Fate: Typemoon - My Dragon Knight

I don't care if you're man or monster. I don't care why you feel familiar. I've decided—I will take your life!

The female commander tightened her grip on the whip in her hand and took a deep breath, forcing down all her fear. She shoved aside the strange sense of familiarity that had crept up in her heart, shaking her head to scatter it, and hardened her resolve. After deciding she would destroy the being before her, she reached up and yanked off the blindfold covering her eyes.

"Look closely. This is the power granted to me by my king. Heehee... heeheeheehee!"

An eerie aura began to seep out from beneath the blindfold—a nauseating, repulsive presence that radiated from the female commander's body.

Aslan squinted, and the moment he got a clear look beneath that blindfold, he regretted it deeply. He wished he could stab his own eyes out.

What the hell kind of nightmare was this?! Every trypophobia sufferer's worst fear come to life!

The eye socket, which should have been a normal size, was stretched wide open by whatever lurked within. It was now noticeably larger than the other eye. From this grotesquely dilated eye, black sludge oozed continuously. Inside the thick, inky fluid, countless tiny eyeballs—much smaller than a normal human's—packed together in a writhing mass, completely filling the socket.

Aslan's expression remained as cold and indifferent as ever, but goosebumps had already risen all over his body. Internally, he was ranting at full speed.

Lady! How the hell did you even stuff that many eyes into a single socket?! And how are they all connected to your optic nerves?! And if you don't do something about it soon, your disgusting little eyeballs are gonna start falling out from overcrowding! Damn it!

But the woman before him clearly couldn't care less what others thought. She spread her arms, letting the black liquid smear across half her face. As it corroded her skin, her facial structure began to melt, creating more room for the countless eyes to roam.

"Come," she whispered, "Let me capture your every move!"

Several eyes now occupying half her face locked onto Aslan with razor-sharp focus. Even just being stared at by so many eyes was terrifying. But they had a clear and singular purpose—to capture Aslan's movements and predict them. Each eye calculated a different possible outcome to help its host stay one step ahead, ensuring her invincibility.

One might call it a kind of "pseudo-future sight." But it wasn't true foresight—it was the product of experience and calculated deduction. From muscle movements, to facial expressions, to the internal flow of power—everything was analyzed scientifically to deduce the most likely next move. However, if she were to face an opponent who didn't play by the rules…

Then all her calculations would be for nothing.

The clever often outwit themselves—sometimes, experience and knowledge only cloud your judgment.

Aslan charged forward to test the waters, holy sword raised high, then slashed down with it. But the whip-wielding woman immediately reacted—she lifted her weapon and, with practiced ease, blocked the attack by pulling both hands apart. Then, with a twist of her wrist, the whip's other end came lashing toward Aslan.

"You're wasting your time. I've already captured your every movement. In close-quarters combat, you'll never beat me!"

Confidence bloomed across her face, though with her features twisted by the inky blackness and grotesque eyes, the smile only looked more deranged than proud. She hadn't made it this far without some real skill.

And clearly, this woman wasn't afraid of sacrificing herself for an edge. Originally, she only had two or three extra eyes embedded in her socket. But two or three weren't enough for full-range coverage of an opponent's posture. So, she'd added more and more—until she ended up looking like some kind of monster.

She laughed maniacally. That black sludge-like substance was still corroding her skin. After this battle, her body would probably be riddled with holes, her flesh housing freely roaming eyes. She'd have to wear special gear just to conceal the horror. But she didn't care.

In her eyes, this island was already counting down to its final moments. No matter how hideous she became, so long as she could stay by Vortigern's side when every last human here was wiped out, it would all be worth it.

Still, Aslan was a blacksmith. And when it came to the variety of equipment he carried on him, no one else on the battlefield could compare.

He slapped his other hand against a magical base layer at his waist. A shield sprang out instantly and transformed in midair. It morphed into the shape of a beast's head and bit down hard on the steel whip's end.

If the usual methods didn't work, then it was time for unusual ones. Methods that surpassed this era.

If this woman didn't truly possess future sight, if she was merely analyzing movement and magic flow to predict outcomes, then all Aslan needed to do was use technology beyond her comprehension. Even if she could see the motion and the trajectory of his mana, she'd have no idea what she was looking at.

Mana surged into the shield, activating its inner core. A surge of electricity traveled through the whip, rushing toward its wielder.

The current climbed up the steel whip and struck the woman, bursting from the top of her head. In an instant, her once-smooth hair was transformed into a frizzy, smoking mess—an impromptu vacuum electron perm. Even the countless tiny eyes swimming in the black sludge began to twitch and sizzle, some of them showing signs of being cooked.

"Ugh… cough cough…"

The woman dropped her weapon and dropped to one knee.

Aslan looked down at his fallen opponent and shook his head. What could he say? He hadn't even used the advanced heat weapons he had stored away. Were his opponents just weak these days… or had he simply become stronger?

"Let go of our commander!"

A foreign soldier nearby raised an axe and charged at Aslan. Without a word, Aslan shot him a cold glance. He flicked his blade upward—his holy sword sliced the axe in half, and blood sprayed into the air.

In the distance, a loud boom rang out. Melusine, wielding dual swords, had become a whirlwind of speed and power. Anyone who tried to approach Aslan was immediately blown away by her storm of violence.

What a joke. This was Aslan's battle. It wasn't some random mob's turn to interfere.

After casually dispatching an enemy, Aslan turned back. That single, fleeting glance and the way he looked at the fallen woman—cool, calm, and dismissive—began to overlap with the image of someone else in her mind.

Just like back then.