Aslan looked down at his body and could clearly see the signs of dragonization after flipping his status — far more pronounced than when he simply used the island's power. It wasn't that this was entirely bad, but the destructive instincts of the white dragon kept rising within his heart. If the day ever came when he fully transformed, it might become impossible to restrain the urge to lay waste to Britain.
Fortunately, only half of the white dragon's blood flowed through his veins, and just as fortunate, he bore none of the red dragon's blood. Otherwise, the contradiction between those two forces would likely shatter his mind. A schizophrenia-like opposition of that magnitude could only end in madness.
Still, he had to be grateful for the blood he did possess. If not for the fact that Vortigern — the white dragon — embodied destruction and ruin, Aslan's reversed state would never have been able to absorb the tainted energy of the world's evil.
Anyone else, upon taking in such power, would already have been consumed. Even a Heroic Spirit in a reversed state would become a puppet of that abhorrent will. But Aslan merely shook the black mud from his arm. He could absorb only a portion of its malice, never fully digest it, so the residue clung to him.
If I devoured it all, he thought grimly, I wouldn't be a dragon anymore. I'd be a demon. Only demons feed on the world's hatred as sustenance.
Far above the clouds, the Supreme Masterpiece — the artificial god that orbited the earth like a celestial artillery — tracked the spawning puppets of black mud within the mountain. Its systems calculated their evolving forms, predicting which heroic figures they would imitate. Guided by the Heart of God at its core, the weapon could still scan targets in the sky, maintaining its function for centuries to come.
And so, countless half-formed puppets were annihilated before they ever emerged, pierced through the womb by divine energy.
Aslan tightened his grip on the Holy Lance. Ever since it had drunk of the Grail's power, the spear no longer harmonized with him as it once had. With a faint shake of his head, he dismissed it and summoned his own holy sword instead.
Reversed by his corrupted state, the blade shimmered with a deep violet-black hue. Though its form appeared tainted, its majesty remained undeniable, impossible to look upon directly.
"Melusine," he called, "don't let those things touch you."
The white-haired girl soared above, her wings beating as she effortlessly evaded black chains. In her hands was a weapon crafted specially by Aslan, brimming with compressed magical energy. Shaped like a spear yet firing beams like a modern cannon, it blended ancient elegance with futuristic lethality. This was not the same Melusine who once belonged to the Fairy Kingdom.
Fifteen hundred years ago, Aslan had already begun experimenting with thermal weaponry. Naturally, his craft had only advanced in the long centuries since. Were it not for the limitations of the treasures he wielded — divine artifacts resistant to further alteration — his weapons would have evolved far beyond their current state.
Still, Melusine's armament had not been neglected. He had upgraded it himself, knowing well her vanity. If her form had remained unchanged after fifteen centuries, her wrath would have been far worse than any enemy's.
Her weapon discharged, a beam slicing a puppet cleanly in two. Melusine hovered proudly in the sky, chin tilted upward, and declared, "If these things can touch me, it means they've insulted my speed!"
Meanwhile, the expression on Kotomine Kirei's face grew steadily darker. Standing on the high platform, the young priest — heir to the Grail's overseer — watched the battle unfold. His knowledge of Heroic Spirits was deeper than most, and what he now witnessed unsettled him greatly.
The Holy Sword and Holy Lance alone were already extraordinary treasures. The lance seemed identical to the one wielded by Balin, save for its sacred banner, and the sword radiated a presence strikingly similar to King Arthur's blade. Even if not twin weapons, they were of equal rank.
To hold two such treasures at once was already enough to upset the war's balance. And that was without considering the mechanical god above the clouds, still bombarding the battlefield relentlessly. Had Kirei not been deep within the mountain's shadows, he might have been annihilated outright by its fire.
He instinctively stepped back, retreating closer to the unhatched evil within. He had no desire to die here, not before he could witness its awakening. Yet the obstacle before him was clear: this so-called blacksmith, and the dragon-girl who followed him.
So this is the legendary Aslan, he realized. The fabled blacksmith. And, of course, where the blacksmith goes, the Horizon Dragon is never far behind.
When he had first seen the Swordsman-class Servant, Kirei had sensed something amiss. Now, the truth was obvious. That earlier Servant was but one facet of the blacksmith — a diminished summoning, neither at full strength nor with his full arsenal. In legend, the man had forged an artificial god after the divine age had ended.
And that god was now in the heavens, raining destruction upon the earth.
Kirei narrowed his eyes, studying Aslan's every movement, calculating. How could he eliminate someone capable of turning the tide so decisively? Yet the sheer power emanating from Aslan and his companion made it clear: erasing them would not be simple.
Especially not this so-called blacksmith. Was he truly just a craftsman? Even the world's evil struggled to corrupt him. On the contrary — he could drink its power as though it were his own.
-End Chapter-
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