[Thanks to Redra's desperate sprint, you quickly reached the outskirts of Norwich.]
[There, you found Beryl launching an assault on Knocknarea's forces.]
An enemy's face—blazing rage.
Although their previous clashes with Beryl hadn't caused any direct harm to Guinevere and the others, it was his interference that led to Woodworth's death. That death shattered any chance of suppressing the Calamity early and forced Artoria to sacrifice herself to forge the sacred sword.
The thought alone was enough to make Guinevere's eyes burn red the moment he laid eyes on Beryl.
Without hesitation, he launched himself at Beryl, riding Redra like a missile. Leveraging Redra's momentum, he hurled himself from the saddle and slammed a furious punch into Beryl's face—sending him flying with zero restraint.
But before he hit the ground, Beryl managed to twist midair and land with ease.
"Tch... Oh, it's you. The prophecy kid's sidekick," Beryl said, rubbing his jaw. "Funny, every time I see you, I get this weird feeling of déjà vu. You're a Drifter from Proper Human History, right? Could it be we met before you drifted here?"
Guinevere didn't bother replying.
Instead, he quickly scanned the battlefield. Once he confirmed that neither Knocknarea nor Murien had sustained mortal wounds, he exhaled and snapped his eyes back to Beryl.
"Oho? You one of those strong, silent types?" Beryl mused, still rubbing his jaw. "Bit rude though, don't you think? I barely started talking and you socked me in the face. Isn't that a little... impolite?"
Classic villain—overconfident and chatty, the kind who always talks too much and dies for it.
Whether it was narcissism or just a twisted personality, Beryl always had this urge to be understood. Too bad Guinevere had no interest in humoring him.
Without even half a word in response, Guinevere was on him again—his sacred sword glowing with holy light, slicing down at speeds nearly impossible to follow.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! No pre-fight monologue? Aren't you supposed to be one of the 'just' ones? Shouldn't you be giving me a lecture? An ideological clash, a moral rebuke? Hell, even a good ol' 'you bastard' like Spessartine gave me?"
Beryl barely dodged, but despite his cries, there was no fear on his face.
After all, everything was still going according to plan.
He wasn't suicidal. The reason he hadn't appeared at Oxford earlier was specifically to avoid Guinevere's power. Now, though, he had no such fear.
Sure, this so-called "Sword Saint of Britain" had unleashed an impressive blast during the Norwich disaster—but that must have been a one-off, a trump card with a high cost. Otherwise, Bagst wouldn't have survived their first encounter.
And without that devastating power? He was no stronger than Percival—certainly no match for someone who now wielded Woodworth's domain.
In fact, Beryl was confident: as long as his inherited fairy domain remained intact, Guinevere wouldn't even be able to scratch him.
So when Guinevere came at him again, Beryl smirked and raised his hand to block.
Let's see that expression change, he thought, when your strongest attack can't even touch me.
...But something about that sword felt off. The aura it gave off—it wasn't quite right.
Just as the thought formed in his mind, Guinevere spoke:
"Mash isn't avoiding you or anything. Chances are... she doesn't even remember you exist."
"—"
The name hit Beryl like a hammer. His eyes widened, and his thoughts scattered.
Mash. That name.
It wasn't supposed to come from him. How did he—?
Pain. Sudden, sharp.
His raised arm split open, blood spraying across his face. Guinevere's sword had cleaved clean through his wrist, and without pausing, the blade plunged into his chest.
"—This... this can't be..."
Beryl barely had time to register the shock when Guinevere's voice came again:
"Idiot. All I had to do was say 'Mash' and you blank out, huh?"
With a twist of the hilt, Guinevere's blade carved through Beryl's chest and shoulder, severing half his heart and ripping apart his torso.
"You... you cheating bastard... wait—!"
His mind had been torn open by mere words, and his body followed suit in the blink of an eye.
But it wasn't the pain that stunned Beryl now—it was realization.
"You... it was you all along..."
"What's that supposed to mean—?"
