When night fell, the magicians set up alerts and defenses around the camp. Naturally, their own tents had the same or even stronger protections.
Aslan casually carved a few fairy words into a stone and buried it in the ground. Then he lay down in the tent, took out a game console, and started playing. Although there were no smartphones in this era, the simplest pixel-based handheld consoles had already appeared. Not as fun as future games, but better than nothing.
As for novels of this time... they were mainly classics. Despite the years, Aslan still recalled many plots and occasionally bought copies for review.
Fun always comes in waves—even for immortals. When he first arrived, Aslan had read novels for months. Though the games were simple, they still helped pass the time.
He didn't play for long before setting the console aside. As an immortal maintaining his physical condition for over 1,500 years—unlike a certain black-haired girl over 2,000 years old but with a bad back—keeping a good schedule was crucial.
Not long after everyone lay down, thunder suddenly rumbled across the sky, and a loud dragon roar echoed throughout the ruins, waking everyone. Aslan sat up and rushed out of the tent.
He was very familiar with that roar. Though he'd only heard it once before, he'd never forget it. Looking toward the ruins' town center, even under dark clouds and nighttime, every magician present could sense the scene.
The city was empty, as if nothing was happening. Then lightning and thunder roared, briefly illuminating the area.
Under the lightning's flash, the shadow of a giant dragon suddenly rose from the ruins. It spread its wings, raised its head and chest, and let out a mighty roar. It looked like a demon dragon breaking free from a seal; its dark golden eyes watched everything like a god.
When the thunder faded and the roar ended, the dragon's shadow vanished completely, as if it had been a mirage.
One magician rubbed his eyes in disbelief. They had heard the roar before, but this was the first time they saw a dragon's shadow in the ruins.
"I'm not dreaming, right? Did you see it?"
He stimulated his mind with magic to confirm—after all, at night, daytime thoughts often manifest in dreams. The recent stress made restful sleep difficult, so dreaming of a dragon wasn't impossible. But no matter how he concentrated, the vision before him remained unchanged.
Besides, if everyone entered the same dream, it would mean they were controlled. Aslan's mental power and soul strength far surpassed ordinary magicians. If he could be inexplicably pulled into a shared dream, then that magician must be among the strongest in the world—comparable to a heroic spirit.
Could it be Morgan studying dragons here?
What a joke! Morgan wouldn't bother researching dragons. If she truly wanted to, with her power, venturing into the stars or seas to find dragons wouldn't be difficult. Besides, he was Morgan's apprentice. Morgan could come to Aslan anytime to obtain private knowledge about advanced dragon species.
At that moment, lightning struck again. The dragon's shadow reappeared in the flash, roaring just as before—a replay of the earlier scene.
Though it's said lightning can imprint images on nearby stones under special conditions, Aslan had never seen it happen like this. And if it was merely a natural phenomenon, similar scenes should have appeared during previous storms. Why did it take so long for this miracle to show itself?
More importantly, Aslan could never forget what he saw. This was no illusion—this was the very scene from over 1,500 years ago when the White Dragon of this island manifested in true form, breaking through the dark magic seal, spreading its wings, and roaring!
Though it only flew once, the image lingered deeply in Aslan's heart. The winged, roaring White Dragon was his adoptive father. When everyone else considered him a great enemy, how many would remember him firmly after decades or centuries?
The strong body Aslan now possessed—a long-lived body—was given to him by his cheap father. He had the responsibility to remember his father's glory and image.
Aslan took a deep breath, staring intently. Time seemed to rewind 1,500 years. The area was a flat ruin from the White Dragon's wing spread. He wasn't fighting his cheap father alone then. It was also the glorious beginning of King Arthur's legend.
My goodness, Aslan thought. This isn't just trouble on my cheap father's grave—they're trying to drag him back out and whip his corpse!
His father had been dead for 1,500 years. Why couldn't he rest in peace? Why pull him back to this world? What hatred or grudge remained?
Aslan curled his lips. As a filial son, he couldn't just stand by.
He turned back into the tent, stuffed Melusine into the bag, lit a magic light, and ran toward the ruins' depths.
Seeing Aslan's sudden movement, the others hesitated. Sensing their uncertainty, Aslan waved sharply.
"I'm going to check it out. Don't worry—I'm capable of protecting myself. Stay here. Don't follow me!"
-End Chapter-
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