Perhaps due to the mysterious origins of his bloodline, Aslan had long since discovered that his intuition was unusually accurate. Maybe this was what they called the "Pendragon Instinct"—along with the infamous family trait of the ahoge, the silly strand of hair, came the inherited sixth sense.
Fortunately, this inherited ability wasn't a flaw. In fact, it had helped Aslan tremendously. After all, in such a dark and perilous age, danger was everywhere. Without this vague but reliable instinct, his escape from the surveillance of those foreign invaders back then wouldn't have gone nearly as smoothly. Nor would he have realized that a certain sly old bastard had been secretly watching him all along.
Grateful for this ability that had aided him so much, Aslan chose to keep trusting it. Even if it didn't seem very scientific—well, as the saying goes, the end of science is mysticism. Besides, it had practically become a skill of its own. How could it not have some real foundation?
Aslan did his best to slow his breathing, hiding himself completely within the surrounding darkness. At the same time, his hand rested lightly on the forging hammer beside him. If things came to a head, he could act immediately.
A shadowy figure quickly moved through the corridor ahead. Judging by the clothing revealed beneath the dark cloak, this person clearly wasn't a noble or commoner. Although Aslan had never met a magus of this era before, his instincts told him with certainty—these were magi. Magi of this age.
But something about them didn't quite match what he had imagined. Since when did magi start dressing like assassins? The black cloaks, the close-fitting outfits, the daggers and various tools in their hands—everything about them screamed covert operations. These magi were walking while seemingly discussing something among themselves.
Their heavy Roman accents made it impossible for Aslan to understand what they were saying, but he had a hunch. If he followed them, he'd get closer to his goal.
The annoyance he'd felt earlier from dealing with the lord's daughter was quickly cast aside. Aslan waited until the magi left his field of vision, then quietly crept after them. With his limited magical ability, the only way he could tail them was to stay out of sight entirely.
Meanwhile, in another luxurious guest room, Morgan had yet to dispel the magical aura around her. She lightly tapped her fingers against the table, her staff placed to the side, deep in thought about everything she had seen that day. She tried to suppress the notion that Aslan might be the future King Arthur. Though it was their first meeting, Morgan had already picked up on a certain cold detachment in Aslan's attitude toward certain matters.
If someone like him were to become king...
She clenched the pendant hanging from her necklace, then sank into thought again. From his appearance—light blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and that unmistakable ahoge—everything pointed to his lineage. And of course, if that boy weren't part of her family, how could her necklace have reacted so strongly?
That boy also had a dragon following him. As someone who had once made a pact with a dragon, Morgan knew such a person was destined to have their name etched into legend. The only question was whether that boy would allow the dragon to reveal its true form.
Still, despite being accompanied by a dragon, that boy didn't have Merlin—the court magus—by his side. If he truly were the next king, Merlin wouldn't have left him to fend for himself. After all, a king who hadn't matured yet could easily meet an early end.
What's more, Morgan hadn't detected any trace of the Sword of Selection on him. There was no way that Golden Sword of Assured Victory was hiding in that tiny space on his chest.
Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. That bastard Uther had another child besides Arthur? Just how many siblings had that man secretly fathered? Who could have guessed that after his death, Uther's legacy would unravel like this?
If Aslan could hear Morgan's thoughts right now, he'd surely shake his head. How had his supposed cousin suddenly decided his father was someone else entirely? He was the son of the White Dragon—what did he have to do with that old bastard Uther?
Morgan got up and paced the room for a while. After a moment's consideration, she set the pendant on the table and began pouring a large amount of magical energy into it. That boy didn't seem like the true Arthur reincarnated, so she would check the others of the bloodline. No matter how deeply the king was hiding, comparing them all would eventually reveal the truth.
As power surged into the necklace, the dull gemstone began to project a dim light outward. Aside from the bright spot near Morgan herself, she waited for other points of light to appear. But before the full map could manifest, Morgan suddenly released the pendant and grabbed her staff.
The window in front of her shattered with a boom. One of the magi from the continent stood there, staff in hand, flames coiling around his body like fiery snakes, writhing and hissing. With a gesture, the snakes of fire surged toward Morgan.
Morgan let out a cold snort. She hadn't expected anyone to dare attack her here in Britain. Who were these people? Were they after her because of that supposed King Arthur who had already gained the support of magi? Or had that old bastard Vortigern sent these men?
No magus would try to kill another without good reason—unless they were on radically opposing magical paths, had stolen inherited secrets, or... unless this was a Holy Grail War.
With a swift motion of her black staff, dark flames burst outward like a flock of birds. The flaming snakes summoned by her enemy were instantly scattered, and the black fire engulfed the enemy magus entirely. His screams echoed through the entire castle a moment later.
That scream was like a signal—the sound of a shattered cup heralding chaos. Other magi burst from the darkness one after another. One even raised an axe and smashed the door to Morgan's room wide open.
This was the Middle Ages, after all. In a way, it made sense that magi were a bit... barbaric when they fought.
"So, you're the witch Morgan. We have no personal grudge against you, but for the sake of our future, you must die here!"
Morgan raised her hand, clenched her fingers—and with a flash of red light, something was wrenched from a magus's chest. It was as if his heart had been crushed.
"Ridiculous."