For a long time afterward, Aslan and his companions wandered across Great Britain in their carriage—observing the customs of the age, studying magic, and forging weapons. Along the way, Aslan also began experimenting with the kind of arms he envisioned.
It must be said—this truly was the Dark Ages of Great Britain. There was hardly any scenery worth admiring. Everywhere they traveled, the roads were littered with refugees, all fleeing famine.
With the end of the Age of Gods and the rise in wars, the once-wild crops that had grown without human intervention began to decline in yield. At this point, the only thing keeping the population alive was the humble potato.
Very few knew how to cultivate anything else. After all, not every nation was born with agriculture embedded in its bones. If this era had known prosperity, Camelot wouldn't be serving mashed potatoes for every meal—even in the royal palace.
During this time, Aslan's group encountered multiple attacks from bandits. But they were mere rabble, incapable of posing a real threat. After all, the strongest witch, the most skilled blacksmith, and the fastest dragon in Britain were all traveling together.
Wandering knights and outlaws targeting this group were like old men tying their own nooses—were they simply tired of living?
As for the mainland magicians attempting to assassinate him, Morgan would often kick Aslan out of the carriage under the pretense of "testing his magical progress," and make him take the lead in combat. Of course, if magic wasn't enough, he was always free to use his forging hammer.
To the simulated personality piloting Morgan's body, this all served a dual purpose. Her original self had long planned to settle accounts with the old man Vortigern, and if a magician or patrol came from his faction, she was more than happy to strike first—or better yet, have the boy do it. Let that old man feel some pain.
For Aslan, these constant skirmishes proved useful. They accelerated his understanding of the magic Morgan had taught him. And since they'd been traveling throughout his supposed father's domain anyway, every clash felt like another twist of fate's gear. Vortigern's downfall was already sealed; taking action was merely aligning with destiny.
What Aslan didn't know was whether he'd caught the attention of those two little lolis again—the ones overseeing fate, Gaia and Alaya. He'd already veered off the predetermined path. Though his interference hadn't drastically altered the grand scheme, his involvement had saved Morgan from certain doom.
Still, he had to make it clear to the World—that ever-watching force of restraint—that he had no intentions of rewriting the entire timeline. Otherwise… if it decided to send an agent, well, he wasn't eager to face that.
As he looked ahead at a group of foreign-looking cavalry blocking the road, Aslan sighed deeply. Perhaps because they'd beaten back so many of Vortigern's troops, the local knights had started taking their little group more seriously.
This was the third cavalry unit to come looking for trouble.
Aslan looked down at the forging hammer he'd used so often. Honestly, it was getting boring to fight the same way every time. So this time, he decided to test a weapon of his own design—one forged from the combination of magic and craftsmanship. It was no longer accurate to call it a "holy sword" or even a "magic sword."
"Mystic code" wasn't quite right either.
The weapon was a dagger, forged from a dragon's tooth. Its blade was etched with elven runes, each one glowing faintly gold and pulsing with strange, magical energy.
In truth, carving so many runes onto such a small dagger made the item incredibly unstable. It could probably only withstand a single activation before becoming unusable. But that didn't matter—it was experimental. A first-generation prototype designed purely to test his ideas.
"You're going to fight us with that tiny dagger?" one of the knights scoffed. "You're underestimating us."
Aslan didn't reply. Silently, he gripped the dagger and pressed a small gem embedded in the hilt. He channeled a trace of magic into it. In that instant, the hidden runes ignited with platinum light, wrapping his entire right arm in an overwhelming glow.
When the light faded, his right arm was covered in something completely new—a mechanical limb resembling a mecha arm. It was massive—equal in height to Aslan himself—and intricately built. Glowing circuit-like lines, each engraved with magical text, traced down from his shoulder.
The arm wasn't entirely human in form. Dragon-like horns jutted out of the armor, and the "hand" resembled a dragon's maw. Aslan hadn't perfected the internal mechanics well enough to build full fingers yet, but that didn't matter.
Whether punching like a battering ram or tearing something open with the jaw, the damage would be devastating. Not to mention the hidden cannon embedded in the dragon's mouth.
Staring at the approaching knights, Aslan raised his massive right arm and opened the dragon's jaws. Magic surged within the cannon's core, charging until it cracked the ground beneath his feet with sheer pressure.
"Fire—!!"
The result was something between a dragon's breath and a beam of annihilation. A blazing tide of magical flame engulfed the cavalry, obliterating everything in its path. Originally, the magic was intended to pierce through its targets like a laser. But Aslan's lack of mastery turned it into a sweeping inferno instead.
Not that it mattered. When the flames died down, the enemy knights had been reduced to scorched corpses.
Looking at the cannon's barrel, which had been slightly charred from the excess magic, Aslan simply shook his arm. Apart from the muzzle, the rest of the mecha arm was undamaged.