"You—who are you?"
As Oberon spoke, he tensed, hand already twitching to strike. Any sudden move from this man, and he would unleash his power without hesitation.
But he was too slow. The stranger hurled a glass bottle toward him as he spoke. Oberon's half-raised hand froze; he had no time for finesse—only to stagger back, pulling his cloak around him to shield the unconscious Guinevere at his feet.
The bottle slammed into the cloak and shattered with a crack, spraying its unknown liquid. A billowing purple mist exploded free, engulfing Oberon's body. He whipped his palm into a blade-wind of prismatic magic, scattering the vapor—but even so, spots of the oily fog clung to him, turning those patches an inky black.
Still, Oberon's complexion crumbled.
"What have you done—cough, cough!"
He erupted into violent fits of coughing, blood spattering from his lips in a blackish-purple slurry. He'd tried to hold his breath, but this mist was no mere toxin—it carried a curse that seized him at first contact.
"Ho ho ho! I've seen you buzzing around Norwich on that little bug of yours these past days," the stranger laughed. "I figured you'd be some insect-aligned type—so I brewed a little insecticide for you. Don't let my appearance fool you—I'm rather talented in potioncraft."
"You…" Oberon wheezed, rising to his knees once more. Another cough wracked him, and he collapsed, helpless.
The man laughed louder. "Ah, your expression is priceless! Oh, and to answer your first question: I'm Beryl, just another grubby errand boy. Pleased to meet you—if you survive, that is."
"What do you… cough… want?" Oberon rasped.
"Eh, nothing much," Beryl said breezily. "I just need the heart of the Savior here for a little secret ritual of mine—transformation magic. You have to gather a bit of the target creature's organs for it. Sure, using it on humans is a downgrade, and I had a different beast in mind… but a certain high-maintenance princess suddenly turned on me. She's a dumb brat—but vindictive. So I need Plan B, and our Savior here gave quite the performance back at the dock, didn't he? So, you're my fallback."
"You bastard—" Oberon spat, scrambling to rise again. But the pain sliced through him like fire. He knelt, helpless.
"My potion works better than I expected—even this humble alchemist is impressed!" Beryl gloated. "Looks like your insect attribute is off the charts. Could it be you're literally some kind of insect?"
"Bastard—"
"OBERON?!"
Only now did Artoria and Gareth—still locked in battle with the Hands of Calamity—spot Beryl's silhouette behind them. Horror seized them both as they wanted to rush back to aid—but the shadow-limbs pounced again, holding them fast.
"Ha, well done, Calamity," Beryl jeered. "Thanks to your help, I can claim this Savior's heart now."
He raised his hand and lunged for Guinevere's chest—
—What is this surge of emotion in her chest?
Jealousy? Resentment? Anger? Or something else—
Time rewinds a few minutes, before the second rupture of dawn rent the sky, before the Heavenly Flame sword unsheathed, before that titanic shape strode ashore, casting despair upon the town—
At that moment, Bavanshi was among the countless souls drowning in hopelessness. Despair had settled into her bones, her legs rendered powerless by fear.
Impossible to win—such a being could crush every combatant there, herself included. She knew it, utterly.
The Calamity wasn't the simple threat she'd imagined: not the dozen seals her mother had laid in two millennia, not the Abergast or Melusine vanquished in ancient tales. It was an abyss her strength could not breach.
Even as the simulated "Queen of Blood," summoning storm and death, she had been powerless. Against that force, a fairy's power was negligible.
Yet she wasn't ordinary—she was Tristan, the fairy knight chosen and named by her mother, heir to Britain's crown. She'd been granted dominion over the realm, yet here she was, helpless.
It stung like betrayal. Her mother's champions—Abergast, Melusine, Woodworth—had borne arms against such foes. She, the heir, had none of that prowess.
Despite her pride, she had no choice but to retreat. Fear anchored her in place. Better to abandon even this city her lineage demanded she protect—she'd never loved Norwich anyway. Let it burn along with her mother's legacy.
Still, before she turned away, Bavanshi clenched her fist. Could such a weakling truly guard her mother's heritage? Would her mother be disappointed?
"Because I… have no power… can't win…" she muttered.
But then a voice shattered the gloom, echoing from the docks:
"What a joke!"
Bavanshi snapped her head around. There, a girl—Artoria—stepped forward, staff brandished, confronting the suffocating blackness.
She recognized that voice: it had thundered at her in the last simulation—filled with hysteria. And yet, that voice belonged to someone pitiably weak, someone whose magic barely reached a common fairy's standard—no, even if she'd grown beyond her peers, she still ranked below Bavanshi.
So why did she dare stand there, fearless, legs trembling like saplings?
Why?
Why had her limbs still refused to run? Why did her eyes stay glued to that figure?
