The Mordes curse has shrouded the Faerie Realm for over ten thousand years—an embodiment of "the Blight." Across Britannia, whenever a faerie forgets the mission they were born to fulfill, the very purpose of their existence, they lose their inner radiance and even their own name. What should be an immortal life becomes a slow decay: untethered from their name, they rot and wither until death.
Yet some of these fallen faeries do not simply perish. Instead, their corpses transform into slimy, inky-black horrors—beasts called Mordes, the faeries' greatest enemy. A single touch from a Morde inflicts its corrupting venom on any faerie, turning them too into one of the "undead." It's essentially a faerie-version zombie plague.
Humans, however, are immune to Morde venom. This is why only the Round Table forces dare arm themselves with poison-tipped weapons derived from Mordes—and why Guinevere felt safe plunging into the heart of the tide alone. Though the slimy projectiles they spit sting, and their crushing bulk can kill or suffocate him, as long as he resists their toxin, they pose no true lethal threat.
Selecting a Morde on the fringe of the swarm as his trial target, Guinevere raised his greatsword and charged in. Dodging through gaps, he evaded gobs of corrosive slime, rolled out from under twisting pounces, and vaulted onto rooftops strewn with debris to stay above the writhing horde.
Still, by his strength alone, crossing that living sea was hubris. He was engulfed and flattened six times, crushed by at least five desperate bull-rushes, and killed eleven times by slime globes. But Endless Trial persisted, each death resetting him. Adjusting his path, timing his sprints, streamlining his motions, he grew sharper and swifter with each attempt.
After nearly a hundred repetitions, he finally cleaved through his marked Morde with a sidestep and a sweeping blow. The moment it split apart, Endless Trial reactivated—he tagged another target far ahead and pressed on. Through relentless trial and error, he hacked his way out of the swarm and closed on the harbor.
He stopped dead.
Ahead, there were no Mordes—though they had poured in like a tidal wave, they now vanished, as if recoiling from something looming beyond. The sky—still daytime—held no sun, only an unbroken expanse of storm clouds. The sea surged black and frothing, towering in ominous swells.
From that endless ocean emerged a dark colossus: hundreds of meters tall, crowned with twisted horns. A ragged silhouette like some giant in a rain cloak wading ashore, utterly alien. Its presence exuded such malignant power that everyone nearby felt breathless. If that thing landed, the entire dock would be crushed, and its magic could obliterate all of Norwich.
Could anyone hope to defeat such a monster?
[Upon beholding the true form of the Blight—its "Hand of Doom" rising from the sea—you realize it is an unwinnable foe.]
[Do you still choose to fight?]
[Yes / No]
"At this point, what choice is there?" Guinevere murmured. Before death, he would at least gather as much intelligence about this horror as he could. He selected "Yes"—and the screen shifted again.
Behind him, through the tide of Mordes, a battered figure burst forth. Gawain—her golden hair matted, face streaked with grime and bruises, half-conscious, her pilot's cap long since lost—staggered toward him.
"Guinevere—!"
Her once-fair features now swollen and bloodied, she clutched his tunic as though fearing he might vanish.
[Gawain tries to stop you from facing the Blight's true hand; she begs you to flee with her.]
[Your choice?]
Guinevere hesitated. Though only a simulation, seeing Gawain's desperate state pained him. Yet after a moment, he resolved to stay. Under a collapsing nest, no egg can be spared: if he did not hold the line, how could Gawain escape? He could not bear the thought of his wife dying before him—even in a game.
[The Blight reveals its true form—the Hand of Doom.]
Onscreen, the giant rain-cloak and horns fragmented: they were nothing but countless cursed hands woven together. Now all those obsidian hands surged toward the docks, a hellish gateway tearing open as the dead reached into the world of the living, dragging everything into the abyss.
[You steadfastly choose to remain and fight the Hand of Doom to the death.]
[You activate Endless Trial, locking onto the Hand itself.]
[After dying 127 times, your will finally shatters, and Endless Trial fails.]
[You perish.]
[Your final stand delayed the Hand by only ten seconds.]
[Ten seconds later, the Hand of Doom lands in Norwich.]
[Three minutes after that, endless cursed hands blanket the entire city.]
[Except for Treasury City, all of Norwich is razed to the ground.]
[Simulation Over.]