Crimson flames lit up the sky.
The dark clouds that should have dispersed with the Hand of Calamity's retreat once again gathered overhead as destruction loomed anew. And once again, those clouds were dyed red by the flames below.
Red. Always red.
Even if it defied its will, that was now an irreversible truth.
—Wherever it moved, ruin followed. Blood and fire marked its domain. With its advance, that ruin had arrived here.
And before it, the warriors of the Fang Clan stood in desperate resistance—cornered, nearly broken.
"…So that's it. Looks like this is the end of the line for me."
The white lion-like fairy dropped to one knee. His once-ornate robes were now in tatters, and his hand clutched tightly at a wound on his side—deep enough to nearly run him through.
Though Bogart's vitality was exceptional even among the Fang Clan, even he couldn't hold on for much longer. The Fang Clan were tough, but they weren't immortal monsters—Woodworth had been a rare exception.
Strangely, the black hound didn't finish him off after dealing that fatal blow. Instead, it turned and resumed its march toward Norwich.
"Tch… What the hell are those reinforcements doing? I get that the Round Table Army's off dealing with the black hound, but why hasn't Noknare arrived yet? How long does it take to deal with one Beryl? Hah… guess she really is just a brat—unreliable when it matters most."
With a heavy sigh, Bogart wiped the blood from his brow, struggling once more to rise.
"I heard that bastard Woodworth lasted three full hours, alone. I can't let myself fall behind. Not if I want to prove to the rest of the Fang Clan that I deserve to be their chief."
"I don't want to lose again…"
He'd lost to Spriggan in a game of wealth, and to Woodworth in ceremonial rites. Both losses had stemmed from betrayal by his two former wives.
Thankfully, since the last one passed away, he'd never remarried. So at least he wouldn't lose for that ridiculous reason again.
And besides—
—If he were the one to destroy their hometown, the place that girl had grown up in, the place filled with shared memories, she'd definitely cry again like she used to.
With that thought, the white lion roared and charged forward once more, hurling himself at the black hound to stop it from reaching the city behind him. His desperate lunge caused the beast to stumble for a moment.
And so the battle resumed. But with his grievously wounded body, Bogart didn't last long this time. The giant hound's claw slammed him into the earth with a sickening crash.
He could no longer stand.
Yet his defiance, his repeated taunts, had finally stirred the beast's bloodlust. With its maw gaping like the gates of hell, it lunged at Bogart for the kill.
But before the fangs could reach him—a radiant sword light blazed, slamming into the hound's face and halting its assault.
In the next moment, as Bogart stared in stunned disbelief, the Sword Knight stepped forward again. A torrent of magic surged into his blade, and with a mighty blow, he struck the beast in the chest, hurling it back dozens of meters. The impact cracked the earth.
Then, the Sword Knight glanced back at him without a word, gripped his radiant sword, and charged once more. Each swing unleashed a cascade of dazzling light.
…He made it, after all.
With a sigh of relief, Bogart finally let himself fall back and closed his eyes.
"Looks like we made it just in time. Hey, Bogart—you still breathing?"
That shrill, annoying voice—a brat if there ever was one—sounded at his side.
"What? Don't tell me you're already dead? That'd be a real shame."
That insufferable tone could only belong to one person: Myrian, the Lord of Gloucester.
"Shut up, you little runt. I'm not dead yet. Can't a guy get some peace and quiet?"
Bogart grumbled, cracking his eyes open.
"Only half a breath left, and still acting like you own the place. Is everyone in the Fang Clan this insufferable?"
With a nasty grin, Myrian rummaged through her pack, pulled out the foulest-tasting healing potion she had, and promptly poured it down his throat.
"Cough—! You're one of Noknare's underlings, right? Don't think I'll owe you anything just because you saved me. When I challenge her for the throne, I won't hold back."
"If you think you can beat her, go ahead and try."
Another voice replied—this time from a different direction. Bogart looked and saw Noknare and Tristan standing nearby, both focused on the battle unfolding ahead. Noknare had answered almost absently upon hearing her name.
"Tch. Saving your life, and you're still running your mouth. If it weren't for your desperate defense of Norwich, doing your best for Britain, no one would've bothered with you, idiot."
Bogart fell silent.
