The old magician spat out a mouthful of blood. He looked at Aslan, confusion written across his face. Wasn't the power of the island supposed to be suppressed by the staff? That staff—passed down through generations in their family—was crafted from the bones and soul of a high-level sub-dragon. In their eyes, that creature already ranked among the higher dragon species.
Had their family not discovered it early and forged it into a mystic code before it matured, that dragon might have become a legendary being, remembered either through tales of a dragon or of a swordsman who slew one.
By their generation, they no longer possessed the power to awaken the staff's full potential. But they could still rely on it to suppress and track down dragon-related beings. With such a tool, the power of the island should have been obedient.
So what kind of bloodline did this young man possess?
Aslan jumped down from the stone ledge and approached, stopping just short of the old magician. Opening his right hand, he released the power of the island. It leapt forward like a wild husky, latching onto the old magician's neck, then bounded back to Aslan, tongue out, gleefully licking his fingertips like a dog begging for attention.
If the power of the island weren't composed entirely of pure magical energy, Aslan might have frowned and shoved its head away.
His eyes glowed gold, unnaturally bright and eerie beneath the storm-lit sky. Each lick of the magic beast on his fingers sent the dragon blood in his veins boiling, twisting his temperament subtly toward depravity.
At the very least, the confidence that now surged through him—fueled by the power's resonance—gave him a dangerous sort of arrogance.
"Surprised?" Aslan said, voice calm yet contemptuous. "To me, this is the natural outcome. It would've been strange if things hadn't gone this way. Anyone who can control the power of the island becomes its master."
He smiled slightly.
"Of course, you aren't one of them. You only borrowed a few tricks to forcefully command it for a short time."
His tone darkened.
"As for why it obeys me? Haven't you figured it out? I warned you—you could stir up trouble anywhere, but you chose here. That annoys me. With the Red Dragon slumbering, the White Dragon fallen, and the Son of the Island off wandering somewhere… I'm next in line to inherit the title of Island Lord, am I not?"
He gave a lazy shrug.
"Not that Morgan or I have any intention of taking the title. But still..."
Aslan glanced at the old magician, who was now using his staff to barely support himself.
He raised one hand. The power of the island transformed into a throne behind him. He seated himself with casual grace, resting his chin on his knuckles. Then, with a flick of his fingers, part of the magic coiled like chains around the old man's staff and wrenched it from his grasp, delivering it neatly into Aslan's hand.
The magician collapsed, staffless, onto the ground. More blood spilled from his lips. Aslan examined the wand, then tucked it into his personal storage.
Among his collection of mystic codes, this one was of decent quality. A pity the forgers had never drawn out its full potential.
Still, worth holding onto. If I get the time, I can enhance it myself.
Crossing one leg over the other, Aslan leaned forward. With the tip of his shoe, he lifted the old magician's chin, now kneeling before him.
Sitting on the conjured throne, Aslan truly looked the part of a villain.
"But you magi had better remember something," he said coldly. "Even if Morgan and I have no intention of claiming the throne of the Island Lord for now, that power—even a stray fragment of it—isn't something you're allowed to touch."
His smile widened. Magic flared around him, unleashing immense pressure. The old magician's knees buckled further. The sound of bones cracking echoed under the weight. Blood gushed faster from the wound on his neck.
When Aslan withdrew his shoe, the man's forehead hit the ground with a dull thud. His whole body trembled in submission.
Despite the pain, the old magician twisted his neck to look up. He'd heard three names from Aslan's mouth—Morgan, the Red Dragon, and the White Dragon. Legends all. If Merlin wasn't the connection… then who?
In Arthurian legend, there had been another. One who survived. The silver-haired girl who followed him, a dragon herself, hadn't appeared… but still—
They didn't always come together…
The old magician's gaze shifted lower, to the pouch at Aslan's waist. Inside, something glowed faintly—a pair of golden eyes.
"You're… Aslan Pendragon?"
How could that be? According to the legends and records, Aslan had long since departed for the Inner Sea of the Stars. Were those records… wrong?
Aslan tilted his head and replied with a smirk.
"Wondering why I'm here? If I hadn't shown up, you'd still be defiling my father's grave without anyone stopping you. Honestly, explaining this much is already generous on my part."
He stood from the throne. The power of the island condensed into a glowing orb, which floated gently into his palm.
Glancing down at the broken magician, Aslan waved casually, as though bidding farewell to a neighbor.
Then, without another word, he raised one foot—and crushed the old man's skull.
Afterward, he muttered a cleansing spell and wiped his shoe clean with a casual flick of his fingers.
Without looking back, Aslan turned and walked away.
At the outskirts of the ruins, a group of magicians stood waiting nervously. When they saw him, he waved off their questions and gave a brief explanation. Then he returned to his personal quarters.
As for whether they would collect the old magician's body, or if the Clock Tower would try to retrieve the magical imprint… it wasn't his concern.
Whether the Clock Tower was upright or corrupt, Aslan didn't care. If it was truly rotten, someone destined would appear someday to reform it.
-End Chapter-
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