As a foreigner, a child born of a race that glorified bloodshed and combat, this female leader had grown up bathed in blood, joining her kin in slaughter even as a young girl.
Gaining the loyalty of outsiders like her was never going to be an easy feat for Vortigern. In the eyes of these foreign races, all natives were either to be slaughtered or ruled. Even Vortigern was no exception to this perception—this mutual hostility was the starting point for both sides.
Thus, beneath the veneer of courteous smiles, a deadly duel commenced—part jest, part brutal reckoning—that would determine the relationship between them.
"Even if you were the one who brought us to this island, if you want us to obey, you'll have to prove yourself, won't you? You can't expect us to shed blood and die for you just because you say a few words, can you?"
That single sentence marked the beginning of a duel in the grand hall.
The woman's father—then the mightiest warrior among them, ruler of half the island—challenged Vortigern in a battle that would decide who held dominion. It was a duel from which only one could emerge alive.
Both bore smiles throughout the fight, but they held no warmth—only cold, ruthless intent to devour the other.
Needless to say, blood was spilled across the grand hall, staining the dimly lit castle with a grotesque cruelty. The surrounding cheers were abruptly silenced. Yet, the man standing in the center of it all—clad in black armor, wielding a demonic sword—remained completely unfazed, as though nothing in the world could move or anger him.
Blood dripped from the demonic blade onto the carpet, and the man only glanced sideways, expressionless. His gaze, his bearing, his aura—these were etched deep into the girl's memory and remained with her to this day.
As a child of warriors, this woman had always revered strength. Perhaps it was from that very day that the figure of Vortigern became indelibly carved into her heart. Perhaps, from that day onward, her soul, her nature, her everything began to twist.
And now, it was as though that scene had come alive again before her eyes.
The boy standing before her… there was no mistake. This boy couldn't possibly be closely connected to King Arthur. No, this boy… he had to be related to the king her soul revered—Vortigern.
"Who are you?! Who are you really?! What is your connection to that king?!"
The woman ignored the pain racking her body. Even though every word she spoke sent black mist and arcs of electricity flashing from her mouth, she no longer cared. All she wanted was to know the truth—what connection existed between Aslan and the light engraved into her very soul? To say there was no relation would be the real lie.
Aslan raised the holy sword in his hand without emotion. In that moment, just like the man she once called her father, the woman felt as if she were standing face-to-face with her god. It was as though Vortigern himself stood before her. Dying here, by the hand of someone so deeply linked to her faith—was that not, perhaps, an acceptable fate?
Aslan's holy sword fell, cleanly severing the woman's head—now a frizzy, explosive mess—from her shoulders. He then casually flicked the blade, and the cold indifference on his face slowly faded away. Without that chilling expression, no one would immediately associate him with Vortigern.
Looking at the corpse lying at his feet, Aslan muttered softly, "My relationship with Vortigern… if I had to say, I'm just in a hurry to deliver a big present for Father's Day."
Not that the woman, now without a head, could hear the answer.
Not far away, his dragon once again stirred up a storm, hurling masses of soldiers into the sky, each one marked by a deep sword wound. With so many comrades dead, and their leader slain, the enemies gathered here no longer had any will or reason to fight.
Even so, many had been driven mad by the corrupt power of this dark island. For such ones, a clean surrender was no longer possible.
Aslan had no choice but to raise his sword high and command, "The enemy general is dead! All forces—eliminate the remaining enemy troops!!"
The soldiers of Camelot who had followed Aslan here let out a rousing cheer. Their strikes only grew fiercer. Over the course of this campaign, Aslan had thoroughly won them over. Though they had not forgotten that they were Arthur's soldiers, more and more of them were beginning to take on Aslan's form.
With one side's morale soaring and the other reduced to frenzied beasts, the scale of victory tipped irrevocably.
Seeing the soldiers charging in, clad in the familiar armor of Camelot, Gawain finally breathed a sigh of relief and turned to his king. "Your Majesty, our reinforcements have arrived."
Artoria, seeing the knights, also let out a soft breath and gave a small nod.
Finally, she could go hunting—to improve their meals a bit. Hiding for days and subsisting on Gawain's mashed potatoes was getting tiresome.
Well… just a little joke. Truthfully, Artoria was curious—who exactly had led these cavalry forces here to reinforce them? She knew her knights well. Other than those stationed back in Camelot or accompanying her, none of the knights at the front lines had the audacity or initiative to act so boldly.
As the soldiers surrounded Aslan and brought him before Artoria, Gawain was the first to step forward, shielding his king. He pointed the now dimmed Sword of the Sun at Aslan and Melusine.
Gawain had not forgotten how these two had deceived him, nor how decisively they had defeated Camelot's defenses. That defeat had driven Gawain to double his training and hone his strength.
He had sworn he would never suffer such a failure again. Yet, when he had stood before Vortigern—the evil dragon that had destroyed the island—he had still been soundly defeated, without suspense.
Seeing Gawain's posture, Artoria gently shook her head and patted the armor on his shoulder.
"There's no need for hostility. I know this one."