Following the notes Shakespeare had left behind, Guinevere and the others made their way along the lake's edge. Before long, they arrived at the pier mentioned in his notes.
No—calling it a "pier" might be generous. It was more like a small ferry landing, with nothing but a short bridge—barely five meters long—extending into the lake, and a little flat-bottomed boat, no longer than two meters, tied to the side.
"Hey, I remember this place! We've been here before!" Mordred suddenly said, her eyes stopping at the small landing. Then she jogged a few steps forward and pointed at a stone tablet standing beside it.
"See this stone monument? We saw it last time too!"
"...You're right."
Now that Mordred mentioned it, Guinevere recalled it too.
Not long ago, when he and Mordred had gone to search for the Nightmare-incarnated Bavanzi, who had been drifting across the lake, they had come to this very part of the dream's surface layer. Back then, they had seen this stone tablet by the lake.
"That's right, there was some kind of prophecy on it..."
Guinevere smacked his forehead and stepped up to the stone to read it again:
This realm is the mirror of dreams, this place a reflection upon the lake.
When the lost city reemerges, Carcosa shall meet its end.
The Immortal King readies his army, and the Lakebound Prophet shall awaken.
The Queen weeps upon her throne, for a final battle shall come between the Immortal King and the Lakebound Prophet—a war of heaven and earth, from which none shall survive.
When the ancient prophet awakens from the lake, he shall become a black demon that devours all. The King of Carcosa shall meet him with his legions, fighting to the very last soldier as gales howl and tides surge.
And the Queen's tears shall summon a radiant swordsman—he who is the incarnation of Sun and Moon, the brilliance of the stars. His sword shall illuminate the lost city, the eternal wind, and the shattered waters.
No matter what, may the long night be dreamless. May the Black Star rise as always.
But as Guinevere finished reading the prophecy, his brows furrowed deeply.
"This... doesn't quite make sense."
"Hm?" Bavanzi leaned in curiously. "What doesn't?"
"It doesn't match up."
Guinevere shook his head.
"Huh?" Bavanzi tilted her head. "What doesn't match?"
"This prophecy doesn't match The King in Yellow."
He exhaled slowly. "I originally thought this prophecy was the one from The King in Yellow—the one foretelling Carcosa's return and the destruction of Yhtill. But this… it's something else."
"In The King in Yellow, the prophet from the lake is named Hali. He foretold Yhtill's downfall at the hands of the King in Yellow and was drowned by King Thale I of Yhtill in punishment. That's why the lake is called Lake Hali. But in what world would he be able to challenge the King in Yellow? To fight a war of heaven and earth with him? And there's no 'swordsman of sun and moon' in the play, either. Unless..."
"Unless what?" Bavanzi prompted.
"Unless this 'prophet' in the prophecy... isn't Hali at all. This prophecy isn't from the play. It's foretelling an entirely different story." Guinevere's voice grew grim. "We've overlooked something. Wait, no... hang on."
"Gales howl, tides surge... eternal wind, shattered water…"
His gaze swept over the lines carved into the stone as his lips moved subconsciously. In his mind, a very troubling idea began to take shape.
"No way..."
"What is it?" Bavanzi asked anxiously. "What are you thinking?"
"It's just a half-formed theory... better not say it."
He shook his head. Then, gritting his teeth, he added, "Either way, we have no other options now. We must take the boat across... Let's go."
With that, Guinevere climbed aboard the small vessel. The others quickly followed. Once they were all seated, Guinevere untied the rope securing the boat to the dock.
As soon as the rope came free, the boat suddenly lurched and began to move on its own, drifting into the lake.
"Huh? Why is the boat moving on its own? Is there a motor underneath or something?" Bavanzi asked in confusion.
"No," Guinevere replied, glancing at the annotated King in Yellow manuscript in his coat. "It's the lake's undercurrent. Shakespeare wrote that Carcosa draws all the living toward the land of the dead. So long as there's a living person aboard, the currents will carry the boat across to the realm of the dead."
"But even though the ride is automatic, there's one rule we must follow," he continued. "We mustn't look into the lake."
He lowered his voice. "In the surface dream, the residents mentioned an old legend from Yhtill—Lake Hali is said to house a monster. Anyone who looks into its depths will be dragged down and devoured. Their souls, too, are lost forever."
"I see..." Bavanzi nodded solemnly. "So those immortals we threw into the lake earlier... might've been taken by that?"
"Possibly." Guinevere nodded.
"...Urrgh."
