Aslan was taking this war very seriously—after all, the future of everyone was riding on it, and he was part of that "everyone." He couldn't guarantee he'd get another chance at life if he died in this one. Besides, a person's life ought to be lived brilliantly no matter what, and come on, it hadn't been easy finally getting out of singlehood this lifetime!
Aslan frowned after surveying the deadlocked frontline. The situation seemed even grimmer than he had expected. The Knights of the Round Table, who were supposed to have already pushed the enemy to the gates, were instead stalled here. Right now, it was up to him to try and salvage this derailed situation as best he could.
Since that was the case, he ought to do everything he could on this battlefield. More importantly, when his so-called "dear father" had thrown him to those outsiders back then, he hadn't hesitated for even a second. If Aslan claimed he held no grudges, he'd be lying.
And so, he was desperate to make a grand entrance and declare to his cheap old man that the child he'd so casually discarded—perhaps even forgotten—had come back for vengeance!
"Melusine!"
Melusine, who had been cradling Aslan in her arms, immediately slowed her pace and bent forward slightly to prepare for his landing. At that moment, Aslan would use her forward momentum to launch himself directly into the battlefield.
Aslan placed a hand on the knightly sword at his waist. As if sensing its master's intent to enter battle, the sword—one that had never truly fought alongside Aslan before—suddenly emitted a dazzling golden light. The Sword of Glorious Victory was excited. This was its first return to the battlefield since being reforged.
As a knight's sword, how could the Sword of Glorious Victory not yearn to shine once more on the battlefield? Especially after having been broken—it now burned with a blazing desire to return to the fray.
Feeling the hum of the sword at his waist, Aslan curled his lips into a smile. Come to think of it, this would be his first real fight since his journey began. Back then, his main weapon had always been the blacksmith's hammer hanging from his belt—his fame came more from his identity as a smith than a warrior. But this time, he was going to make his name known across the continent as a swordsman!
The memories he'd gained from Balin had gradually begun to integrate into his body and habits over time.
Besides, those earlier skirmishes were nothing compared to the scale of this battlefield. What man wouldn't long to wield his blade on the battlefield and build a grand legacy? It was a lie to say he didn't yearn for such glory. What's more, perhaps due to his body being frozen at this stage, even his personality had been affected somewhat.
So when he saw the blood before him, when he smelled the fire and scorched flesh in the air, when the clash of blades and weapons rang in his ears—Aslan only grew more excited.
He had come to relish being stuck in this form—both in appearance and temperament. At the very least, "youth knows no fear." Whether in battle or in daily life, Aslan was always willing to try new things. It was just a pity that while his body was frozen in time, his lifespan had not become eternal.
In any case, better to deal with the enemies before him first. As for achieving immortality—Aslan had a hunch that the answer lay somewhere on this continent. That hunch wasn't clear yet, perhaps because the things he needed to do now still weren't complete.
The soldiers under the Knights of the Round Table were easily distinguishable from the outsiders. The knights' troops all wore pristine white armor, reminiscent of the Justiciars from the games of his past life. The outsiders and foreign tribes, on the other hand, mostly wore gear made from bones or hide.
Put simply, it was the contrast between the disciplined and the wild.
The moment Aslan landed on the ground, he channeled a burst of magic, concentrating it beneath his feet. He converted the speed given by Melusine into his own force while stabilizing his posture—then launched forward like a cannonball.
Nearby, a young soldier clad in silver-white armor was under siege by several foreigners. His helmet had already fallen off, and his bloodstained armor was caked in mud. Gasping for air, his young face was filled with confusion and despair.
His comrades had already fallen in the mud around him. At that moment, a light drizzle began to fall from the sky. The already slushy ground, thanks to the melting snow, turned even more treacherous. The smell of rain and dirt began to suppress the stench of blood, cooling the heat of battle that had just moments ago gripped his mind.
Looking around, the soldier gave a bitter smile. Deep down, a thought he'd never dared to entertain before surfaced: Could the invincible King really lose this time?
He shook his head, trying to cast off that absurd thought, but it clung to him like a shadow, impossible to shake. At this very moment, what they needed was light—a miracle.
Overwhelmed by doubts, the young soldier's grip slipped, and his weapon was knocked from his hands in the melee. He fell backward into the mud. Not far away lay the corpses of his comrades, and a broken laugh escaped his lips. If only someone could save them! Even if not the King himself—then at least someone who could give them hope of victory!
And then, as if the heavens had answered his prayer, a golden light flared before his eyes—a radiant sword-light, brilliant and dazzling.
Under the dark sky and falling rain, it drew every eye on the battlefield.
Aslan's golden hair remained untouched by the rain, sustained by magical force. His silver armor glimmered with faint golden highlights from the holy sword in his hand. Trinkets hanging at his waist clinked together with crisp, melodic sounds. His light-blue eyes shone with determination and resolve, while his confident smile radiated ease and power.
He spared only a brief glance at the knight slumped in the mud before retracting his gaze.
"Get up. Prayers and wishes mean nothing on the battlefield. All you can rely on is yourself. Entrusting your life to someone else? Foolish."
With that, Aslan stepped forward again, charging into the enemy lines, leaving the stunned knight with his mouth slightly open.
This man who had just saved him... looked like the King. But... he was something different.