Why do you fight?
For the sake of his land and country, he joined the King's Knights, followed the King, fought in war after war, and won victory after victory behind his sovereign. Naturally, he entrusted his life to the one he believed invincible—the King himself.
But now, someone told him that relying on others to protect your life on the battlefield was the greatest folly. Perhaps that was why he found himself in such a miserable state now. After all, not every time would a savior come rushing to his side.
The soldier didn't know what choice he should make. But one thing was certain: he must pick up the sword in his hand and survive every battlefield—on his own!
Aslan advanced, the Sword of Glorious Victory gleaming in his grasp. With his unparalleled swordsmanship, the power of the holy blade, and the occasional support from Melusine, no one could stop his progress. Along the way, Aslan inevitably saved soldier after soldier who were close to death.
With a face resembling Artoria's, golden hair flowing in the wind, and a golden holy sword in hand, many on this battlefield regarded Aslan as their king in a trance and followed closely behind.
The golden holy sword was a beacon in the darkness. Not only could his own troops spot him from afar, but even the enemy began tracking his movements. In front of him, a living wall of thick wooden stakes and ropes began to form—a mobile fortress hastily assembled on the battlefield.
Such a feat was nearly impossible, but after the black airflow enhanced the bodies of some soldiers, the plan for the mobile fortress finally came to fruition.
After nearly cleaving an enemy with a swing of his sword, Aslan looked up at the wooden city blocking his path. His pale blue eyes betrayed no sorrow or joy. He gripped his sword tightly as a surge of magic power coursed into the holy blade.
"Bring me victory!"
He intended to unleash the Sword of Glorious Victory's mightiest attack. Though no longer a heroic spirit, and thus not quite as powerful as before, it should be more than enough to shatter the fortress before him.
If one day, Aslan achieved his goal and this world vanished, he wouldn't mind accepting the restraining force's invitation to become a heroic spirit. If he truly became immortal, neither he nor Meluseen would fit in the future world.
Moreover, the restraining force didn't trust them—it was only a matter of time before they were hunted down.
But they were on the battlefield now. Such thoughts would wait.
The Sword of Glorious Victory brightened, glowing with joyous light. It would bring Aslan victory, prove his strength, and show that reforging it had been no waste of time. From this day forward, the world would know it not as the golden Sword of Victory, but the glorious Sword of Victory—New Caliburn—tied forever to Aslan's name!
"Open a path! I will claim a brilliant victory! Cut down evil and force it to retreat! Try to block this radiant light, [Sword of Glorious Victory]!!"
Raising the holy sword, Aslan swung it forward. A torrent of golden light erupted from the blade, drawing all eyes and breaking the dark clouds above. The rain ceased instantly in this zone.
The torrent barreled forward, crashing into the wooden fortress with a thunderous boom. It left only ruin—obliterating every defense and enemy in its path. The golden light spiraled skyward, dispersing the dark clouds and letting sunlight stream down.
Aslan lowered his hand and calmly surveyed the wreckage wrought by his power. The destructive force of the Sword of Glorious Victory matched his expectations—it was truly a holy sword rivaling the Sword of Contractual Victory.
As if sensing his mood, the sword let out a pleasing sound, like a dragon's roar.
Unnoticed by Aslan, sunlight filtered through water vapor, refracted into golden rays and a rainbow that shone upon him. Clad in white armor adorned with gold, holding a golden holy sword, he looked magnificent. His indifferent pale blue eyes held a hint of alienation—fitting for the moment.
Sheathing the Sword of Glorious Victory, Aslan eyed the retreating soldiers. He relaxed his stance, but frowned at those who bowed in knightly salute, apparently misunderstanding something.
Before he could clarify, footsteps approached. He turned to see Kay, who had witnessed the dazzling golden light and hurried over.
"May I ask who you are?"
Kay did not know Aslan, having never met him in Artoria's time despite Aslan and Artoria eventually meeting. He was shocked by the young man's striking resemblance to the King.
Though similar, no one would mistake them when they saw their different eye and hair colors.
Aslan, however, did not recognize Kay at first. Noticing Kay's distinct armor, different from ordinary soldiers, he guessed the man belonged to the command.
"Knights of the Round Table? You're just in time. You must be their commander. Prepare yourselves—I'm about to give my stepfather a grand gift."