Fate: Typemoon - My Dragon Knight

"Block them! No matter what, stop those reinforcements! Either King Arthur dies here today, or we all die by his sword—I won't allow that damned Arthur to take a single step out of this village!"

The woman clenched her teeth, forcing her voice through the gaps between them. What, was it really that hard to kill someone as insignificant as Arthur? Why had the reinforcements arrived so quickly? Did they not plan to give her any peaceful time with the one she admired—King Vortigern? Before this island sank completely into darkness, all she wanted was to stay by the side of the man she loved.

She kept diverting more troops to intercept the incoming enemy from the rear, but the sounds of battle only grew nearer.

Frustration—only sheer frustration could describe her mood right now. What a joke. Why couldn't so many of their forces hold off the reinforcements? Were their soldiers that useless, or was the enemy just too strong?

Whichever it was, it spelled disaster for them either way.

"Keep a close watch on King Arthur. Don't let that damn bastard break through! If you let Arthur escape, don't bother waiting for the darkness to consume this land—just drop dead!"

With those words, the woman cracked her whip and turned back toward the rear. Between the Arthur who had been surrounded and the reinforcement that had come to save him, she figured the latter posed a far greater threat. This massive show of force wasn't just boosting Arthur's morale—it could tear apart their entire encirclement.

"Whoever tries to block my path—just die!!"

Snapping her whip as she walked, she lashed aside the monstrous beings blocking her way—creatures who had lost their sanity. Her narrowed eyes stared ahead—and what she saw made her jolt. That person... looked far too much like King Arthur!

As someone who hated Arthur—who had stolen Vortigern's gaze—she had of course thoroughly investigated what Arthur looked like. She even had illustrated booklets. But now, the leader of this rescue force charging toward them looked far too much like the Arthur in those portraits.

Could it be... this was all a trap laid by Arthur?

That the real Arthur had never been trapped in this village at all, and had waited for them to come before encircling them?

A ruthless plan—and an intricate one at that. Any misstep would have given it away. No wonder he had managed to steal away the eyes of the man she admired!

But this could also be a good thing. If the one leading this knightly charge was that damn Arthur, then she might as well take this chance to chop his head off!

"Die, Arthur!!"

As Aslan cleaved down an enemy with his holy sword, he suddenly heard a voice filled with killing intent. The next moment, he caught a sharp gust of wind rushing toward him. Without hesitation, he raised his sword and swung upward. A sharp clang of metal rang out above his head, sending sparks flying in every direction.

Her special whip, covered in barbs, clashed with the golden glow of his holy sword. Aslan's attention was immediately drawn to this one-eyed enemy commander. That she was a woman didn't surprise him in the slightest.

After all, this was the distant land of Earth and Moon. In this era, there were plenty of female commanders, though many never made it into the records of history—or were simply recorded as men.

Looking at the woman before him, determined to stop him, Aslan lightly deflected her next whip strike. The moment their weapons clashed, he caught the large notch that had been left in her whip.

Honestly, a whip wasn't a mainstream weapon. Few blacksmiths even bothered to forge them. And for a whip to be both flexible and deadly, while not easily severed, it would require special materials. Maybe in the East, there were masters capable of forging whips on par with his holy sword. But on this little island? Impossible.

Just a few more clashes, and he could cut this woman's weapon clean in two.

But wait—what had she just called him? Arthur?

"…Arthur? Get your facts straight. I'm not King Arthur. Just a nameless nobody. Allow me to clarify—my name is Aslan Pendragon. If you're looking for King Arthur, then sorry to disappoint, I don't have much to do with him."

The one-eyed woman stared at the golden-haired young man before her, growing more furious by the second.

"What kind of joke is this?! You look exactly like the portrait! Aside from the armor and hairstyle, what's different? You dare mock me?! Then I'll take your life!"

Aslan saw her fury rise and sighed helplessly. It wasn't really her fault. With current art techniques, it was hard to accurately portray things like height. He was clearly a head taller than Artoria, after all. And eye color wasn't easy to distinguish in those images either.

And if Artoria ever cut her hair short, her hairstyle wouldn't be that different from his own. So... yeah. He couldn't really blame this woman for the mistake.

He just hoped that in future retellings of Arthurian legends, there wouldn't be any ridiculous mix-ups because of this.

Taking a deep breath, Aslan narrowed his eyes at the woman. His gaze grew cold and detached. He could let his thoughts wander all he wanted when not in battle—but in combat, any unnecessary emotions could cost him victory.

Perhaps it was because of the Vortigern blood flowing in his veins. If he wanted to, he could shut off all emotion. That cold indifference, that absolute detachment—it really was something he had inherited.

Aslan focused on the ambient power of the island around him, drawing it into his body and then explosively releasing it again. Unfortunately, as the son of the White Dragon and not the dragon himself, he couldn't manipulate the island's power at will like his so-called father could. Still, as it flowed through him, a faint gold shimmer appeared in his pale blue eyes.

The woman involuntarily stepped back under that cold gaze. She realized—his eyes… looked familiar.