After realizing what he'd just done, Aslan not only shoved the holy sword back into its original position—he pressed it in hard. Originally, only a quarter of the sword had been buried in the stone. Now, it was halfway in.
Aslan quickly released the hilt, turned around, and took a few quick steps to Melusine's side.
I#####! What did I just do?!
Calm down. Stay calm.
You didn't do anything just now, right? You didn't pull out the Holy Sword. You didn't put it back in. Everything is exactly the way it was before. That's right. Nothing's changed!
"Okay! All done! I didn't pull it out!"
Aslan clapped his hands and nodded as if checking off a task. But behind him, the golden blade—now buried deeper in the stone than before—emitted a brilliant flash of light. Not just once, but repeatedly, like a child throwing a tantrum. It pulsed like it was complaining. Like it was scolding him.
Even Aslan, who tried so hard not to turn around, could feel its indignation in the very air.
As a blacksmith, Aslan had always been able to feel the moods of weapons—swords, axes, armor, even shields. He didn't need words. The Holy Sword's mood? Furious. Hurt. Betrayed.
We agreed your fate was with a girl named Artoria. So why did you fall for me just because I took a peek?
What happened to destiny?
I just wanted to understand you a little. Learn about you. I never meant to change your fate, or interfere in your story. But you grabbed my hand, and now you've completely thrown my life off track!
Merlin had his hand over his forehead, muttering spells under his breath in a desperate attempt to calm down. At this point, he didn't even care if he bit his own tongue from chanting too fast. He was this close to hyperventilating.
He deeply regretted ever suggesting Aslan "just try" to draw the sword.
Still, Aslan hadn't taken the sword for himself. He hadn't declared himself king. Maybe things weren't completely ruined. Merlin took a deep breath, then asked—more from pure disbelief than suspicion:
"Aslan… are you sure you're not Uther's illegitimate son?"
Aslan didn't dignify the question with an answer. He simply reached for the forging hammer hanging from his waist.
The hammer, gifted to him by the fairies, was far from decorative. It was heavy. Deadly. Merlin flinched the moment Aslan's hand touched it.
He was very aware that his skull wouldn't survive a head-on collision with that thing.
Of course, Merlin already knew the truth. Aslan wasn't Uther's son. He was the son of Vortigern, Uther's brother—the heir to the White Dragon's will. Illegitimate or not, that royal bloodline was undeniable.
Which raised a terrible possibility.
Did the Holy Sword just… agree with Aslan's vision for the country?
No. Absolutely not. It couldn't happen. Artoria's mission wasn't complete. The Knights of the Round Table hadn't even been formed yet. The Age of the Gods had to end with the red dragon and the white dragon. That was the fate of Britain.
Artoria had trained for this since she was a child—studying statesmanship and swordplay by day, and learning from Merlin in dreams by night.
She was the chosen one.
Not… Aslan.
Merlin tried to shake off the thought.
Meanwhile, Aslan pointed the hammer threateningly at the golden sword, voice firm.
"I can't become king. At least not until Arthur's story is over. I won't interfere with the path that's already been decided. So give up already."
The golden light faded. The sword quieted down. But even so, Aslan could still feel its lingering emotions—reluctant recognition, and a deep sense of grievance.
He groaned internally.
Just great. Now it's like...
Many years later, Artoria, now the new king, asked her holy sword: "Why did you choose me as the King of Britain back then?"
The Sword of Victory curled its metaphorical lips and muttered, "Just following orders. Now hurry up and die, okay?"
Aslan scratched his head in frustration.
He really had pulled it out. Even shoved it back in! If it were just between him and the sword, that would be one thing—but Merlin had seen it too.
And that was a problem.
Aslan could already feel the trouble brewing. That old bastard was bound to cause problems sooner or later. He could feel it in his bones. The future looked grim. Just thinking about it made Aslan want to dig out Merlin's smug eyes.
Merlin, sensing a sudden murderous intent, flinched. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He glanced around but saw nothing, yet danger lingered all around him.
Still, he was already planning ahead.
Killing Aslan outright? Out of the question. First, it was excessive. Second, he'd never win—not with the dragon girl Melusine at Aslan's side.
No. He needed another solution.
With a flash of light, a piece of parchment appeared in Merlin's hand. He began inscribing a magical contract in quick, elegant strokes.
"Let's sign a magical agreement," Merlin offered, trying to keep things light. "Until Artoria completes her mission, you cannot tell anyone you ever pulled the sword. Sound fair?"
Aslan looked at the parchment, then sighed with relief.
"Deal."
He signed quickly—then fixed Merlin with a deadly serious glare.
"If you leak even a whisper of this before it's all over, I'll chase you to the ends of the earth with Melusine. Avalon won't save you."
Merlin smirked, unconcerned. The contract was sealed. That was enough.
But just then—footsteps echoed down the path.
Merlin raised his staff and cast a concealment spell, shrouding the three of them in invisibility.
From the end of the stone road came a young knight-squire, blonde hair tied into a neat braid. She looked every bit the image of a devoted page.
But Aslan smiled knowingly.
That wasn't a boy. That was his cousin—the true chosen one.
The future King of Britain.
Artoria Pendragon.
The wind stirred.
Destiny had arrived.