Just then, Frankenstein let out a low, uneasy growl. Her eyes darted around, as though she'd sensed something.
"Fran? What's wrong?" Guinevere asked.
"...Someone..."
She struggled to articulate herself with her broken speech.
"Someone?" Guinevere echoed in confusion.
"Someone's watching us," Mordred translated immediately. "You felt someone's gaze, didn't you?"
"Wait... is the boat speeding up?" Bavanzi's face paled. "The current's way too strong all of a sudden!"
Even the normally quiet Jack piped up:
"Papa, Mama, Jack couldn't hear what they were saying... could you?"
"What?" Mordred's expression changed, and she strained to listen. After a few seconds, her eyes snapped open.
"There are voices in the lake. And not good ones... Do you hear it?"
At that moment, Guinevere suddenly felt the manuscript in his coat begin to heat up. He froze, then quickly pulled it out and opened it. On one of the blank pages, new words shimmered into view:
You have disturbed the Prophet beneath the lake.
He, long asleep, now opens his eyes to seek those who disrupted his dreams.
Do not look into his gaze. He is the master of black water. He devours all who meet his eyes.
Guinevere was certain—this hadn't been there before.
Which meant... this was the Truth Manuscript's warning.
"Something's wrong!"
At the same time, Mordred leaned forward to peer into the lake, but Guinevere lunged and tackled her, pinning her down against the boat.
"Don't look in the water!" he snapped. "Do NOT make eye contact with it!"
"Eh?"
Pinned beneath him, Mordred blinked in surprise. Her cheeks quickly turned red, but seeing the grim look on his face, she only nodded quickly.
The current grew even fiercer. The small boat, carried by the unseen undercurrent, surged forward like a speedboat.
"What do we do now?!" Bavanzi screamed, terrified.
"We wait!" Guinevere barked, pressing flat against the boat and grabbing Bavanzi as she nearly flew off. He pulled her into his arms. "Everyone down! No noise! Don't look into the water!"
At his command, the others dropped flat. The tiny boat became crowded, but no one dared complain.
Danger hung in the air. Guinevere had no time for stray thoughts, his nerves taut, ears straining for any sign of movement beneath them.
And then—was it just his imagination?
Beneath the dark waters, past the roaring currents, he thought he heard a long, drifting melody. The song was strange, the sounds garbled and alien—as if sung by no human mouth. And yet, there was an eerie beauty to it. Something primal. Ancient.
But the longer he listened, the more his head throbbed. His thoughts slowed. He could hear a tide rising in his mind.
With a start, Guinevere forced his mind away from the sound. He plugged his ears, refusing to listen. The others quickly followed suit.
Gradually, the current began to slow. The dreadful melody faded.
And when the tide in his mind receded and clarity returned, Guinevere raised his head—only to see they had reached the far shore.
Ahead of them stood towers.
Countless ancient spires pierced the heavens. As far as the eye could see, they stretched endlessly across the horizon. Each was unique—different materials, different styles, different ages. But they all reached for the sky, bearing the scars of time.
And faced with these towering giants, everyone felt the same thing.
Insignificance.
Like ants in a jungle, staring up at the world.
"D-Did we make it?" Bavanzi asked dumbly, still shaken.
"Yeah. We made it."
Guinevere nodded, stepped off the boat, and began walking toward the towers.
"But there are so many..." Mordred murmured. "How do we know which one is the right one?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
Guinevere pointed directly ahead.
Though each tower was different, one stood out.
It was bizarre—narrow at the base, wide at the top. Through its upper levels pierced a massive serpentine creature, its length stretching kilometers. At the base sat an upside-down clocktower, its hands turning backward.
Guinevere recognized it.
He'd seen it before—when the shattered moon was swallowed by this tower, when the clock's hands all pointed to twelve in reverse.
When the Black Star descended.
When the dream began.
"These towers weren't built by humans," he said quietly. "But this one? This tower that tracks time... This must be from Earth. From London. And..."
He glanced again at the beast impaled through the upper tower.
"No wonder it felt familiar."
"Isn't this just the Clock Tower... flipped upside down?"
As for the monstrous beast skewered by the tower—he remembered it too.
In the simulation with the Holy Sword Wielder, when he and Artoria had journeyed to the Garden, Merlin had mentioned ancient secrets.
One of them: buried deep beneath the Clock Tower lay the corpse of the Dragon of Boundaries—Albion.
So if the Clock Tower and Albion beneath it were unearthed...
And planted here, upside down...