Melusine, Become my Noble Phantasm!

Not every Knight of the Round Table wielded a holy sword, nor did all possess extraordinary strength. As the oppressive darkness engulfed the hall, relentlessly washing over them, Kay's sword began to show signs of decay despite his stubborn resistance.

Seeing this, Aslan stepped forward to stand alongside Artoria at the forefront of their forces. The Sword of Contracted Victory and the Sword of Glorious Victory gleamed as they combined, piercing through the black void of the hall like a spear.

Melusine, relying on her superhuman physique, charged fiercely at Vortigern, who stood unmoving before his throne. The two swords clashed directly with Vortigern's pitch-black magic sword.

To Melusine's shock, the man before her wielded power rivaling a dragon. No—he was a dragon. Though in human form, the faint but unmistakable scent and aura of draconic power clung to him.

He did not send her flying, but he interrupted the torrent of darkness erupting from his demonic blade.

Artoria glanced back at the knights behind her, admitting silently that despite their strength—and some surpassing even her skill—they were powerless against the dragon before them. Only she, the Red Dragon, and Aslan, the White Dragon's son, could stand in his way.

Strictly speaking, this was a war of dragons. Without draconic power, one could not intervene.

"As expected of you, stubborn Sun Knight Gawain," Vortigern sneered. "Your light cannot fully contain me. Gawain, take the others and retreat—go aid those monsters ravaged by this island's power, who continue their relentless assault here."

Gawain hesitated, clenching his teeth. Though his king did not finish his sentence, the meaning was clear: despite their might, they were no match for the dragon head-on.

They were powerful knights, but not dragon warriors. Without the king and Aslan standing firm, they would be nothing but dust.

I still cannot fight alongside the king, Gawain thought grimly.

Artoria did not view Gawain and the others as burdens, but she was never good at expressing herself tactfully.

Much like the widening rift between her and Mordred, she understood Britain's harsh fate. To inherit the throne was to inherit endless calamity.

She had been forged into a king by relentless training and the weight of duty since childhood. Mordred, an artificial man, lacked the essential education and spirit of kingship.

Yet Artoria said simply, resolutely, "Though you are my sister's trick, and indeed my child, I will not acknowledge you nor entrust the throne to you, Mordred. You lack the qualities of a king."

At that moment, Artoria must have felt some pity for this artificial child. How long could a life forged by dark magic endure? And still he bore the endless disasters of kingship.

This child was both her blood and her people. In her heart, Artoria wished for his happiness—but now was not the time.

Gawain ignored the king's words, refusing to let them poison his mind. Yet Artoria's conviction left a small mark in many hearts.

Vortigern turned sharply and kicked Melusine's swords aside, forcing her to retreat.

He nodded at the departing knights, then fixed his gaze on Artoria.

"So, you finally understand: no matter how many ants swarm, they cannot harm the dragon—just as my minions cannot touch you."

His wild laughter echoed, sharp and cruel.

"Likewise, your followers cannot defeat me! Come, Arthur! Aslan! Now the real fight begins!"

With that, Vortigern charged down from his throne, swinging his magic sword.

At the same time, black stains on his other hand compressed rapidly—the island's power condensing into a weapon.

Facing three foes, one weapon was not enough.

His demon sword clashed with the faintly glowing holy sword. The battle was like flames flickering in darkness—fragile, unstable.

Artoria gripped her sword tightly, barely holding back the black energy.

Meanwhile, Aslan met the blow with the Sword of Glorious Victory. Gritting his teeth, he absorbed the dark island power flowing along the blade to bolster his strength.

When he realized he could just barely hold off his cheap old father one-handed, Aslan reached to his chest and drew the Spear of Destiny.

"Dad, I've prepared many surprises for you!"

The pendant-like spear expanded rapidly into its full form. Silver-white and etched with fairy runes, it clashed crisply against the magic sword.

Sacred light and life energy blossomed outward.

"Bring light to this place! Bring miracles! Let the holy light descend—[Spear of Destiny: Illuminated by Light]!"

Aslan thrust the holy spear toward his cheap father's neck, releasing a surge of life and glory.

-End Chapter-

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