Killing Perseus turned out to be far more difficult than expected. Relying on the power of the Boots of Hermes, he quickly released magical energy to create distance, his shield-like wings raised defensively against the golden torrent. Even so, his defense barely held.
The wings and their joints were already pushed to their limit, and it was doubtful they could withstand another strike of such magnitude.
After retreating, Perseus assessed his condition. Warning signals of damage echoed through his modified brain, while his own body throbbed in protest. He placed a hand over his abdomen—where his trump card lay hidden, the achievement he was most proud of.
Yet precisely because of this proud accomplishment, many whispered that his glory was mere luck. Over time, Perseus himself came to loathe relying on that ultimate weapon. But now, if he wished to claim victory, he had no choice but to use it.
Although distaste lingered, it would be erased by triumph. As for whether his father would be angered by him killing the creature before him—it hardly mattered. Besides bringing it back alive, their orders allowed for destruction if capture failed.
In the end, no one had managed to bring this being under their command. Leaving things unchanged suited Zeus well enough.
Among the current pantheon, only Eros and Apollo and his sister could match Zeus. The rest, even Poseidon and Hades, ranked below the second echelon. Of course, if those two joined forces the balance might shift, but for Zeus, maintaining the status quo was the surest path.
Perseus made his decision: the opponent before him had to be destroyed.
He pressed a hand to his abdomen, his expression hardening. A cold smile curled the corners of his lips.
"Let me show you her. Centuries have passed since anyone last saw her face. I may not be able to present you to my father, but your petrified statue will serve well enough."
Lifting his chin, Perseus triggered the mechanism on his abdomen. The device began to rotate, opening slowly like a cursed box. Aslan finally glimpsed what lay within.
It was a woman's head.
Energy conduits and biological tissue connected to the severed neck sustained it, preventing decay. But there was no life left—only a brain-dead husk, a grotesque puppet preserved as a tool.
Limited energy had left the head gaunt, yet traces of beauty lingered. A faint sheen of violet hair clung to its forehead.
There was no mistaking the identity of this trophy.
The head, eyes long shut, suddenly opened. They burned with hatred—hatred fossilized across millennia, a venom beyond tears. The sockets, once weeping blood, were now dry and hollow, filled only with a ceaseless roar. Those stone-gray eyes had been consumed by crimson, drowned in rage.
Perseus tugged cruelly at the scalp, forcing the gaze upon Aslan like one displaying a prized relic.
"You are but a human. Bear witness to the great deeds of us demigods! This is a glory you cannot imagine, a height you can never reach. Obey—that is your place! Behold, the head of Medusa! Hahahahaha!"
The petrifying gaze flared, light spilling forth to turn all in sight into stone. The moment Aslan's eyes met it, his blood seemed to thicken, congealing within his veins. Yet his white dragon blood resisted, its innate resilience shielding him—though not indefinitely.
Looking up at the gloating Perseus, Aslan's displeasure surged. The dragon blood within him boiled, his eyes turning a radiant gold. For an instant Perseus thought he saw something divine flash in those eyes—then his gaze dropped to his abdomen.
Defying the petrification, Aslan raised the Holy Spear and unleashed it—not at the scale of a city, but still potent enough to blaze like silver fire. Light burst forth, streaking upward like a white dragon, a shining cross piercing the heavens.
The divine lance struck Perseus square in the stomach—his weakest point, where defenses had been sacrificed to house the head. The spear tore through him effortlessly.
Perseus's eyes widened in shock as his body faltered, wings collapsing. He plummeted like a bird with shattered wings. With a call, the liberated spear returned to Aslan's hand.
Aslan wasted no time. He lunged forward, thrusting the spear into Perseus's head. Metal shrieked under the impact as the holy lance pierced his forehead. But no blood flowed. Instead, a surge of current traveled down the shaft and into Aslan's arm.
Aslan's eyes narrowed. Of course—the man was mechanized. A fatal wound to the head was no guarantee of death.
Perseus raised his arms, though his movements faltered. The string of injuries had clearly taken their toll. His magic ceased its continuous outpouring, and his sickle cooled, though its blade still gleamed with lethal sharpness.
In response, Aslan called upon his dragon blood. His body began to shift, transforming—scales, power, and the will of the dragon awakening within him.
-End Chapter-
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