Aslan had no idea that Morgan's timeline-altering actions were caused by his earlier theft. When he realized the item in his hand was Avalon, he didn't hesitate.
"Melusine! Princess carry me—now! We're going to Camelot!"
There was no way he could keep this relic. Not now. If Altria was to defeat Vortigern, she needed Avalon. Relying on Merlin's silver tongue was not an option.
Just like the Golden Sword of Victory once allowed him to lend it to Altria, he could do the same with Avalon.
He didn't want to get involved.
But fate had other plans.
Nestled in Melusine's arms as she soared toward Camelot, Aslan rubbed his temples. A confrontation with his "cheap father" was beginning to feel inevitable.
His thoughts transmitted wordlessly to Melusine through their bonded link. The dragon maiden glanced down at him with concern.
"Are you alright, Aslan?"
He shook his head gently. Though he was larger than her in this form, the comfort and strength she radiated were immense.
"…No. It's just… no matter how much I want to stay out of this era, something always pulls me back into the storm."
Deep down, he just wanted to scream: Why is it so hard to live quietly as a legendary blacksmith?!
On Camelot's wall, Merlin paced, visibly agitated. A premonition lingered in his mind ever since Altria departed. According to prophecy, the Red Dragon would defeat the White—but doubt gnawed at him.
He wanted to help her. But an older prophecy forbade it.
If Vortigern wished to alter fate, he would need to be tainted with nightmare's blood.
Merlin's blood.
If he joined Altria, he would play directly into Vortigern's hands. He had no choice but to remain.
"Altria… please come back safely."
She had become the light he longed for—and though that light might one day vanish, he wanted it to shine just a bit longer.
As he whispered his prayer, a breeze rustled his robes. Merlin looked up, sensing a presence.
Something was approaching Camelot at speed. A monster? One of Vortigern's knights?
He reached for the sword in his staff, ready to leap into action. If he couldn't defend the frontline, he would protect the capital to his last breath.
"I promised our king this city would remain intact—no, flourish. I may be a nightmare who doesn't understand humanity, but I always keep my promises. The Flower Magician is here!"
Not far from Camelot, a squad of Vortigern's soldiers raced toward the city. A covert unit assigned to strike at King Arthur's base camp—at any cost.
This war would decide who ruled the island, who shaped the future. In such a battle, there was no line too sacred to cross.
Vortigern didn't care how history judged him.
Victory was all that mattered.
If he won, the island would be destroyed. Reputation, legend, morality—none of it meant a thing. The prophecy had cast him as the villain from the start. So what? He embraced it.
While other villains masked their ambition in false virtue, Vortigern flaunted his madness openly. Even the foreign races aiding him didn't know that once the war ended, the island would be denied to them too.
Or maybe… they did know. But hope made fools of them all.
Let them dream.
He would show them that the future held no hope.
He would flood the land with despair.
Hahahahahaha!!!
The soldiers raised their weapons high.
"Charge! For King Vortigern! Let us seize this half of the island and make it our home! We will walk from eternal winter into spring!"
Their voices echoed across the plains, part battle cry, part desperate prayer.
They would be the ones to take the white city.
To claim it as their own.