Although Aslan's goal was to become a blacksmith who could rival the gods with mortal power in this era, he knew he couldn't just be a blacksmith.
If he hadn't learned that the British Sword Master couldn't teach him swordsmanship, perhaps Aslan might have swallowed his disdain for Merlin and shamelessly followed him.
"Hey, kid! Got something to sell? Why not sell it to us? We'll buy it at a fair price," came a voice dripping with malice just as Aslan was still pondering his future and waiting for a fish to bite his hook.
They turned toward the sound and were immediately hit by a strong stench—a heavy mix of sweat and alcohol. Aslan and Melusine frowned, covering their noses.
Though Aslan worked up sweat forging weapons, his close ties to the fairies meant he often bathed in their spring water and used their cleansing potions. Even when sweaty, he carried a natural scent of grass and forest.
But this was different—the scent told them these men hadn't bathed for a long time, and hadn't been in close contact with others either.
The knight in front of them still had a relatively clean face, but looking closer where his armor touched his cheek, Aslan could see patches of dried grime. The knight had only wiped the surface, and his beard was stained with wine and food residue.
This wandering knight was clearly drunk and emboldened by drink. His eyes lingered lecherously on Aslan's face and Melusine's form, and the disgusting smile twisting his lips said everything—he had other intentions.
Seeing the knight's wretched state, Aslan gave up on the idea of stripping his armor and stealing his horse. Judging by the state of this man, his warhorse probably hadn't been cleaned in ages either, and Aslan wasn't about to touch anything belonging to this filthy creature.
Great. On my first day back in the human world, I've already learned a harsh truth: nothing goes as planned. So, it's better to be cautious before speaking or acting.
Just now, he had hoped to make some extra money—but now, that was clearly impossible.
When the knight reached to grab his shoulder, Aslan calmly drew his forging hammer from his waist with his backhand. Magic runes faintly shimmered along the entire hammer.
Snap!
Click—!
The hammer smashed down on the knight's hand, shattering the armor and breaking bones with a sickening crack.
If it were just greed for money, Aslan wouldn't have acted so severely.
It was the filthy desire in that man's eyes that sickened him deeply.
"Ah...ah—! My right hand! My right hand—!"
As the knight screamed, coming back to the harsh reality of pain from his drunken haze, Aslan raised his forging hammer again.
There was no regret or fear in the knight's eyes—only hatred and rage.
It was no surprise; this was a man who had become a wandering knight, and likely a deserter. No knightly virtue remained in his heart.
In this era, when a monarch died, knights either died on the battlefield, pledged loyalty to a new lord to 'earn merit,' or entered a monastery to pray for their fallen king.
There were no other options.
Those who became deserters were despised by everyone.
Did these wandering knights truly imagine that when the competition of knights in the next city ended without anyone drawing a sword to choose a king, they themselves would rise to take the crown?
Ridiculous.
"Scumbags should know their place. Don't show yourselves in front of me!"
Aslan's hammer, charged with magic power, smashed upward with force.
Aslan was a blacksmith famed for forging legendary swords.
To shape rare materials, he had invented a technique: Mana Burst.
The hammer struck the wandering knight's jaw, shattering it completely, and sent him flying.
If Aslan wanted, that strike alone could have left a bloody mess—but he restrained himself.
Aslan's gaze swept over the other wandering knights trailing them secretly.
His icy blue eyes sharpened.
"Anyone with twisted thoughts, get out of here. Or do you want to test which is stronger—your head or the forging hammer in my hand?"
Some knights, sensing the threat, quietly turned and vanished.
"Aslan, where's the person who gave us the gift?" Melusine asked, her golden eyes wide with confusion.
Aslan sighed and shook his head.
"The gift is too dirty. If we take it, we'll get sick. So, no thanks."
Melusine nodded, though she didn't quite grasp what he meant.
But Aslan didn't want to burden his dragon with these terrible truths.
Meanwhile, in another forest on the British island, sunlight filtered through centuries-old trees, casting mottled patterns like shattered mirrors.
Deep within, a woman with platinum hair and gray-blue eyes stood before a fairy.
She wore a black dress, a black veil shrouding her face, and held a spear-like black staff.
The fairy, visibly frightened, could only say with a mournful expression, "The divination results you sought have come forth. The one who will unify this island in the future is Arthur, son of King Uther. And Morgan... you will be the cause of Great Britain's glory—and also its destruction."
At these words, the platinum-haired woman clenched her staff tightly.
Powerful magic burst from her body.