Guinevere flinched slightly at the cryptic words. In that moment of hesitation, Beryl pulled a vial from somewhere on his person.
"Stop him!!"
Tristan's voice cut through the chaos, but it was too late.
Thick, choking fog erupted from the vial, swallowing everyone nearby. It severed all magical detection within, creating a perfect smokescreen.
By the time Guinevere blew the fog away with a burst of wind, Beryl had already vanished—hundreds of meters away.
[Due to a moment of carelessness, Beryl escaped. Upon seeing this, Fairy Knight Tristan flew into a fury, demanding you chase him down and finish him off.]
"What are you waiting for?! Go! You know what kind of monster he is—if we let him go now, we'll regret it!"
"But Norwich is already on the brink! He only came here to stall us! If we chase him, we're giving him exactly what he wants! What about all the fairies and people trapped in Norwich?!"
[Knocknarea and Murien both object. They argue that Bagst is closing in, and Bogart can't hold the city alone. You must go help.]
"..."
Torn between duty and vengeance, Guinevere hesitated—until a voice whispered something only he could hear.
Startled, he made his choice.
———
"Haah... haah... they didn't chase me... lucky me..."
Beryl staggered through the forest, blood pouring from his wounds.
Not yet. He couldn't die yet.
Not until he saw Mash again.
As long as he was alive, that was still possible.
Fortunately, though the sacred sword was absurdly powerful, it lacked poison or curses. It cut clean. And with Woodworth's ridiculous vitality, Beryl's wounds—while severe—weren't instantly fatal.
"But... damn it, so it was him... I knew that face looked familiar. If I'd figured it out sooner, I wouldn't have wasted time trying to steal his heart—I would've killed him outright..."
He growled, twisted with regret.
Still, there was time. With rest, he'd recover.
And then, he would plunge this nation into ruin once and for all.
———
"Ew. What the hell are you mumbling about? Are you trying to steal my job or something?"
A voice—unfamiliar.
Instinctively, Beryl leapt forward to escape and spun around.
Behind him stood a young man in a pristine white robe, staring at him with distaste.
"You?"
Beryl recognized him. The insect prince from Norwich—the one who had interfered when he'd tried to rip open that bastard's chest.
"You came alone to chase me down?" he asked, incredulous. "You were almost killed by a can of bug spray last time, weren't you?"
That hostage incident had made his last escape a breeze.
This should be even easier.
"I must be losing my edge... why are you even here? You really think I'm still the same as before?"
"This time," Oberon said sweetly, "I won't even need bug spray. With Woodworth's body, you're still nothing special."
"Is that so?" Beryl sneered.
"But," Oberon continued, "remember how confident you were in your alchemy? Your precious potions?"
"What are you getting at?"
"Oh, nothing. I know nothing about alchemy. But, you see... bugs and poison? People always group them together. When you think of bugs, you think of venom, right?"
Oberon smiled wide.
"So while I suck at potions, poison? That's... kind of in the job description."
"Poison...?"
Beryl looked down—and froze.
Purple was blooming across his flesh. His skin was rotting, sloughing off in strips. The stench of decay overwhelmed him.
"What the hell did you—?!"
He tried to scream, but his tongue—already necrotic—fell from his mouth with a wet splat.
"You were in such a hurry, I'm sure you didn't notice all the little bugs crawling under your fur, huh?"
Oberon grinned.
"Good thing you were so badly hurt. Otherwise, those tough fairy muscles might've kept my friends' little stingers out."
"So now... enjoy the ride. This? Just a tiny little grudge, from a poor little insect who nearly died thanks to your fancy bug spray."
And then the screaming started.
Hours passed.
Beryl's suffering went on until long after sunset.
Only when his life had well and truly ended did Oberon allow a real smile to form on his face.
"Whew. That took a bit longer than I'd planned. Bit of a personal detour, you know how it is. But now—on to the real fun. The final battle awaits, and I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Dusting off his clothes, the White Moth Prince turned and strolled toward Norwich.