Though he'd been exiled, no matter what happened, he would never abandon Norwich—his home, filled with cherished memories. But he'd never say something so sentimental.
"If I don't make a name for myself in this battle, there's no way I'll win enough favor to beat Noknare in the king's election."
Yes—that's what he'd say. Because he was Bogart, the man everyone loved to hate. If no one despised him, he couldn't draw strength from it.
…No. At this point, maybe he was overthinking things.
Watching the knight ahead, wielding a sword of shining light—driving back the beast with every swing—Bogart sighed and lay back again.
There was no competing with that.
If that person wanted the throne, no fairy in Britain today could stop him.
How ironic. After two thousand years under the reign of a terrifying queen, the next ruler of the fairy kingdom might be… a human?
"…So be it."
His gaze lingered on the battlefield, now elevated to myth. With a complicated look, Bogart murmured:
"It's been so many years… Who'd have thought that little girl would turn into something like this, Bagst?"
"To become this kind of monster… to destroy the Britain she once swore to protect—this is far too cruel for that crybaby girl from back then."
"If you can give her salvation, then maybe it's not such a bad thing for you to become our king."
——————————————
She saw it.
Within the hellish red that consumed her vision—she saw a pure, sacred light.
As fierce as the sun, as gentle as the moon, as brilliant as the stars.
This light appeared in her crimson, brutal world and pushed the endless red back.
The beast's massive red eyes reflected that brilliance—almost as if some flicker of reason had returned.
Ah…
There he was. The hero who could end her sins.
Just like the shining knights from Adonis's stories.
A real knight in gleaming armor, wielding a true holy sword—not the crude imitation she'd fashioned from her horns.
That knight was moved by something sacred, driven by noble ideals. His every motion spoke of honor, slashing through sin and calamity alike.
How envious. How admirable.
Her massive strength, once seemingly invincible, meant nothing before the knight's flawless technique and radiant blade. Each of the beast's monstrous blows, strong enough to shatter mountains, was dodged with ease—and in return, his sword left deep wounds, one after another.
But what she envied most—was his unwavering gaze.
That kind of look only came from someone who had made peace with their path, chosen their reason, and was ready to sacrifice everything for it.
As she stared into his eyes, Bagst felt something stir—something faint and distant, a memory long buried.
—Yes. She remembered.
At the very beginning, when she first lost her reason and turned into a beast, someone had stood before her.
A man, battered and broken, with only one arm remaining.
Even then, he looked at her the same way this knight did now.
Back then, driven by some deep instinct, she couldn't bring herself to kill him. Just as she was about to devour him, a flicker of reason stopped her.
Yet he didn't use that reprieve to escape. When she attacked the fairies of Manchester, when she nearly wiped them out, that man once again stood in her way—charging like a moth to flame, utterly unafraid of death.
His attack did little. Even the eye he managed to blind healed quickly.
Then, in a rage, the beast struck him down.
She hadn't understood his defiance.
—Why fight when you know you can't win?
She had struggled too, always telling herself that next time she'd beat her instincts, only to fail again and again. It had hurt so much that she gave up—gave up resisting, gave up fighting. At least then, she wouldn't have to feel the pain of failure again. At least then, her sins wouldn't grow heavier.
Then… maybe she said it aloud, maybe he just heard her heart, or maybe it was pure coincidence—but he answered:
"This isn't about winning or losing."
"I stand here… because I must."
"Because I have a reason to fight."
"—For the one I love, I offer my life."
…That's right.
And now, the knight before her overlapped with the memory of that man.
Not fighting because they could win—but because they had to.
And because they fought, victory became possible.
So that's what it was.
So that's what drove Woodworth, Bogart, and now this shining knight—to fight her with such resolve.
A strange sense of peace washed over Bagst as she slowly closed her eyes.
She finally understood—at least a little.
The last thing she saw was the knight raising his holy sword, its radiance like starlight, gleaming across his armor.
But more than the brilliance, what stood out was the clarity in his gaze—no hesitation, no fear—and the resolve in his heart.
As his sword came down, the entire world was filled with light.
The final trace of red in her vision… faded away.
"…Thank you."
"…I finally saw what I've always wanted to see."
As the giant beast's head fell, a faint voice seemed to echo.
Guinevere stood silently, staring at the dissolving light of her massive foe.
[Calamity of the Beast — Subjugated.]