"Well, it seems I arrived just in time. Planning to leave, are we?"
As the floral scent deepened, a slender figure appeared—stepping on blossoming flowers, wearing an elaborate white robe laced with nightmares. Petals clung behind his ears. His long, snowy-pink hair shimmered faintly, lending him the look of an aquatic spirit.
"Flower Magician Merlin~ Your beautiful big brother has come to visit his beloved…"
Yes. That Merlin—the court magician of Britain, sage and prophet of the age. He looked human, but lacked a human heart. What he cared for was not people, but the conclusion of stories.
To Aslan, he was a schemer, ever ready to fan the flames and push events along, just to watch the colorful drama unfold.
And someday, Aslan hoped, he would see this smug bastard regret it.
But for now…
As expected. I hate his face. First, I'll punch it!
Yes, Aslan had been one of Merlin's many pawns, manipulated in the name of prophecy. Still, thanks to that, he'd come to learn the truth about himself.
So as Merlin appeared, mid-sentence, Aslan's fist made a direct appointment with his face.
One beautiful man in this world is enough!
No wait—elves will never be slaves!
Ah… no, that's not it either.
Whatever. No excuses needed. Merlin was annoying, and he deserved a punch!
The mage spun three times midair, then crashed face-first into the dirt. His staff clattered beside him. A perfect imprint of Aslan's fist bloomed on his cheek like a rouge-colored flower.
Aslan exhaled with satisfaction. Yes. That felt good.
"Don't tell me you didn't know what I was planning," he said. "You, with your damned clairvoyance, watching Britain's fate unfold from afar. Are you here to stop me from entering the human world again? Like last time?"
He cracked his knuckles. "Back then, it may have saved my life. But thanks to you driving me into the forest, I met Melusine. You can't stop us now."
Merlin twisted on the ground like a dying caterpillar, finally managing to stand. His cheek was swollen. He rubbed it with something between theatrical sulking and robotic detachment.
Aslan never could tell if his reactions were genuine, or just programmed mimicry.
Either way, Merlin was still an ass.
"That's no way to treat an old friend," Merlin pouted. "I am close with your family, you know. You could even call me your big brother, and I'd accept it with open arms."
He dusted himself off. His tone still playful, but his expression had turned serious.
"Of course I know I can't stop you anymore. You've changed. I sensed that much already. Your story's diverging—far more exciting than I ever anticipated."
He stepped forward, staff tapping softly against the ground.
"I came only to confirm one thing. Your cousin—your blood relative—is about to draw the holy sword. And I want to know: are you going to help your cheap father, Aslan Pendragon?"
Aslan's expression darkened. This time, he didn't raise a fist—he reached for his forge hammer.
So Merlin's brain had rotted. Only someone with scrambled thoughts could ask such a ridiculous question.
"Merlin. Has not thinking for so long finally broken your brain? I'm seriously worried about what kind of education my cousin is going to get."
Help that bastard Vortigern?
His father was hated across Britain. The white dragon must fall to the red.
And his cousin—the red dragon—was adorable.
He? Help that decrepit old man?
That man had locked him up as a Saxon hostage to appease their alliance. Treated him like nothing more than an expendable illegitimate son.
Help him?
One day, Aslan would seize the white dragon's will—forge it into a weapon—or wings, so Melusine could fly again.
"That's a relief," Merlin said. "Only King Arthur can lead Britain to glory. As long as you don't interfere, things will proceed as destined. Aslan, the divine general of the isles, will vanish with the white dragon's fall, and the red dragon's death will close the chapter of mystery.
Do not try to stop it. Or else, we will be pruned from the world's branches."
With that, petals bloomed under his feet. Though he could teleport with a snap of his fingers, Merlin—ever dramatic—preferred a flourish of flowers.
Having confirmed Aslan's intentions, he saw no reason to stay.
After all, who in their right mind would hang around long enough to get smacked again by that hammer?