That fool dubbed the "Prophetic Child"—lauded by ignorant fairies as her mother's true heir—would she too abandon the fight? Flee?
If she tried to escape, Bavanshi would be gone before her—smarter to vanish, to prove her superiority.
But the Child did not flee. Over and again, she raised her staff, fired pillar after pillar of pure light. Each strike passed harmlessly through the shadow—but still she fought on.
Why? All her efforts were meaningless, right? A hideous, hysterical refusal to accept reality.
"Do you think I'll surrender?!" the Child roared, even as tears etched her cheeks.
"Never give up!"
Bavanshi felt her head swim. She didn't understand. Why?
Why continue when every strike failed? What sustained her?
Stop! This was revolting—a grotesque parody of valor, refusing to yield to despair.
Yet…
Bavanshi felt a flicker of something in her chest—resentment, yes, but also… awe.
"No way she can win," she thought—yet her heart had seized at that defiance.
"I see…" she whispered.
So this was the chasm between them. No wonder the lowly Child held her mother's faith and the realm's hopes, while Bavanshi—heir though she was—fell short.
She recalled the Child's scorching rebuke in the camp: even trapped and branded a sacrifice, she'd railed at Bavanshi with an unbreakable voice.
A single truth remained: though the Child outshone her in courage, now it too was useless. The battle would end, and neither would shape its outcome.
"One day… one day, I'll surpass you—"
The Child's final cry rang out. But just then, another figure emerged: Guinevere, stepping forth with sword ablaze, cleaving sea and shadow alike.
Bavanshi's jaw clenched. She knew this man—the one who had stormed her camp, slaughtered her guards, barged into her tent, and left her humiliated. He returned now, radiant with flame, facing Calamity alone.
Who did he think he was?
Yet his blade flared with light that banished despair—
"Ah."
So brilliant… powerful… radiant…
No—this was nothing special! Even Mother could match such an effect casually, or that ape's full swing!
Still, as that blade tore the sky in two, Bavanshi's legs gave out. She sank to her knees, tears burning her eyes.
But her tears were not from the flash alone—
That man, offering his life as kindling, raised his sword in sacrifice, burned with a light that was pure—and it sickened her with envy.
So dazzling, so repulsive… yet… so inspiring.
"...I envy you."
She whispered, watching the man who had once scorned her—now the true Savior—stand against the darkness.
How she longed for someone like that by her side: reliable, steadfast, selfless. Even if he lacked such power, even if he could not turn the tide—
Just someone who would stay, unflinching.
Why had she never found such a soul?
Why had fate only given her that vile hypocrite who had led her to her ruin?
She seethed with hatred, but also… longing.
"Damn it," she vowed. "If I can't have what you have, I'll destroy it."
Raising her hand, she drew a glowing arrow of dark magic, aiming it at the unconscious Guinevere. If she couldn't possess such light, she'd snuff it out.
But…
It felt grotesque. The arrow throbbed at full draw, yet she could not let it fly.
Too tragic—had she never glimpsed that radiance, she wouldn't know her own ugliness.
So she let the arrow fall, fingers slackening.
No—she could not become that monster.
"...Fine."
Giving up her desperation, she sheathed her bow. But one thing remained clear:
Her mercy was not born of admiration, but of convenience. "For the sake of my mother's legacy… I'll spare you."
She turned to depart, convinced her role was done: the Prophetic Child would save the city, the people would sing her praises…
But she froze at a familiar voice—
That of the hypocrite who had chased her here, who she vowed to kill.
Bavanshi's brow furrowed. Arrow at the ready once more, she leveled her bow at him.
—
Back in the present—
As Beryl's hand closed on Guinevere's heart, a streak of crimson light tore the air, cleaving Beryl's wrist in two.
"What—?!"
Clutching his severed wrist, Beryl staggered back, his delighted grin twisting into agony. Half from pain, half from the realization of who had struck him.
A cold voice emerged from the direction of that arrow:
"You called someone a brainless brat princess?"
"Oh—tough luck. Caught badmouthing me, were you? I had a hunch you'd show up—and wow, your speed still surprises me."
Beryl grimaced as he applied a makeshift magical bandage to his wound, looking up at the speaker.
Before him stood a vision of deadly elegance: long rose-red hair, a black crown tilted upon her head; a scarlet gown draping over slender boots like petals, both alluring and lethal.
The Lady of New Darlington, the "Blood Queen" of the previous simulation—Fairy Knight Tristan.
Her face burned with righteous fury.
"Beryl," she spat, eyes blazing, "I will kill you—even a thousand times wouldn't be enough."
"Ah…" Beryl grimaced, spotting Artoria nearby, staff raised, ready to fight. "Hm, can we… call a truce?"