Aslan rubbed his temples. After comparing Morgan's behavior to what he remembered, he was certain—something was off. Not just the way Morgan spoke, but the way she moved, the air about her. She felt... simplified.
She kept scanning her surroundings like a curious child. Her cold gaze held no edge of cunning, just a strangely dull curiosity. Even her words—blunt, emotionless—seemed off. Had Morgan's personality regressed? Had she reverted to some childlike state?
No... that wasn't it. Even a child didn't talk like this.
"…Are you really Morgan?" Aslan asked at last, his tone cautious as he watched the unfamiliar expression on her face.
Morgan didn't answer at first. She simply looked up at him with an empty gaze, unbothered by his suspicion. Then, as if reviewing a directive, she seemed to consider whether her earlier words had been too sharp. According to the directive set by her original consciousness, she was to stay with the young man—he was, after all, someone with at least some connection to her.
Maybe... she had gone too far.
Most people don't like being called an illegitimate child.
After a pause, Morgan lifted her head again. "I'm sorry," she said flatly. "I shouldn't have stated your illegitimacy so bluntly. I'll be more careful next time."
Aslan barely contained a laugh. That was an apology?! She'd doubled down on it!
Confirmed. This wasn't the Morgan he knew.
Still, as sharp-tongued as she was, there was something more straightforward, even endearing, about this version. Simpler. Easier to trust.
Aslan exhaled slowly and leaned forward. "You said you owe me a favor, right? Then, can I use that favor to ask you to teach me magic?"
Morgan's blank eyes narrowed ever so slightly. For a brief moment, Aslan felt like he was being scanned—judged, even. Her gaze reminded him of that famous painting Subway, Old Man, Cell Phone—a look that said: Are you sure you're cut out for this?
The confidence drained from Aslan's face under that look. He knew he wasn't a magic prodigy, but that didn't mean he couldn't learn. He wasn't asking to recreateExcalibur or anything. If he could learn that, great—but if not, he'd settle for something more practical.
His focus had always been clear: enhancing his forging techniques through magic—better control of energy, greater destructive potential, efficient magic emission. He didn't have the time to become a well-rounded mage. His primary goal was to become a legendary blacksmith.
Morgan, despite her skeptical expression, didn't refuse.
"There's one more thing," Aslan added, "I'm not Uther's illegitimate son. We're related, yes, but I don't have his blood."
King Uther had been a remarkable monarch, but he was also the descendant of the White Dragon. From a bloodline standpoint, Aslan speculated that his own magical lineage might even be superior to Uther's—at least by a small margin.
Of course, it was hard to say for certain. Who knew how literal the titles Red Dragon or White Dragon were? Artoria, as a Red Dragon incarnate, had immense magical reserves. Perhaps Aslan's innate magic was linked to a similar heritage. Then again, it was certainly not on the level of a true dragon.
Morgan's simulated personality frowned, then quickly smoothed her expression. Refusing to acknowledge one's father was nothing unusual for an illegitimate child, after all. And she'd never even heard of this boy before—clearly, he hadn't been around Uther. His story seemed plausible.
Unbeknownst to Aslan, Morgan was forming a quiet judgment: Another forgotten child. As wise as Uther was, he was still human—and prone to the same failings as the rest of them.
Had Aslan known what she was thinking, he might have sighed: Today is another day when the late king's reputation takes a hit.
Seeing Morgan's contemplative silence, Aslan assumed she understood and accepted his words. He let out a breath of relief and pushed the breakfast tray back into the carriage.
"Anyway… rest for the next couple of days. Let's get out of this region first. I don't think those magicians will give up so easily."
He was right.
News of the failed assassination attempt had already spread to the magician enclaves on the mainland.
As rumors swirled that Vortigern was offering sanctuary to mages, more and more of them made their way to his territory. For those marginalized or disgraced on the mainland, this seemed like a golden opportunity.
They hadn't expected the first strike team—sent to eliminate the island's strongest witch—to be completely wiped out.
But they had already crossed the sea. There was no going back.
To return in disgrace would be a fate worse than death. A magician's pride—his composure, his noble bearing—was part of his power. A defeated magician was a broken one.
And so they convinced themselves:
"The ones sent before weren't weak. Even if Morgan survived, she must be severely wounded. If we move quickly, we can catch her before she recovers.
If we delay, she'll heal, and we'll lose our advantage.
For the sake of our research—for the pursuit of magical truth—we must act now."