After realizing what he had just done, Aslan didn't hesitate to shove the Holy Sword back into its original place—and not just that, he even pressed it down hard. Originally, only a quarter of the sword was embedded in the stone, but now it had sunk to nearly half its length. Then, Aslan casually released the hilt, turned, and walked a few steps to stand beside Melusine.
What the **** did I just do?!
Calm down. Gotta calm down!
I didn't do anything just now, right? I didn't pull out the Holy Sword, I didn't push it back in. Nothing happened. Everything's exactly like it was from the start. Yeah, that's right—nothing has changed!
"Okay, all done! It didn't come out!"
Let's not even mention Merlin's expression or what he was thinking. The Golden Sword of Assured Victory, which had been shoved not only back into place but even deeper into the stone, suddenly emitted a golden flash. It was like it was whining and protesting, almost as if it were loudly accusing Aslan of being an irresponsible scumbag.
Aslan, of course, noticed the flash behind him. As a blacksmith, he could sense the emotions of weapons and gear to some extent. But right now, he really couldn't turn around—no way. He even wanted to shout back:
Hey, weren't you destined for a girl named Artoria? So why, when I stepped in a little early expecting to be rejected, did you throw yourself into my arms?
What happened to fate?
I only wanted to touch you, understand you a bit—absolutely not to dig deep into your heart, interfere in your life, or alter the course of your destiny. But you grabbed my hand instead, throwing my life, my plans, my fate into chaos!
Merlin covered his forehead with a hand and quickly chanted a string of incantations to calm himself down. At this point, he couldn't even afford to enunciate properly—he risked biting his tongue, but he didn't care. Right now, Merlin seriously regretted ever suggesting Aslan try pulling out the sword.
Fortunately, it seemed Aslan had no intention of keeping the sword and proclaiming himself the chosen King of Britain.
Still reeling from the shock, Merlin couldn't help blurting out, "Aslan, are you sure you're not Uther's illegitimate son?"
Without thinking, Aslan drew the forging hammer from his waist. Seeing the tool, a gift from the fairies, made Merlin involuntarily shiver. His skull definitely wasn't as sturdy as that hammer. But it was just a mutter—Merlin knew Aslan's bloodline better than anyone.
The will of the White Dragon—Vortigern's son. Not openly acknowledged, maybe, but the blood was real.
Thinking about it carefully… Vortigern was Uther's older brother. That meant Aslan had royal blood, no doubt. So, the Holy Sword had acknowledged Aslan's ideals and vision for ruling the kingdom—even though he was not part of the foretold destiny?
But Aslan must not become the next King of Britain. Artoria's mission was not yet complete. The Round Table Knights hadn't even been formed. The Age of Gods on this island must end with both the Red Dragon and the White Dragon together. That was why Artoria had been in constant training since childhood.
By day, she studied governance and swordsmanship. Even at night, she continued to train with Merlin in her dreams.
Favoritism? Maybe. But Merlin admitted it: between Aslan, whom he'd met only a few times as a friend, and Artoria, whom he had raised and taught since she was little—he trusted the latter more.
Aslan held his forging hammer and, noticing Merlin shrinking back a bit, turned toward the still-glowing Holy Sword that had just been complaining.
"I'm not going to become king. At least not until Arthur's story ends. I won't interfere with the destined path or its conclusion. So just give it up already!"
Only then did the glowing sword finally fall silent. Even so, Aslan could still faintly feel its reluctant acknowledgment—and a trace of grievance. He couldn't help twitching at the corner of his mouth.
So this was how it would be?
Years later, as the new King of Britain, Artoria asks the Golden Sword of Assured Victory, "Why did you acknowledge me back then as the next monarch of Britain?"
The sword pouts slightly and replies with a hint of bitterness, "It was just my master's unfinished business, that's all. By the way, could you hurry up and get rid of me already?"
Just imagining it made Aslan run his fingers through his hair in frustration. He really shouldn't have tugged the sword so carelessly. It wouldn't have been a big deal if it had simply accepted him—that would've just been between him and the sword. But now Merlin had seen the whole thing.
Hopefully, the old bastard wouldn't try anything. Even if the geezer believed in him, he'd probably still keep an eye on him from now on. That thought alone filled Aslan with anxiety. He suddenly had the urge to gouge out that nightmarish eye!
Merlin abruptly felt a wave of danger. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He looked around but couldn't identify the source. Narrowing his eyes, he began contemplating how to handle the situation.
If he just got rid of Aslan outright… well, that might be going a bit too far. Not to mention, he probably couldn't beat the dragon traveling with him anyway.
With that, a piece of parchment appeared in Merlin's hand. He quickly inscribed a string of clauses onto it.
"Here. Let's sign a magical contract. Until Artoria completes her mission, you're forbidden from telling anyone that you ever pulled out the Sword of Selection. How about it?"
Aslan let out a visible sigh of relief when he saw the agreement. He swiftly signed his name and looked seriously at Merlin.
"If word ever gets out that I once pulled out the Sword of Selection—and it comes from your mouth before all this is over—I will hunt you down with Melusine to the ends of the earth. Avalon won't protect you."
Merlin smirked. He didn't think he'd spill the beans anyway. Now that the magical contract was sealed, he could relax a bit.
Just then, footsteps echoed from a short distance away. With a wave of his staff, Merlin cast an invisibility spell over the three of them.
A young figure in a squire's outfit approached from the end of the path. He had golden hair tied into a braid behind his head.
Seeing the child's true identity, Aslan curved his lips into a knowing smile. This wasn't some random boy—it was a girl. A genuine, flesh-and-blood girl. His cousin.
The one destined to draw the Sword of Selection and become Britain's new king—
Artoria Pendragon.
The wind rises—she has arrived.