"Impossible! This is impossible! This is the power of the island—power akin to that of a god! Why would it turn on me just because of your words?!"
The look on the old magician's face was almost comical as he stared at the dark power of the island now turning against him. He had spent most of his life studying it, eventually concluding that the island's energy was the power of the White Dragon. Without his family's unique magic, he would have had no means of condensing or even accessing it.
Even if the power of the island had diminished over the course of a thousand years—no longer what it once was and now only a remnant—it should not be something a teenager could control with mere words. Unless... the boy standing before him was much older than he appeared.
Raising his staff, the old magician forcibly redirected the energy, dragging the attacking island power back into his wand. Even then, the force writhed violently, desperate to break free and strike him down. Gritting his teeth, the old magician exerted every ounce of strength he had, barely managing to suppress it.
Narrowing his eyes, panting, he examined the youth before him more closely. Could it be that this boy was an antique? A sorcerer who had disguised himself in youthful form? After all, some magi did possess such techniques.
But then he saw it.
The old man's dim eyes—still tinged faintly with gold—met Aslan's gaze, now transformed, golden from the power of the island. As a descendant of a family of dragon scholars, the old magician could not be mistaken. He knew exactly what those golden eyes meant.
Despite his age, he prided himself on his memory and meticulous nature. Otherwise, how could he have discovered the ruins of White Dragon City? He distinctly remembered that the youth's eyes had been blue before. There was no doubt.
Golden eyes—awakened only when dragon blood boils. Only a pure-blooded dragon, or a hybrid within two generations of one, could develop such a trait. And not just any dragon—it had to be an extraordinary specimen. Creatures like pterosaurs, even as hybrids, would result only in grotesque mutations.
Among the wyverns, only the rarest and most powerful of Black Dragon Kings possessed golden eyes. Most wyverns were diluted offshoots—tainted mixtures of pus and blood. At least, that's how they appeared to Aslan. Ever since his own dragon blood had awakened, those lesser creatures were beneath notice.
Rather than pursuing wyverns for their hides and fangs, one might as well forge a tooth oneself, smelt it, and temper it with human blood to create something far stronger.
"You're a dragon half-blood?! And not just any—you're a high-level half-blood?! How is that possible?! How can high-level dragons still exist in this world?! No... With blood this potent, you must be an ancient relic who survived from ages past!"
The old magician trembled with excitement. He couldn't decide whether to feel fear or awe. This being—this youth in form only—must have lived for centuries. Judging by his effortless control over the island's power, the magician stood no chance against him.
But... it was still a dragon. A high-level half-dragon. If this youth were to die, his body—rich with dragon blood—would surely revert to draconic form. And if the magician could study that corpse... then perhaps he could become the greatest sorcerer in his family's history. A true master of dragon mimicry magic.
Maybe he could even contend for a title of renown—something previously beyond imagination.
But all of that hinged on one thing: he had to kill Aslan.
Was that possible?
Absolutely not.
Even if Aslan stood still and let him attack, the old man would be unlikely to even scratch his neck. His strongest technique involved the island's power—painstakingly condensed—but even that could not harm Aslan.
Aslan sighed and raised his hand. There was no point continuing this farce. The old man could die now. For one, this was the resting place of his 'cheap' father. For another, Aslan was still concerned the magi outside might force their way in, worried for his safety.
They would only get in the way. Worse, if this old man revealed something they weren't meant to know… would Aslan be forced to silence them all?
The island's energy before him, though far from what it had been a millennium ago, was still useful. It couldn't replenish the vial he carried to keep his blood boiling, but it could be condensed and offered to his dragon, Melusine. With it, she could achieve a temporary physical restoration.
The effect might be short-lived, but it would be enough to participate in a Holy Grail War.
Aslan extended his palm toward the magician, aiming directly at the staff's core. As he pulled his hand back, the island's energy within the staff grew increasingly unstable, like a feral beast gnawing at its leash. Finally, with a thunderous roar, the force broke free—like a small black dragon—twisting in the air and sinking its fangs into the old magician's throat.
The magician hadn't expected that Aslan could command the island's power so precisely from such a distance. And in the end, it was the very energy he had dedicated his life to mastering that devoured him.
Poetic.
Even if Aslan hadn't existed, the magician wouldn't have lived much longer. The power of the island was not easily tamed. This place—where the White Dragon had fallen—still bore that legacy. Outside these ruins, the energy would have exploded from his control, killing him instantly.
-End Chapter-
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