Sylph, shrouded in a layer of flowing, cloud-like magic, silently revealed herself. Her emerald eyes, sharp as knives, were fixed on the "being" in the center of the room who was flicking blood from her fingertips.

“Hidden for so long… did you think you could hide forever, Vortigern?” Sylph’s voice was icy, suppressing boiling anger. “This time, I’ve finally caught you by the tail.”

Her gaze swept over Morian's gradually cooling body on the ground, her purple eyes now completely lifeless. The regret of arriving too late was fleeting, replaced by a chilling sense of "I knew it." The man before her—whose appearance was identical to "Oberon's"—now stretched out insect-like, transparent wings, his arms transformed into gleaming scythes, his black hair moving without wind, and his body shrouded in an abyss-like emptiness and malice, utterly different from the frivolous pretense of the "Fairy King"—all pretense shattered in this moment.

The legendary destruction device of the Fairy Kingdom, the doomsday worm that automatically arose after failing to atone for its sins, the harbinger of calamity that drags all things into a state of desolation… many horrifying descriptions overlap with the existence before them. And Sylph is one of the few individuals in the Fairy Kingdom entrusted with the mission of fighting against such beings. 【The Disguised Hunter】—Her power, her duty, is to identify and hunt down those "disguised" individuals lurking in the shadows of the kingdom, a crucial restraint that once deterred Vortigern and prevented him from acting too recklessly in the Queen's Calendar.

However, faced with Sylph's stern questioning and surging murderous intent, "Oberon Vortigern," who had just completed a ruthless execution, showed no sign of panic on his face. Instead, he wore an almost weary calm. He slowly shook his hand, as if merely brushing away some dust, and drops of scarlet blood splattered onto the dark floor.

“The Thousand-Year Cicada Demon, Sylph.” He spoke, his voice still carrying Oberon’s slightly magnetic and somewhat flippant tone, but now it was laced with cold mockery. “I must say, you have indeed ruined my plans more than once. I finally managed to guide that foreign magician and the naive Castor onto the predetermined ‘script’ track, but you always manage to make the plot deviate in an annoying way. Not to mention… before you even encouraged that stubborn lion to burn down my ‘Autumn Forest’ stage, trying to force me to show myself?”

"Shut up! You complete fraud!" Sylph interrupted sharply, her surroundings churning violently. "I should have known it was you, 'Oberon'! You're not the Fairy King at all, you're just a pathetic 'imposter'! It's because I've been lurking in the shadows watching you that you've had to hide and act so mysteriously, haven't you?!"

The fragments of truth were now completely pieced together. The unsettling aloofness Oberon experienced with Ritsuka and Castor wasn't for intelligence gathering, but rather a desperate attempt to evade the tracking gaze of the [Disguised Hunter]. Sylph's mission and ability were precisely to pierce through all disguises based on magic, reality, and even concepts, leaving no hiding place for the infiltrator. This differed from the [Fairy Eyes] of the Paradise Fairies; it was a more special gaze, born specifically for "hunting," capable of seeing deeper layers of falsehood that even the [Fairy Eyes] couldn't reach. Vortigern's disguise was near perfect, almost flawless, but precisely because of this, he had to constantly evade Sylph's direct scrutiny.

“Oh my, oh my…you’ve come at just the right time, Miss Sylph.”

Another voice, with a completely different tone—a seasoned, shrewd one, like that of a calculating businessman—suddenly came from the shadows on the other side of the room.

Sylph's pupils suddenly contracted, and she abruptly turned her head.

The shadows on the wall seemed to writhe and peel away like living things, and another figure slowly emerged from them. He was taller than "Oberon," dressed in a well-tailored old-fashioned suit, wearing a monocle over his right eye, with a neatly trimmed beard, and even a badge of the Eternal Queen, long since vanished from history, pinned to his chest. Apart from his striking appearance and attire, he also exuded that familiar, unsettling aura of dark matter.

Sylph would never mistake this figure—it was a conspirator recorded in ancient documents, accused of being active at the end of the Eternal Era, acting under the name "Sherlock," and accelerating the collapse of that era!

