Why do I fight?
For the land and the nation I call home. That's why I joined the King's Knights, followed the King into countless battles, and claimed victory after victory at his side. Naturally, I entrusted my life to him—the undefeated King.
But now someone tells him that entrusting one's life to another on the battlefield is the most foolish thing to do. Perhaps they're right. After all, look at the sorry state he's in now—beaten, bloodied, and left behind. Not every time will someone come to save him.
The soldier doesn't know what choice to make. But he does understand one thing: he knows what he must do now. He must pick up his sword and survive this battlefield!
With the Sword of Glorious Victory in hand, Aslan pressed forward. His superb swordsmanship, the power of the holy sword, and constant support from Melusine made him an unstoppable force. Along the way, Aslan unintentionally saved more than a few soldiers who had been on the brink of death.
His appearance, so similar to Artoria, his golden hair fluttering in the wind, and the gleaming golden sword in hand—it was no surprise that more than one soldier glimpsed him and, in a daze, mistook him for their King. Naturally, they began to follow him, chasing after the path he carved.
The golden holy sword in Aslan's hand was like a beacon in the darkness. Not only his allies could spot him from afar, but the enemy began to notice his movements as well. Thick wooden stakes tied together to form moving barricades began to assemble in Aslan's path, one wall after another rising before him.
It was as if a fortress built on the battlefield had disassembled in haste, only to be reassembled at critical points—an entire wooden city, cobbled together, now stood tall in the way.
Normally, such maneuvers would be impossible. But with the black mist entering some of the soldiers' bodies, strengthening their physical capabilities, the mobile fortress plan had finally become a reality.
Aslan cleaved down an enemy with one swing, then looked up at the wooden citadel blocking his path. His pale blue eyes remained calm, without sorrow or joy. He simply tightened his grip on the sword, and massive stores of magic power began to surge from his body into the weapon.
"Grant me victory!"
This time, Aslan intended to unleash the strongest attack the Sword of Glorious Victory could muster. Though he wasn't yet a Heroic Spirit, and thus might not be able to fully draw out its power, destroying this wooden fortress should still be within his means.
In truth, if one day Aslan achieved his goal, and with the world's mystery continuing to fade, he wouldn't mind accepting the invitation of the Counter Force—to become a Heroic Spirit while still alive. If he truly attained eternity, neither Aslan nor Melusine could be contained by the future world.
Besides, the Counter Force likely wouldn't feel at ease letting them be. So being targeted by it was only a matter of time.
But now wasn't the time to think about such things—this was a battlefield.
The Sword of Glorious Victory shone ever brighter, filled with joy. It would grant Aslan his victory, prove its immense power, and show that being reforged by Aslan had not been in vain. Far from being wasted, its strength had become even greater, destined to shine even more brilliantly.
From this day forth, the world would know—it was no longer just the Golden Sword of Assured Victory. It was the Sword of Glorious Victory, forever bound to the name of Aslan—New Caliburn!
"Clear a path for me! I will claim brilliant victory! Cut down evil, drive away the shadows—go on, try to block this radiant light! Sword of Glorious Victory!!"
He raised the sword high, then swung it forward. The golden torrent of light condensed and burst from the blade. It drew every gaze, pierced the stormy sky, and in that moment, even the rain ceased to fall.
The flood of golden light charged forward without pause and slammed into the wooden fortress. The result was inevitable—utter devastation, a crushing force that annihilated everything in its path. Defenses, soldiers, all were torn apart as golden light spiraled into the sky, scattering the clouds above. Sunlight broke through the opening, cascading down upon the battlefield.
Aslan slowly lowered his arm and quietly observed the ruined wasteland his power had created. The destruction wrought by the Sword of Glorious Victory was exactly as he had imagined—its might no less than that of the Sword of Promised Victory.
Perhaps sensing Aslan's mood, the sword let out a clear and resonant cry—like the roar of a dragon.
Aslan didn't notice it, but as the sunlight fell and golden beams refracted off the lingering mist, they formed rainbows, casting dazzling arcs over his figure. Dressed in white armor with golden embellishments, holding a golden sword, and his pale blue eyes filled with quiet detachment—his image was nothing short of mesmerizing.
He then stored the Sword of Glorious Victory. Seeing the soldiers before him beginning to scatter and retreat, Aslan let down his combat stance. Then, turning his gaze to the ones who had followed him, now lowering their heads with reverence and offering him a knight's salute, he frowned slightly.
Had they misunderstood something?
But before he could decide how to explain, footsteps approached from the side. Turning his head, he saw someone drawn by the brilliant golden light—Kay.
"May I ask… who are you?"
During Artoria's last journey, although she had met Aslan, Kay hadn't encountered him, so it was no surprise he didn't recognize him now. At this moment, he was stunned by the face before him—so much like their King's.
Of course, while the resemblance was strong, anyone with clear eyes and a sober mind wouldn't mistake them. Their eye colors were clearly different.
Aslan didn't immediately recognize the man either. But noticing the knight's armor, which differed from the regular soldiers', he deduced that this must be a commander.
"A Knight of the Round Table? Perfect timing. You must be in charge of these soldiers, right? Get ready—I'm about to send a magnificent gift to my cheap father."