Melusine, Become my Noble Phantasm!

The journey back was heavy with silence. With rebellion raging in their homeland and their soldiers still weary from the long campaign in Rome, quelling the uprising seemed a daunting task.

While King Arthur hurried toward Britain, Gawain—still recovering from his injuries—heard that Lancelot intended to aid the king in suppressing the rebellion. Stubborn as ever, Gawain dragged his barely healed body onto the road where Lancelot would pass, resolved to stop the traitorous knight.

In Gawain's eyes, Lancelot had betrayed King Arthur and was unworthy of returning to him. The black stain he left on Arthur's life was indelible, and forgiveness had already been granted once. Yet here Lancelot was again, shamelessly coming to the king's side to stir unrest.

Of course, this was all Gawain's own judgment. If Lancelot ever met Artoria again, she would likely just smile and nod. "You're here, Sir Lancelot. It seems we can fight side by side once more."

Artoria never took the scandal between Lancelot and Guinevere seriously. Her forgiveness was born more from her woman's heart than royal duty, and the two had since become friends over time.

During the return, Artoria discussed battle strategies with her companions. Though she didn't care whether Aslan joined their council, many knights did not want this somewhat unfamiliar royal family member privy to their combat plans.

For die-hard knights of the Round Table, if King Arthur's reign fell into disgrace after this war, the one who would benefit was this young royal member.

Firstly, Aslan was legitimate royalty. Secondly, his strength rivaled the king's own. Finally, there was no scandal attached to him—and he was undeniably a real man.

Aslan did not attempt to explain himself. His position was no longer on the same plane as these knights. Besides, thanks to Merlin's contract, no one yet knew that pulling out the king's sword was not a feat unique to Arthur—but also to him. Would these suspicions affect him? Not in the slightest.

As they neared the British coast, the atmosphere aboard the ship grew heavier. The soldiers' expressions darkened. Their bodies still ached from Rome's brutal battles, but their loyalty to the king forced them to steel themselves.

Kay stood at the ship's front, sword in hand—a steadfast figure and the earliest knight to follow King Arthur. His presence bolstered the morale of every soldier.

The lookout shouted that many enemy troops already guarded the coastline. Landing there would inevitably spark a breakout battle.

Kay inhaled deeply. This was expected, and he vowed to lead the charge.

Though not the strongest of the Round Table, Kay was determined to drag the enemy from the shore and open the way for the king.

Lucan and Bedivere prepared to rush back to Camelot alongside Arthur but knew they would face Mordred's forces at the Hill of Camlann.

As they approached land, an overwhelming hail of arrows rained down.

Aslan activated a shield from his magic suit, blocking the volley. Kay raised his own shield and charged forward, sword swinging, shouting, "Raise your shields! Prepare to break through and clear the path for the king!"

Aslan and Melusine followed close behind.

This was war. Blood stained the sea red; even the sandy beach turned crimson.

Aslan narrowed his gaze, following Artoria as they broke through the shore and pushed inland.

Passing through a forest, Aslan caught sight of a figure clad in black, her veil fluttering—long golden hair glinting in the wind.

Morgan?

Aslan frowned and signaled Melusine to leave the main group and pursue the figure. But the woman turned and disappeared into the forest's depths.

Despite pushing his speed, Aslan could not catch her and frowned deeper.

The figure stood ahead, as if she could always stay just beyond reach.

But now Aslan did not chase.

He simply stared, an uneasy premonition prickling within: this was not Morgan.

"Melusine."

At his command, Melusine surged forward, faster than light itself, closing the distance instantly.

But the figure vanished—an illusion.

Who else could wield such a trick, but to block Aslan from interfering with Altria and Mordred's fate?

King Arthur will find peace in letting go after all this. Isn't that better? The one who can grant him release is not you, Aslan Pendragon.

Her black hair brushed her neck, her red eyes flickering with complex humanity—and coldness. Her black dress clung to her slender frame. She stood there, yet was absent from any true perception.

Have you achieved your goal? she whispered. There is indeed a legend here of a forger who can craft a sword rivaling elven blades. Paladins appear on the continent. This outcome is the best possible. Even if you send them to Avalon, they will still sign contracts with me, restless.

Better to let them become heroic spirits, living out their original fates, than to trap them in centuries of regret in a Avalon—let them go as heroes.

-End Chapter-

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