"Sherlock?! How is this possible? Oberon? You...!?" Even Sylph felt a chill run down her spine. Two individuals with completely different appearances, temperaments, and historical backgrounds presented almost identical, nauseating "reactions" in her [Disguised Hunter] vision! Standing together, they weren't simply companions or collaborators, but rather... different manifestations of the same being, split from the same twisted origin!

Oberon tilted his head, revealing a subtle smile that was exactly the same as the one that appeared on Sherlock's face.

"Are you confused?" Oberon asked.

“He is me,” Sherlock seamlessly continued, adjusting his monocle, “and I am him too.”

“Both I and the other ‘me’ are Vortigern.” “Oberon” shrugged, his movements eerily synchronized with “Sherlock’s” adjustment of his bow tie.

“They’re just… individuals of the same nature from different periods.” “Sherlock” finished speaking, and the two of them turned their gazes to the frozen Sylph, their eyes filled with indifference as if they were looking at an obstacle that was about to be cleared away.

“Sylph the Cicada Demon,” Sherlock’s tone carried a regretful pronouncement.

"You have no chance anymore." A cold smile curled at the corners of "Oberon's" mouth.

“All of this was meticulously planned by me,” Sherlock said, taking a half-step forward.

“You have no right to interfere again.” “Oberon” turned to the side almost simultaneously.

The two spoke in perfect harmony, breaking down and dissecting complete sentences, their tone, rhythm, and even the subtle movements of their facial muscles coordinated like a mirror image. This eerie "double act" was not a performance, but rather a deeper, more unified, and chilling proof. Sylph felt a chill run down her spine, her hair standing on end. What lay before her was likely a calamity far more insidious and profound than a single "destructive device."

However, her mission was etched into her very bones. Sylph endured the excruciating pain, magic gathering in her throat, the first syllable of the ancient incantation about to burst forth—

But the enemy did not give them any respite.

"Oberon" simply raised his hand slightly.

The next second, a chilling buzzing sound suddenly filled the space! Countless winged insects—with metallic shells and sharp, rapidly vibrating wings—emerged like a dark tide from every shadowy corner of the room, cracks in the walls, and even the void, swarming towards Sylph like a dark, overwhelming tide!

Sylph's pupils contracted, and her chanting ceased. She slammed her toes into the ground, leaping backward while simultaneously crossing her arms over her chest. An explosive burst of frigid magic erupted from her, the air crackling under its strain, and a visible ring of icy blue frost rapidly expanded!

The swarm of winged insects at the forefront bore the brunt of the attack. Their rapidly vibrating wings were instantly covered in frost, stiffened, and then crashed to the ground like hailstones, shattering into countless ice shards. But before the chill could fully spread, a silver blade of light, so fast it left only a blur, tore through the frigid zone, aiming straight for her chest!

Too fast! Sylph only had time to lean back as far as she could.

"Snap—!"

A piercing metallic tearing sound rang out. It wasn't a parry; her breastplate was struck head-on by those scythe-like claws. The steel-forged armor shattered and deformed like paper, the immense impact slamming her violently against the wall behind her. Even the mere glancing force left three deep, bone-revealing gashes on her chest, blood spurting out instantly.

This attack, from the moment the swarm attacked to the moment the armor shattered, took only a breath.

At the same time, Sherlock, who had been watching the battle calmly, made his move. He didn't approach, but simply elegantly raised the jewel-encrusted staff in his hand and gently waved it in the direction Sylph had flown backward.

Silently, four golden slashes, their edges constantly twisting and shattering space, suddenly appeared in the four blind spots around Sylph—without flight paths or signs of magical fluctuations, as if they had always been there.

"Varied--!"

Sylph had no way to dodge. The slash landed squarely on her, producing a dull thud. Her protective magic shattered like glass struck by a heavy hammer, and she crashed to the ground like a kite with a broken string, leaving spiderweb-like cracks in the hard floor as she spat out a mouthful of blood.

