Vortigern stared at the young man before him, whose light-golden hair and pale-blue eyes stirred up a distant memory—the boy from his dream. So that was it. Had it truly been over a decade since then? Not only had that child survived, but he'd grown into someone so remarkable.
Time truly shows no mercy.
The boy he had long forgotten had now grown up, while his own appearance had withered into old age. But that didn't matter—this island was on the brink of destruction anyway. So what if he had grown old? With the island's power flowing through him, even in his aged state, who here could match him in battle?
"Aslan... That's your name, isn't it?"
Vortigern's pale golden eyes locked with Aslan's icy blue ones. The instant their gazes met, there wasn't the slightest trace of familial warmth—only coldness and confrontation. Of course, Vortigern had never expected that this child, long erased from his memories, would harbor any affection for him.
Aslan was mildly surprised that Vortigern had called him by name. He'd thought this so-called father of his had long forgotten him entirely, wiped him from mind and heart.
And honestly, he wasn't far off. If it hadn't been for that dream, this demon dragon wouldn't have remembered a son he had discarded ages ago.
Still, since Vortigern had remembered his name, Aslan wouldn't leave him hanging. He offered the old man seated on the throne a gentle smile—a smile that seemed to brim with innocence and filial devotion.
"I didn't think you'd still remember my name. I must apologize for taking so long to come visit you after all these years."
Vortigern looked at the boy's smile, and his posture relaxed slightly. He propped his head lazily against one hand, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint, almost indulgent smile.
For a moment, the atmosphere was strangely warm—as if this wasn't a dark, crumbling castle littered with rotting corpses, but a cozy reunion between father and son.
If a modern film director had witnessed this scene, they would've praised both men's acting—such skill, creating warmth between two people who shared absolutely no emotional bond.
Gawain, on the other hand, grew increasingly vigilant upon learning of their relationship. He'd never trusted Aslan to begin with. His king was far too kind-hearted—someone needed to bear the weight of cruel decisions for her. And Gawain had taken that upon himself, shaped by his own stern nature.
Artoria was also shocked. She had always assumed Aslan was a sibling—another child of King Uther, like herself. But to think he was actually the son of a demon dragon... It made sense now, why he had always kept his lineage a secret. With blood like that, the whole world would see him as an enemy.
Gawain's eyes stayed locked on Aslan, watching for the slightest sign of betrayal. Aslan's strength was comparable to theirs—if he and Melusine turned to Vortigern's side now, the Knights of the Round Table would be utterly wiped out.
The black pressure emanating from Vortigern grew heavier. The twisted shadow behind him began to resemble a ferocious, snarling dragon.
"Since you're my child, I'll say one more thing: Aslan, you have one final chance to choose your allegiance. Otherwise... even if my blood runs through your veins, I won't show mercy."
He had never intended to leave behind a descendant. So killing a grown child meant nothing to him.
Vortigern extended a hand toward Aslan.
"My blood flows in you. Even if this island is swallowed by darkness, you'll survive—perfectly adapted. That girl who travels with you... she's not human, is she? So no matter how this island changes, it won't affect either of you, will it?"
On this point, Vortigern wasn't lying. Whether this island sank into a hellish abyss for humankind or stayed as it was, it wouldn't impact Melusine or Aslan—not in the short term.
But Britain played a critical role in human history, especially during the Industrial Revolution. If the island was lost, there was almost no chance of restoring that historical trajectory—unless Aslan could recreate Britain from scratch, without occupying any existing land.
Even establishing a "New Britain" in Siberia could result in drastic deviations.
That was a gamble Aslan couldn't afford to take. Besides, he never held much affection for the so-called father before him.
So he drew his holy sword and pointed it at the man on the throne.
"Well then, Dad. I think we've caught up enough. Our heartwarming little family reunion... is over."
The smile on Aslan's face slowly faded. He couldn't convince Vortigern. Vortigern couldn't sway him. And the island continued to fall apart.
It was time to act.
"Let's begin the slaughter."
Vortigern's smile vanished. In the next instant, his gaze turned ice-cold.
"So my dear son has chosen his side, and even issued a challenge. Then what more needs to be said?"
He rose slowly from the throne, gripping his demonic sword. Black power surged into his body, transforming both his armor and weapon into pure, unrelenting darkness. Within that absolute darkness, all light seemed to vanish—so much so that even the radiance of Aslan's Sword of Glorious Victory was more than half-devoured.
This was a darkness that consumed all light. The stronger their sacred swords glowed, the more power the demon dragon could absorb.
Fortunately, three holy swords now shone in this hall. To weaken all three at once, Vortigern couldn't fully devour any single one of them. In a way, that was a small blessing—at least for now, the three sacred swords could still shine.
"So this is the limit of what I can absorb... No matter. If I kill the wielders, then their swords will never shine again."
A cold grin curled his lips.
"As you said, my dear son—let's fight. Let's see if that absurd prophecy really can come true."
With that, Vortigern raised his demon blade and swung it forward.
Darkness surged like a tidal wave, swallowing the entire hall.