Melusine, Become my Noble Phantasm!

"Whether you're human or ghost, I don't care where this familiarity comes from—I have already decided your fate!"

The female general tightened her grip on the whip and took a deep breath, forcing down all fear. She shook her head sharply, casting aside the strange feeling of familiarity. Resolute to destroy the being before her, she reached up and ripped off the blindfold covering her eye.

"Behold—the power bestowed upon me by my king! Hehe… hehehehe!"

A strange aura emanated from beneath the blindfold—repulsive, unsettling. The presence alone was enough to make those watching recoil.

Aslan narrowed his eyes. Seeing the eye beneath the patch, he inwardly wished he could gouge them out. For those with trypophobia, this was a living nightmare.

Her eye socket was grotesquely enlarged—half a centimeter wider than normal—and black mud oozed endlessly from it. Floating within that viscous liquid were dozens of tiny eyes, far smaller than normal human eyeballs, crowded together in eerie silence.

Though Aslan's face remained cold and impassive, a shiver ran down his spine. His thoughts swirled with disbelief:

Big sister... how did you cram so many eyes into one socket? How do they connect to your nerves? Isn't there a risk your eye will burst from overcrowding?!

But the woman in front of him cared nothing for others' horror. She spread her hands wide as the black liquid trickled down half her cheek, her face dissolving under its corrosive touch, letting those wandering eyes roam freely.

"Come then—let me capture every move you make!"

The countless eyes fixed on Aslan with an unnerving intensity. Their sole purpose: to record and predict his every motion. Each eye calculated a possible outcome, rendering their owner nearly invincible.

It was a twisted form of future vision, derived from a ruthless analysis of muscle dynamics, facial expressions, and the flow of internal energy. Yet such cold calculations had limits. An opponent who moved unpredictably could slip through these predictions.

Cleverness was a double-edged sword.

Aslan charged forward, raising his holy sword. The whip-wielding woman swiftly swung her weapon aside to block, then pushed gently with her palm—sending the other end of the whip whipping toward Aslan.

"You're finished. I have captured all your movements. You cannot best me in close combat!"

A cruel smile twisted across her strange, half-eroded face. No one would have gotten this far without ability.

Originally, only two or three small eyes had filled her socket. But that was insufficient to fully anticipate an opponent's moves. So she let the eyes multiply—until she became something monstrous.

The black mud-like substance flowed endlessly, devouring her skin. After this fight, she'd need special clothes to hide the holes and wandering eyes.

But she didn't care. The island was counting down to destruction. Beauty or ugliness was meaningless—as long as she could die beside Vortigern, it was enough.

Yet Aslan was a blacksmith above all. His equipment was unmatched. He tapped the magic foundation on his waist; a shield burst forth, reshaping rapidly like a wild beast's snarling head. The shield clamped down fiercely on the whip's end.

When normal tactics failed, it was time for extraordinary methods—methods far beyond this era.

If this woman's "future vision" relied solely on predicting his movements and energy flow, then using my ability to see beyond time itself will confuse her utterly.

Magic surged into the shield's core. Electric currents arced along the iron whip, racing toward its owner.

The electricity spread from the whip to her body, then erupted at the crown of her head—instantly giving her long hair a wild vacuum-electronic perm, transforming it into a frizzy afro. Even the tiny eyes drifting in the black liquid appeared "permed."

"Ahem…"

She dropped the whip and sank to one knee. Aslan watched, shaking his head. Had he won too easily? Had the enemy been weak? Or had he simply grown stronger?

"Let go of our leader!"

An alien soldier charged at Aslan with an axe, but Aslan merely glanced sideways and sliced clean through the weapon, blood pooling on the ground.

Nearby, Melusine twirled her twin swords, whipping up a fierce storm. Enemies who approached Aslan were hurled back, bodies torn by deep sword scars.

Ha! No one is allowed to interfere with my fight.

Aslan turned his gaze back to the defeated woman. In her fading eyes, his indifferent glance overlapped with a shadow from long ago.