Melusine, Become my Noble Phantasm!

As an alien warrior from a blood-worshipping nation, this female leader had grown accustomed to violence since childhood. She had spilled blood with her own people at a young age.

Vortigern's loyalty was not easily won. Outsiders saw the island's natives as nothing more than prey or slaves—even Vortigern himself.

Thus, under forced smiles, brutal contests of dominance erupted—bloody, merciless battles in the castle's dim halls.

"Even though you brought us here, you must prove your strength if you want our loyalty. We won't bleed for empty words!"

With that challenge, a fierce fight broke out.

Her father, once the island's fiercest warrior, had challenged Vortigern to determine the true ruler. Only one would survive.

Though their faces smiled, the smiles were hollow, concealing savage hunger to devour the other.

Blood drenched the hall, adding a sinister weight to the dim chamber.

Cheers died abruptly.

At the center, a man clad in black armor stood motionless, magic sword dripping blood onto the carpet. Nothing stirred him. Nothing could.

His expression, stance, and that elegant girl beside him remained engraved in her memory.

As a child of a warrior clan, the lady had always revered strength. Perhaps it was that day that Vortigern's indelible image settled into her soul—distorting her heart and character forever.

Now, the scene replayed before her eyes.

The young man before her wasn't King Arthur. No, he was connected instead to the king her soul worshipped: Vortigern.

"Who are you?! What is your relationship with that king?!"

She ignored the pain twisting her body—the black energy crackling in her mouth with each word. She desperately wanted to know how Aslan linked to the light in her soul. Denying any connection would be a lie.

Aslan raised his sword coolly, mirroring his adoptive father's stance.

The lady felt as if she faced her own beliefs—Vortigern himself standing before her.

Perhaps dying by his hand was fitting.

With a swift strike, the holy sword fell—severing the woman's head, now adorned with a wild afro.

Aslan shook his sword gently, and the cold indifference on his face faded.

No longer did anyone mistake him for Vortigern at first glance.

Looking down at the fallen body, Aslan whispered softly:

"My relation to Vortigern? If anything, I'm anxious to give him a big gift before Father's Day."

Though the lady could no longer hear him.

Nearby, their dragon roared again, sweeping enemies into the sky with fierce sword strikes.

The loss of their leader and comrades shattered the enemy's morale.

Still, many were consumed by the island's dark power—mad monsters impossible to reason with.

Raising his weapon high, Aslan commanded:

"The enemy general is dead! All troops—annihilate the remaining forces!"

The Camelot soldiers cheered, moving with renewed courage.

Though they remembered King Arthur, they had begun to see Aslan as their own.

With one side's morale soaring and the other reduced to frenzied beasts, the balance of victory had shifted irreversibly.

Gawain sighed in relief, spotting familiar armor among the approaching troops.

"King, our reinforcements have arrived."

Artoria breathed easier and nodded.

Finally, I can stop hiding and get a proper meal— she joked to herself. I'm sick of Gawain's mashed potatoes.

But more seriously, she wondered who had led this cavalry charge. She knew her knights well. Among those commanding at the front, none but a few had the courage to shift ranks.

As the reinforcements surrounded Aslan and approached Artoria, Gawain immediately stood beside his king, raising his sun-blessed sword—its glow dimmed from previous battles—toward Aslan and Melusin.

He hadn't forgotten how these two had deceived and defeated him under Camelot's banner.

He vowed never to suffer such failure again.

Yet facing Vortigern—the island's destroying dragon—defeat seemed inevitable.

Seeing Gawain's stance, Artoria gently shook her head and patted his armored shoulder.

"No need for caution. The newcomers are friends."