"Ah?"
Guinevere had been ready to scold Gawain for unsettling the army's spirits on the eve of battle. But seeing the tears still glistening in her reddened eyes—evidence she'd cried before—his anger melted into concern.
[You comforted Gawain, but her words left you deeply uneasy. Will you personally lead the force to quell Norwich's disaster?]
[A: It's all superstitious nonsense—ignore Gawain's warning and proceed to Norwich.]
[B: But what if it's true? Better safe than sorry—abandon the mission to Norwich.]
Guinevere paused—only for half a second—then resolutely chose A. It was just a simulation; if he chickened out, he might as well quit gaming and go work factory shifts. Full speed ahead!
…
[Gawain sought you out, trembling—she'd dreamt you were slain by the Norwich blight.]
[She begged you to abandon the mission, but you remained determined to go.]
[Gawain pleaded for your life to be spared.]
Artoria stared at the message, emerald eyes widening. "Guinevere… will he die?"
She clutched her tunic over her heart as panic flickered across her face. "No—he can't die! I must protect him!"
[Queen's Calendar 2018, September: Guinevere and Bogarde each marched into Norwich. Spriggan of Norwich consolidated his forces within the Treasury City.]
[Bogarde stationed his troops in the north; the Round Table held the south, bracing for the coming disaster.]
[The Earl of the Norwich Guild Council contacted both forces—he'd prepared safehouses to shelter fae before the blight struck.]
[Two days later, the "Blight Accumulation" thickened overhead; storm clouds fully cloaked Norwich.]
[Over a thousand Mordes swarmed from the sea toward Norwich.]
["The Blight begins."]
The screen dimmed as old-school snow and static flickered across it, casting the game in an ominous hush. Even Artoria's heart clenched at the sight.
[Bogarde's northern garrison buckled under the Mordes' assault; the north fell swiftly.]
Rushing to the front, Guinevere gasped at the Mordes' doubled strength compared to his last run.
[System Alert: These Mordes possess a new trait—they grow stronger after devouring fae.]
He'd already witnessed one beast swell in size after consuming a soldier.
"Unbelievable—they actually evolve?" His face darkened. "Damn it—no matter how much the fae protested, I should have forced them into the shelters earlier. Or better yet, I never should have let Bogarde bring his troops here!"
In the previous playthrough, Gawain had battled the blight, and Norcenlai's forces finished the job. The Round Table had never directly confronted Mordes, so his intel was glaringly incomplete. Now the black tide surged through the streets, and Guinevere had no choice but to bring his men to bear.
Thankfully, the Mordes only targeted fae. Apart from Artoria, he hadn't brought any other fae with him.
"Sergeant Gaveth! Where is Percival? Send word to him to bring his troops here!"
He shouted toward the archer perched on a high battlement—Percival's finest scout, with eagle-eyed vision.
"Report, my lord! Sir Percival has already taken his forces northward!"
"North? At this hour? But the north has fallen!"
"He's rescuing trapped civilians who failed to reach the shelters."
Guinevere's frown deepened. In his eyes, once the north was lost, they should have consolidated in the south to defend the remaining populace. Yet Percival risked half his force on a rescue mission—leaving Guinevere's flank dangerously thin.
Moreover…
Guinevere turned to the harbor. A massive concentration of magic was coalescing there—something overwhelming was approaching. Even without knowing the blight's full nature, he sensed that something major was about to strike.
[The Mordes surged like an endless tide from the sea, forming a black ocean that flooded Norwich's streets.]
[You lead your troops against the Mordes.]
[Due to the Mordes' unique physiology, piercing weapons are largely ineffective; arrows do little damage.]
[Though your soldiers have improved greatly under your training, they cannot hold out forever against such an unending horde.]
[In this critical moment, choose:]
[A: Tactical withdrawal—abandon direct confrontation, fall back to Treasury City to preserve the Round Table's strength. (Spriggan may welcome a deal.)]
[B: Hold the line—use your body as a shield to buy time for civilians. (But can you truly stop the inexhaustible Mordes?)]
[C: All or nothing—penetrate the horde alone, head for the docks, and strike at the blight's source. (A desperate gamble that may end the blight, if you have the power.)]
Guinevere weighed the options. In his experience, when the simulator offered a choice like this, it marked a pivotal crossroads—one wrong move could end his run immediately. Option B seemed the most "heroic," but also most suicidal. Option A was pragmatic but unglamorous. Ultimately, he chose C.
As his high school teacher had said: when stumped, pick C. And, frankly, he was sick of bowing to Spriggan's demands. This was a game meant to be enjoyed—if you wouldn't gamble here, you might as well quit and go plant sweet potatoes!
"Charge!"