"Lord Vortigern… Lord Vortigern, congratulations! It's a boy!"
The voice stirred Vortigern's consciousness awake. Glancing around, he found himself in a room bathed in pleasant sunlight. Considering how everything had been corroded by darkness, such brightness felt rather out of place. The servants around him looked somewhat familiar, and the room's decor was of an old-fashioned style. Only then did Vortigern realize—after such a long interval, he was dreaming again.
"Lord Vortigern?"
Hearing the voice beside him, Vortigern finally nodded. What had he dreamed of this time?
He looked down at the wrinkled little baby before him, then turned his gaze to the woman lying in bed—who had just survived the ordeal of childbirth. Her eyes, filled with greedy longing, locked onto him. A faint smile appeared on Vortigern's face, though it was not one of joy—it was mockery.
A child? He had never harbored any desire to leave behind descendants. From the very beginning, he had no intention of having an heir. He was meant to be the dragon who would end this island. So what use was an heir to someone like him? This woman before him—was she trying to trade a child for greater power and favor? No, what he saw in her eyes was a hunger for power and wealth, devoid of even the faintest trace of love.
To be fair, he had treated this woman merely as a vessel for his desires. And she, in turn, viewed him as a tool for gaining power and riches. Was that not a fair trade? They had used each other.
Vortigern didn't dislike women with such overt ambition. On the contrary, he admired those who were bold enough to display their desires without concealment. But it was precisely such undisguised human malice that further cemented his resolve to destroy this island.
Since this woman wanted more power and wealth, then he would give it to her—let her see how far her ambition would carry her down the path of destruction. Wasn't it just another entertaining play to pass the time during his long, empty years?
Dance, clown.
As for this child… it had been born, so he might as well raise it. Perhaps it would prove useful one day. He could afford to keep an extra life around. Moreover, perhaps due to a premature birth, the child was unusually quiet, not crying or fussing. Whether this little thing could even survive was still uncertain.
Vortigern pushed open the door and walked down the corridor. Time seemed to flow rapidly in that moment, and the surrounding scene began to shift quickly.
"Big sister, over here! Come catch me! Ah—!"
Someone bumped into Vortigern. He looked down and saw a blonde-haired boy rubbing his forehead. Not far away, a maid came running over in a panic, bowing repeatedly as she apologized.
"I'm terribly sorry, Lord Vortigern! I wasn't paying attention while playing with Young Master Aslan. Please forgive us!"
Vortigern looked at the child with light blonde hair and heard himself speak:
"When did a brat like this show up in my castle?"
So that's what he had said back then. Thinking about it, it made sense. Someone who never cared for offspring wouldn't bother remembering them either. Even if he had a child, it could be discarded like trash. Judging by the boy's age, many years had clearly passed. That wrinkled little thing from before had actually grown up.
"Lord Vortigern… Young Master Aslan… is your child."
As for the child's mother—she had long since perished under the weight of her ever-growing greed. Vortigern couldn't even recall her name or face anymore. All he remembered from that earlier scene was her eyes—eyes filled with manipulative emotion. Her features were already fading in his memory.
The child and maid before him now were similarly vague, though the boy's light blonde hair and pale blue eyes stood out clearly in his recollection.
Vortigern remembered. The events that followed were still etched faintly in his mind. After the maid spoke those words, he had grabbed the boy by the head and lifted him up. The pain made the child cry, but Vortigern had only looked at him with curious interest.
"My child, huh?"
He couldn't even recall how the child had come to be. But back then, he had brought in a group of outsiders and was wondering how to win their trust. This conveniently dropped-off child turned out to be the perfect solution.
"If he's of my blood, I'll take him."
Amid the boy's sobs, Vortigern had dragged him into the darkness.
In the present, Vortigern—seated upon his decayed throne—slowly opened his eyes and raised his head. He flexed his stiff arms.
"Truly memories buried deep in the mind… Am I getting old? To be remembering that child of mine…"
That was the only child he ever had. He didn't have zero memory of him, but it wasn't vivid either. If he recalled correctly, one of the foreign races he had taken in once told him the boy had escaped the camp and fled into the forest.
So that child should have died long ago, buried somewhere among the trees.
Why had he dreamed of that now?
Under the influence of the island's power, his dreams were never without meaning. Could it be that his dear child hadn't died after all? Now that would be surprising. But this island was already doomed to destruction. Even if someone told him now that his child was still alive, what of it?
Footsteps echoed again in the castle's corridors—noisy, with the sound of armor clanking. Clearly, the subordinates who had vowed to bring him King Arthur's head had failed. Not that it was unexpected. With the soul of the Red Dragon present, it would've been a joke if Arthur had been so easily defeated.
Vortigern sat up slightly straighter. Since they had come this far, they shouldn't think of leaving again. Let them all remain here.
The great doors of the throne hall creaked open once more, letting in a breath of supposedly fresh air—though even that was tainted by the black mist.
Artoria, along with those familiar knights always by King Arthur's side. Vortigern didn't bother to give them a second glance. Compared to last time, it seemed there were a few new faces as well.
After sweeping his gaze across the group, Vortigern finally fixed his eyes on Aslan.