And this is just the beginning.

A cold smile played on Sherlock's lips as he lightly tapped the tip of his cane on the ground.

thump.

A soft sound, yet it seemed to strike space itself. Centered on the tip of the staff, the solid ground instantly turned to dust and collapsed wildly inward! A fist-sized energy sphere, radiating extreme darkness that devoured all light, shot out from the center of the collapse, heading straight for the defenseless Sylph who lay paralyzed on the ground!

boom--!!!

The dark energy sphere struck, but instead of a deafening explosion, it produced a strange, inward-devouring annihilation effect. A large section of the ground where Sylph stood vanished silently, and her body arched violently, as if every bone and every wisp of magic was being torn apart and ground by an invisible force. Before the excruciating pain could fully reach her brain, three thick, golden chains, inscribed with ancient sealing runes, emerged from the void, tightly binding her neck, waist, and feet, locking her firmly to the ground.

Immediately afterwards, the remaining swarm of winged insects summoned by "Oberon" and not yet completely frozen coalesced into a swirling black insect mist storm, swooping down with a shriek! Countless sharp winged blades sliced ​​through the air, transforming into a storm of deathly metal that instantly engulfed Sylph!

Hiss hiss hiss hiss—!

A series of sickening cutting sounds rang out. Blood splattered like a fountain, staining the shattered ground and the remaining insect corpses. In an instant, Sylph was covered in wounds, almost a blood-soaked figure.

"Ugh—!!!"

The extreme pain and near-death experience only fueled the ferocity within Sylph. Her emerald pupils suddenly contracted, and she bit her tongue hard, the intense pain causing her remaining magic to surge wildly!

With a single palm strike, filled with a resolute determination to risk everything, he slammed it hard into the ground!

call--!!!

The violent palm wind was not aimed at the enemy, but rather spread outward from her center, forming a circular shockwave that instantly shattered and blew away the insect mist storm that was close to her!

At the same time, dozens of complex and profound emerald green magic circles suddenly lit up in the ruins beneath her and around her! As the light shone brightly, the earth trembled, and countless grains of sand and dust were wildly swirled up by an invisible force, instantly forming a towering, roaring sandstorm tornado! The sand, enhanced by magic, became sharper than blades, and stones were accelerated like cannonballs. The ruins of the entire Winged Clan territory were swept up, torn apart, and hurled away by this destructive force! The sky-covering yellow sand instantly swallowed everything in sight, turning this place into a true sea of ​​death.

However, the sandstorm, powerful enough to level a fortress, seemed to hit an invisible wall just a few feet from Sherlock and Oberon. The raging sand and gravel could only futilely crash and slide away outside the barrier. The two stood in the eye of the storm, their clothes unmoved, their expressions indifferent.

Sylph coughed up blood, struggled to raise her trembling right arm, clenched her fists tightly, and tried her best to control the core of the sandstorm, attempting to move and compress it, and concentrate it to bombard those two hateful barriers!

Sherlock watched her struggle, shaking his head with a hint of regret. He gripped his cane tighter again.

The next moment, radiating crimson flames from beneath his feet, ignited without warning, rapidly spreading into a massive fire array. The scorching heat distorted the air, even forcing back the raging sandstorm. At the center of the array, a colossal fireball, several meters in diameter and radiating a molten white light, slowly rose.

Then it moved. Not in a straight line, but with a strange trajectory that seemed slow but actually ignored the tearing force of the sandstorm's rotation, it plunged straight into the center of the raging sandstorm tornado.

Sylph's pupils shrank to pinpoints.

Rumble, rumble, rumble—!!!

This was no simple explosion. The energy released by the fireball at the core of the sandstorm triggered a chain reaction of magical explosions! The sandstorm instantly spiraled out of control, shattering from the inside out! Sylph, as the manipulator of the sandstorm, was the first to be hit, struck hard by this destructive torrent that combined the impact of the explosion, the backlash of uncontrolled magic, and scorching flames!

"what--!!!!"

