The huge wooden doors of the castle hall trembled under the relentless assault of a massive black wyvern. Among all the wyvern clan, the black wyvern was considered the apex predator—the top of the food chain. Cracks spiderwebbed across the once-sturdy wood, revealing just how little the heavy doors could withstand against these dragons.
Through the widening fractures, the shadow of the wyvern loomed dark and menacing, claws raking and hammering the wood without mercy. Apart from the lord's daughter and Morgan, every face showed the raw edge of fear. The castle, once a symbol of strength and safety, now felt more like a coffin trapping everyone inside.
The lord held his daughter tightly, whispering comfort in a trembling voice, "Don't be afraid. Your father will protect you. Even if only one knight remains, they will stand to the end for you."
The girl, nestled in his arms, rolled her eyes with subtle disdain—as if to say, Which eye of yours saw me scared?
Perhaps a twisted upbringing had drained her of emotions most girls naturally possess. Or perhaps, deep down, this girl was already slipping from human into something less so.
Ka-pah!
At last, the wooden gate gave way with a thunderous crash. The black wyvern let out a triumphant roar and spread its wings, preparing to storm inside and feast.
The scene was far more vivid and terrifying than any game could portray.
The soldiers guarding the gate raised their spears, armor rattling beneath the wyvern's oppressive presence. Yet despite their courage, their hands shook. Magic-infused armor couldn't fully protect against the claws of these beasts.
Just to put it in perspective, even in the early stages of the game, a critical hit from a wyvern's claws could shatter a caster-level support character with ease.
The wyvern looked down on the armored "ants" beneath it with disdain. Having just cracked open the "can," it had no interest in the soldiers' shell-like defenses.
Instead, its sharp gaze settled on the nobles inside the hall—dressed in finery rather than armor, the true "soft targets" without any shells to peel away.
With a flick of its tail, the wyvern sent a group of soldiers flying like ragdolls. Too lazy to bother with these slow, cumbersome "foods," it discarded them without a second thought.
Chaos erupted among the nobles. Panic seized them. Some tore off their jewelry and shouted, "Who will protect me? Who will save me?! Take these gems! This gold! Just get me out of here!"
One noble's desperate actions sparked a ripple of imitation. Others followed, stripping themselves of wealth in the hope that their riches might buy salvation.
But no knights came to answer their cries. Instead, these desperate displays curled some lips in scorn.
A few nobles, clinging to their pride, adjusted their clothes and composed themselves. If death was inevitable, they would meet it with dignity—perfectly dressed, adorned in their finest jewels, seated upright like royalty. Even if their bodies were broken, they would not lose face.
Several nobles calmly took their seats, raising wine glasses in a toast to their impending doom.
Yet beneath their composed exteriors, none were truly at peace. How many could face death so calmly?
Magic power began to stir within Morgan's body. She was poised to raise a protective barrier—but then hesitated. After observing the battlefield through her crow spies, she knew reinforcements were on their way to deal with this last wyvern.
Unbeknownst to Morgan, several shadowy figures cloaked in robes observed her every move. These mysterious men—mages from the mainland—had tracked Morgan's name, aiming to fulfill the tasks assigned by the old man Vortigern.
Morgan never expected a mainland magician to target her.
After all, this was Great Britain—her territory. No one dared stir trouble within her domain. As long as her name was known here, she was untouchable.
But precisely because Morgan was unique on the British Isles, these sorcerers had swiftly uncovered her disguise.
The wyvern roared once more—but before the sound could finish, a forging hammer came hurtling from a distance, striking the back of its head with brutal precision.
Bones cracked sharply. The once-arrogant wyvern rolled its eyes and collapsed.
Aslan summoned the hammer back with a satisfied smile. This beast's materials were far superior to those of previous wyverns.
Stepping onto the fallen dragon's body, Aslan knelt by its head and felt its faint breath. Without hesitation, he delivered a final, merciless blow.
His practiced strikes looked like he was dispatching an ordinary fowl. The nobles watching were caught between hope—seeing a chance for survival—and an unsettling fear at the ease with which death was dealt.
Just as Aslan began expertly knocking wyvern teeth loose one by one, the lord's daughter broke free from her father's grasp.
She walked toward Aslan with an elegant, surprised smile and a subtle, morbid gleam in her eyes.
"Hello, sir. Are you the famous blacksmith I've heard so much about? I would like to commission a special sword from you."
A flicker of greed danced in her gaze as she eyed the forging hammer in Aslan's hand.
Anyone wielding such a tool must have the skill to craft weapons beyond ordinary reach. In that thought…
I really want to lock him up in the attic and have him forge swords for me forever.