He was one of the few beings who did not meet his end swiftly. Even after being pierced by the Holy Spear, Perseus did not die immediately. Instead, he fell from the sky in silence, using his own body as bait for a final counterattack. The sickle he swung was his last act of resistance.
Though the sickle had lost its searing heat, it was still lethally sharp—capable of cleaving through a human neck as easily as slicing tofu.
But Aslan's neck was no mere tofu, nor was Aslan an ordinary man. The instant he saw Perseus raise the sickle, he activated the dragon blood within his body. Having entered the reversal state time and again, Aslan had become adept at channeling the dragon blood, reshaping his flesh into that of a dragon.
He knew that if he experienced this state a few more times—growing more familiar with the boiling rush of dragon blood—he would one day be able to shift freely into a half-dragon form.
That day would grant him a greater arsenal of attacks and more impenetrable defenses. For now, white dragon scales swiftly spread across his body, gleaming in the sunlight. When Perseus's sickle struck, the clash sent shards of shattered scales scattering like broken armor, streaked with blood.
Even with the durability of scales inherited from Britain's white dragon, the weapon in Perseus's hand was no less divine. In hardness, it rivaled Aslan's armor. Had the blade still been burning hot, it might truly have wounded him.
But there are no ifs in this world.
Perseus understood that truth well. Just as in the distant past, when envious rivals dismissed him: If the gods hadn't given him weapons, how could he have slain the Gorgon?
But history recognizes no "if." He was the hero who killed Gorgon. He was the champion blessed by the gods. Nothing could erase that, unless someone rewound time itself and persuaded the gods not to favor him. And that would only create another world line—one that had nothing to do with him here.
Watching his sickle lodged uselessly in the boy's dragon scales, Perseus gave a bitter laugh. He was utterly defeated. Of course—this was no human child, but a descendant of the dragon species, long unseen in the world. What, he wondered, were the two great dragons of Fairy Island and Dragon Island thinking, to send such a being wandering beyond their continents?
The red and white dragons had once bowed to Zeus's rule across the western lands. Yet clearly, they had not yielded completely—at least in Perseus's eyes. Otherwise, why would such a high-born half-dragon appear here?
He felt the faint link between himself, his father, and his brothers. But the Holy Spear's strike to his head had disabled the neural transmitters in his brain. He could no longer reach his father at all, only send fragmented signals to Helen.
That was the best he could do.
Aslan brushed a hand against his neck, where a shallow cut marked the spot where scales had broken. His gaze fell to Perseus's abdomen, where Medusa's head had been utterly obliterated. Even if the goddess once knew of Perseus's deeds, surely she would only feel relief—perhaps even gratitude. Better obliteration than being shackled as a tool forever.
In Greek myth, the goddess warped into a monster had only yearned to cast off her cursed form and find peace.
"Goodbye, Perseus…"
Perseus sneered faintly as Hermes's boots flared to life once more, propelling him toward Aslan. He would never surrender.
Even if he had been a selfish man, a hero crowned only by fortune, he had still been called a hero. Even selfish men had something they refused to betray.
Aslan did not hesitate. He lifted the Holy Spear, invoked a massive rune in the air, and summoned lightning from every side. Thunder roared down, shattering the failing systems of Perseus's mechanized body.
When his charred head struck the ground, Perseus—the so-called hero—was erased from the world. Or perhaps, at that moment, he ascended to the throne of heroes.
Far away, Helen—searching with Hercules—received Perseus's final transmission. Beneath her black veil, her calm eyes flickered with thought that no one noticed. Quietly, she altered her course with Hercules, moving toward Aslan's location.
For once, Helen did not report immediately to Zeus.
Instead, she sent a message to another brother—Hermes. Hermes, ever loyal to Zeus, stood in a precarious position. From legend to reality, he had no chance of inheriting command of the pantheon.
As messenger of the gods and patron of thieves and commerce, the Mecha God Hermes was the fleet's transport ship and its merchant. But in the vast sea of stars, commerce was a meaningless function. Only the transport of resources between spirits gave him relevance. Without it, he would never rise to the rank of a Twelve Olympian Mecha God.
Helen was certain: if a chance appeared to improve his standing in Zeus's eyes, Hermes would seize it without hesitation. Especially now, with humanity caged and commerce strangled, Hermes had little left but his allegiance to Zeus.
Even if the source of her message was uncertain—even if it reeked of a trap—Hermes would take the risk without question.
-End Chapter-
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