Although his goal was to become a blacksmith in this era capable of forging works that allowed mere mortals to rival the gods, he couldn't possibly remain just a blacksmith forever.
If not for knowing that the Sword Saint of Britain would never teach him swordsmanship, Aslan might have really swallowed his distaste for Merlin and shamelessly stuck by his side.
"Hey, brat. Are you trying to sell something? Why not sell it to us? We'll be sure to offer a reasonable price for it."
Just as Aslan was pondering his future while curiously waiting to see when a fish would take the bait, a voice filled with ill intent suddenly reached his ears.
Turning toward the source of the voice, a strong stench of sweat mixed with alcohol immediately hit him as he turned his head. Both Aslan and Melusin wrinkled their brows and covered their noses.
Though Aslan often broke into heavy sweat while forging equipment and weapons, thanks to his good relationship with fairies, he frequently bathed in fairy springs and even occasionally obtained fairy-made body cleansers. As a result, even after sweating, he carried a natural scent of wood and herbs.
But this—this overpowering body odor, clearly from someone who hadn't bathed in ages, was something the two hadn't encountered in a long while.
The knight in front of them, while his face was relatively clean, had visible grime around the edges of his armor where it met his cheeks. It seemed he'd only wiped his face during his rare washes. His unkempt beard was stained with wine and remnants of food.
This vagabond knight had clearly used alcohol to muster the courage to approach them. His eyes occasionally wandered across Aslan's face and Melusin's body. And when his expression twisted into a revolting smirk, it became obvious what other thoughts lurked in his heart.
Disgusted by this sight, Aslan immediately abandoned the idea of stripping the man of his armor and seizing his horse.
Judging by the state of this guy, his horse was probably just as filthy. Aslan had no interest in touching anything that belonged to such a vile creature.
Indeed, on this first day back in the human world, the events he'd encountered had taught him one thing: nothing in this world was likely to go according to his plans or expectations. From now on, he needed to be more cautious with his words and actions.
Take now, for example—he'd thought he could earn a bit of extra money, but clearly that was no longer an option. Watching the vagabond knight reaching out to grab his shoulder, Aslan instead drew the forging hammer at his waist. As soul power surged into it, faint fairy runes flickered across the hammer's surface.
Smack!
Crack—!
The forging hammer slammed into the knight's hand, easily shattering the armor and crushing the bones beneath. Judging by the sound, it was likely a comminuted fracture.
If this man had only been greedy, Aslan wouldn't have struck so harshly. But the filthy desire in his eyes had thoroughly sickened Aslan.
"Ah... aaah—! My hand! My right hand—!"
The vagabond knight, sobering from his drunken stupor due to the pain, cried out in agony. But Aslan raised his hammer once again.
Because in the knight's eyes, there was no fear, no remorse—only deep resentment and hostility. Not surprising. The man had already fallen so far as to become a vagabond; expecting him to still uphold knightly virtues was laughable.
In such an era, when a lord died, true knights would either die with him, serve a new liege, or retreat into a monastery to pray for their former lord's soul. Anyone who chose none of these paths—or worse, deserted—was nothing short of disgraceful.
Did these vagabond knights actually dream of joining the sword-drawing ceremony at the nearby castle after the great knight tournament ended and no one succeeded in pulling out the Sword of Selection?
What a joke. They were dreaming far too much.
"Trash should know its place. Don't show yourself in front of me again!"
The forging hammer, infused with soul power, rose from below and struck. Aslan wasn't just a blacksmith—he was a blacksmith who had already forged legendary swords. In order to mold rare materials into his desired forms, he had long since mastered Mana Burst during the forging process.
This upward strike crushed the vagabond knight's jaw completely, sending him flying. If Aslan hadn't deliberately held back to avoid a bloodbath, that blow would've easily cracked his skull like a watermelon.
Changing his mind, Aslan turned his head toward a group of people who had been sneaking along not far behind. His pale blue eyes grew colder. "Anyone with ill intentions, scram. Or would you like to test whether your skulls are harder than my forging hammer?"
The other vagabond knights who had been following him quickly vanished from sight.
"Aslan, where's the person with the gift?"
Melusin looked at him with golden eyes filled with confusion and curiosity. Aslan sighed and gently shook his head. "The gift was too dirty. If we took it, we'd get sick. So let's not take it, okay?"
Melusin nodded, though she didn't really understand what Aslan meant.
But in Aslan's mind, there was no need for his dragon to be troubled by such vile matters.
At that very moment, in another forest on the island of Britain, sunlight filtered through century-old trees, casting dappled light and shadows. Reflected like shards of broken mirrors, the light became all the more dazzling.
Deep within this forest, a woman with platinum-blond hair and gray-blue eyes stood before a fairy. She wore a black dress and a black veil, holding a black staff that resembled a long spear.
The fairy standing across from her was visibly terrified, his face contorted in fear. He could only stammer, "The divination result you asked for… it's done. The one who will unify this island is King Uther's son—Arthur. And you, Morgan… you will bring glory to Britain… and also its destruction."
Hearing this, the platinum-haired woman clenched her staff tightly. A surge of powerful magic burst forth from her body.