She screamed in agony as her body was blasted away like a broken doll, crashing through several crumbling walls before finally rolling into a pile of scorched earth and rubble. The horrifying smell of burning flesh emanated from many parts of her body, her emerald eyes dimmed, and her consciousness nearly faded.

Not finished yet.

Before his vision could return, a completely different, colder, and more vicious pain suddenly exploded from his limbs, bones, and even the depths of his soul! The colors before his eyes instantly faded, replaced by a writhing, viscous purplish-black mass. It felt as if countless red-hot wires were frantically piercing and churning inside his body, and black blood, exuding an ominous aura, mixed with bright red, gushed uncontrollably from his mouth and wounds.

Terrifying visions began to flash uncontrollably through my mind—rotting earth, wailing fairies, all-consuming darkness… My body began to spasm and convulse uncontrollably.

Sherlock approached slowly, his boots making a soft sound as they trotted across the gravel. He looked down at Sylph, who was writhing in pain on the ground, his gaze behind his monocle as if observing a failed experiment.

"How does it feel? For you fairies, letting the poison of Morse seep into your spirit core is probably the most 'appropriate' way of dealing with it." His voice was still gentle, but colder than the dead of winter. "That's enough. Stop futilely disrupting the 'script.' This is... a small punishment for those who overstep their bounds."

"Ah...ahhh..." Sylph could no longer form complete sentences; only broken cries and sobs escaped from her bloodied lips. "Your Majesty...I...have already..."

Consciousness slid into an unfathomable, purplish-black abyss. The five senses were stripped away; one could neither hear nor see, only the excruciating pain corroding the soul and the suffocating feeling of drowning remained crystal clear. Was this feeling… death? Or something far more terrifying than death?

The last vestige of clear thought was finally swallowed up by the endless darkness.

***

About an hour later.

A slender figure, with elegant yet incongruous steps, stepped into the former territory of the Winged Clan. Koyanskaya slightly furrowed her delicate brows, surveying everything before her.

The aftermath of the riot was everywhere: charred house skeletons, shops smashed beyond recognition, and the air thick with smoke and a faint smell of blood. Even she couldn't help but feel a slightly ironic "astonishment" at the destructive power that fairies could unleash once they let their nature run wild.

However, none of this concerned her. Her purpose in coming was clear: to find Chief Morian for a routine, and perhaps farewell, conversation. NFF's business wouldn't be halted by the turmoil in a Lostbelt.

However, the iconic, magnificent building adorned with the ornate carvings of the Winged Clan that she had envisioned did not appear before her eyes.

Instead, there was a vast, sunken area, completely reduced to ruins, as if trampled by a giant beast. Only a few sections of broken walls and a half-recognizable clan crest at the entrance proved that this was indeed once the core fortress of the Winged Clan.

"Hmm?" A hint of surprise flashed in Koyanskaya's red eyes. "I didn't take the wrong path, did I? Where is the territory?"

She approached the ruins. The ground bore the shocking marks of a battle far beyond what an ordinary riot could have caused: large areas of crystallization, bizarre collapse craters, fan-shaped areas swept by raging sand and gravel, and vast expanses of charred, burned marks. This was no ordinary conflict, but a battle of an extremely high level and on an astonishing scale, capable of wiping a clan fortress, along with its foundations, almost completely off the map.

She carefully made her way through the rubble. Suddenly, something stuck under a broken stone pillar caught her eye.

It was a severed hand, pale-skinned, with slender fingers, belonging to a woman. Right next to the severed hand, a fragment of a wing, stained with dried blood, a unique emerald green, and edged with beautiful butterfly-wing patterns, lay half-buried in the dust.

Koyanskaya crouched down and gently picked up the severed hand and wing fragments with her white-gloved fingers, examining them carefully for a moment. Then, she let out a barely audible sigh.

"He's... already dead?" Her tone was devoid of emotion, simply stating a fact. "Really... although I don't know exactly what happened here, but..."

She gently placed the remains back in their original place, her gaze sweeping over the desolate ruins.