Aslan believed himself to be one of the strongest among all Heroic Spirits and heroes. He possessed the power to defeat most of them. However, the figure now standing before him was enough to stir unease. The Supreme Masterpiece was still in the midst of data integration—and if he were to pit it against this opponent now, it would only suffer damage. He could not bring himself to risk it.
The only comfort Aslan found was this: if the hero before him still lived, then the Twelve Labors would not be active. That skill, which granted twelve lives, would not be in play—good news indeed.
The bad news, however, was that this opponent would not be easy to deal with, even without the boon of twelve resurrections. Especially not with the devastating techniques derived from Nine Lives.
Aslan's hands trembled despite himself. But he could not allow this hero to destroy their base, nor could he simply surrender his own life. Was he really so foolish as to roll over and die?
Though he had no desire for a direct confrontation, no other path remained.
He studied the man before him—his limbs replaced by machinery, mechanical wings mounted upon his back. A sigh escaped Aslan's lips. Even this great hero had not escaped the fate of mutilation and transformation. If that was so, what horrors had befallen the others?
Yet something about this one felt… different from Perseus. A faint sense of disharmony hung about him, though Aslan could not pinpoint its source. Before he could look closer, the hero raised his massive axe and brought it crashing down.
Aslan darted aside. The corroded blade stabbed into the ground where he had stood, splitting the parched earth with a thunderous crack. Shards of stone flew, and the force rippled forward in jagged lines. A few strands of Aslan's golden hair drifted loose, severed by the axe's wake. Feeling the chill and the stench of blood radiating from the weapon, he swallowed hard.
Had it not been for his instincts, quick reflexes, and hardened body, he might not have survived that sudden strike.
Even Melusine, still in her dragon form, let out a worried cry.
Aslan swiftly unfastened the holy spear from his back and put distance between himself and the monstrous figure. Meanwhile, Estée Lauder's miniature mechas, released moments ago, leveled their weapons—rifles and crossbows alike—locking onto the hero before unleashing a barrage.
But the warrior was truly worthy of his title. With one hand, he intercepted Aslan's spear thrust using the axe. With the other, he snatched a crossbow bolt out of the air just before it struck his head. Then, with impossible agility for one of such size, he twisted his body and slipped through the storm of projectiles.
It was hard to believe that such a massive frame could move with such speed and grace.
Even though his limbs had been replaced with reinforced machinery, those mechanical limbs flowed with the same precision and fluidity as natural flesh under Hercules's command.
In the midst of dodging fire, he even lashed out with a brutal kick toward Aslan. Only the spear braced across his chest kept his ribs and spine from shattering under the force.
Aslan, still reeling from his retreat, looked up just in time to see Hercules closing in again. The enormous axe thrummed with surging magical energy. Jets flared along the mechanical arm that wielded it, amplifying both the speed and the destructive force of the swing.
It was clear—Hercules was about to unleash Nine Lives.
Golden light burst across Aslan's body as he invoked his Noble Phantasm. Crystal-like scales enveloped him, sealing him within the armor of Distant Utopia.
The axe came down in a blinding arc. The ground beneath Aslan fractured in twelve jagged lines, each one radiating outward from the impact. The power raced along the earth, and several of Estée Lauder's mechas were struck down in an instant, their cores bursting apart. The echoes of those twelve strikes even scarred the cliffs towering behind him.
Estée Lauder paled, swallowing hard as she glanced at Aslan with concern.
Aslan exhaled in relief. Had he not activated Distant Utopia, that single blow might have cost him half his life—or perhaps his life outright.
But the Noble Phantasm's rebounding ability did its work. Twelve matching wounds tore open across Hercules's chest, carving through flesh tough as armor to expose the bone beneath. Even the bone itself bore white scars.
Yet before the damage could deepen, metallic armor spread over the injuries, glowing with green light as it sealed and repaired the torn flesh.
Aslan's lips curved faintly. "So the gods treasure you this much, do they?" A glint of curiosity flickered in his eyes. The mechanism intrigued him. He had yet to master the fusion of machine and flesh, and now he itched to pry the devices free from the hero to study their structure.
If such healing systems could be integrated into the cockpit of the Supreme Masterpiece, his own survivability would rise sharply.
The hero did not utter a sound of pain, nor did his expression waver. His face remained as stern and impassive as before.
And it was then that Aslan finally understood the source of the dissonance he had sensed.
The helmet upon Hercules's head was too large, too unnatural. It was no long-range sensor, no targeting module. Rather, it resembled a restraint device—something disturbingly close to the crude electrotherapy headgear used in Europe in the last century of Aslan's own world.
-End Chapter-
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