Placing the fate of an entire country and the legitimacy of its king in the hands of a sword—this was something Aslan had never encountered before.
In the land of his past life, relics like the Jade Seal or the Nine Cauldrons did exist, but they symbolized authority rather than granted it. True legitimacy came from action. Heaven moves with strength, and the noble strive constantly for self-improvement.
Across five thousand years of Chinese history, when floods ravaged the land, it wasn't divine intervention that saved the people—it was man who dredged the rivers, guiding their flow to the east. The flames of civilization weren't stolen from some god's temple, but sparked from wood with blistered hands. And when illness struck, people didn't kneel and beg for miracles; they chewed bitter herbs, one by one, to learn what healed and what harmed.
So, to Aslan, placing a nation's hope on a sword—no matter how golden or sacred—felt absurd.
But just because he didn't understand it didn't mean he rejected it.
Even in a fractured Britain, riddled with petty kings and looming foreign threats, he believed it was still possible to unify. You could rally allies, empower the common folk, light a fire in the hearts of a few—and from that, a flame to consume the entire island could rise.
Now, noble knights competed for the crown, and the people clung to the legend of a king who had not yet come. And Arturia—beloved, burdened Arturia—would one day carry the weight of that expectation to a tragic end.
Aslan couldn't help but ask himself: if he'd been born here not as a bystander, but as a nobleman—what would he have done?
He'd have summoned his friends and knights, fortified his own territory, and focused on lifting up the commoners. Before facing enemies abroad, he'd bring peace and prosperity at home. Then, when Arthur rose and conquered the White Dragon, Aslan's people would already be strong and loyal. When Arthur faltered—as legends said he would—perhaps then the people would turn to him.
Perhaps he wouldn't need a drop of blood to claim the throne.
So what if he was just a commoner now? Didn't the saying go: "Why can't the son of a farmer be a general?" You never know until you try.
...But these were just idle fantasies. After all, he was in the world of Fate, not a proper history.
And this was a turning point—one of those moments in history when gods fell silent and mortals were left to choose. It wasn't his place to disturb the course of destiny just because he thought he could.
Aslan shook the thoughts from his mind and turned his attention back to the golden sword before him. He let his magic seep into it—slowly, carefully—probing its make, its blessings, its forging process. He wanted to know what it was made of, how it was shaped, what kind of flame had kissed its edge.
One day, he'd forge something even better. One day.
Without thinking, Aslan's hand tightened around the hilt. His eyes were closed, fully focused. It was pure instinct when he gave the sword a gentle twist and tug—just like he did with every weapon he studied.
He didn't expect it to move.
But it did.
A faint click. The groan of metal grinding against stone.
The sound echoed in the silent churchyard. No birdsong. No rustling leaves. Just that noise.
Melusine's ears perked up. "Did… did the sword just move?"
Merlin's smile froze on his face. A bead of cold sweat slid down his temple. He gripped his staff like a lifeline.
"Nonsense," he said with a nervous laugh, waving his hand. "Must be your imagination~"
The Holy Sword wouldn't choose the Son of the White Dragon. It can't.
Merlin forced himself to ignore what he'd just heard. He kept repeating it like a mantra: The sword will only choose Arthur, the red dragon's heir. Arturia. She is the destined king. She is the one in my visions.
But he'd heard it. Aslan had moved the sword.
And Aslan? He snapped his eyes open, startled, disbelief etched across his face. His fingers instinctively loosened from the hilt.
No way. This had to be a joke. So what if his name sounded vaguely like "Arthur"? He was not the chosen king. He wasn't even from this world!
If he really pulled the sword free… wouldn't that mess up everything?
But then, something stirred within him—something reckless and young, the foolish loyalty and fire that all young men carry. His hand slid back onto the hilt.
And a stray thought slipped in before logic could catch it:
Why not try for real?
Before his rational mind could protest, his body moved.
He pulled.
The grinding sound grew louder, unmistakable now.
Melusine blinked, leaning forward in wide-eyed fascination.
Merlin was frozen, his pupils shrunk to pinpricks.
And Aslan?
Aslan stood there, holding the Sword in the Stone—the Golden Sword of Victory—in his hands.
"…I#!"
A sharp, explosive syllable slipped from his mouth. A word from the far east, unintelligible to the others—but the meaning behind it was unmistakable.
Merlin and Melusine didn't know what he'd said, but they understood the emotion: pure, unfiltered panic.
Then, without hesitation, Aslan turned and rammed the sword back into the stone with all the elegance of a man slamming a door after walking into the wrong room.
One clean motion.
Under two seconds.
Done.
No one spoke.
The holy sword shimmered faintly in the rock, as if it had never left.
Aslan stared at it, heart pounding, face blank.
What… what did I just do?