With a deafening crash, Perseus, gripped tightly by the throat, was slammed into the ground, carving a small crater into the earth. Yet Perseus was the son of Zeus, king of the gods, and the modifications to his mechanical body were far superior to ordinary divine constructs. Even after such a brutal impact, his body did not falter or malfunction.
Had it been one of the ordinary messengers of God, that single throw would have been enough. Aslan's strike would have sent currents surging through their systems, crumpled their shells, and short-circuited the delicate equipment within. Never underestimate the force of a fall against mechanical frames—the more intricate the construction, the more devastating the crash.
But Perseus was no ordinary envoy. Though careless enough to be thrown down, he reacted swiftly. His wings flared open, then clamped together like massive jaws, forcing Aslan to retreat.
Until he fully gauged the strength of that body, Aslan would not recklessly pit flesh against machine.
After all, machines are built to surpass humans in strength. With sound design alone, their power already exceeds mortal limits—let alone a body refashioned by the hands of gods. Even with flaws in construction, Perseus's divine machinery could still unleash terrifying might. Testing it head-on would be nothing short of foolish.
Aslan stepped back, shifting the holy spear into his left hand while his right drew the forging hammer from his waist. At once, the hammer expanded, swelling into a massive form. With a single swing, it crashed against Perseus's shield, the impact resounding with a shrill, grating screech as the hero's body shuddered under the blow.
Perseus clenched his teeth against the strain. How can such power exist in this age?!
He realized he had gravely underestimated the boy. That single lapse had spiraled into this dangerous predicament. But enough was enough. He would remind this child what it meant to face the son of Zeus. It had been ages since he last felt his blood burn with such vigor, not since the distant age when humans still gave rise to true warriors.
For a fleeting moment, Perseus almost welcomed it.
But no—his goal shifted. Raising his wings and twisting the burning sickle in his hand, Perseus abandoned all thought of merely pleasing his father. What he desired now was not Zeus's approval, but the boy's life—and the weapons he carried.
Only by casting aside all other concerns could he wield his full strength. And who else was more qualified than he, Perseus, to claim such power? Who else deserved it?
Aslan met the strike, spear against sickle. The force of the scythe was greater than expected, its power pressing down like a storm. A faint smile tugged at his lips. Finally… Perseus is fighting seriously.
If Perseus held back, Aslan's victory would have felt hollow, like bullying a child. But now? Now it was different.
To Aslan, Perseus held no nobility. He might be the son of Zeus, but Aslan was the son of the White Dragon—native to this Earth. Perseus, half-mechanical and touched by alien stars, bore "foreign" blood. Wasn't Aslan's lineage the truer, more precious one here?
And he was not alone. He had Melusine at his side—his partner, his Horizon Dragon. Exaggerated as it might sound, did that not make him, in a sense, the husband of a dragon princess? For Gaia's will, for the planet itself, was that not a nobler station than Perseus could ever claim?
Perseus shifted his footing, air bursting beneath him as he launched upward. The Boots of Hermes. From the sky, his confidence surged. Since ancient times, humanity had yearned for the heavens. Few had achieved it. But he—son of a god—was born to ascend. Even his great-grandson, famed though he was, never possessed such power.
From on high, Perseus dove. Scythe raised, he hurtled downward like a burning star, intent on cleaving Aslan in two with a single, decisive strike.
Aslan did not flinch. He calmly dismissed his forging hammer, steadied the holy spear, and prepared his holy sword to ignite at a moment's notice.
Steel and silver collided. Sparks erupted. Perseus's eyes widened.
Impossible. The sickle of the gods could not cut through this spear.
How? Unless forged by a god, no mortal weapon should resist it. Yet this one not only resisted—it shone with defiance.
The truth was simple. This holy spear had never been made of common iron. And once Aslan had claimed it, he reforged it, enhancing it with innovations beyond divine craft. His techniques—an evolution of godly metallurgy—were unlike anything in the records of Olympus. He was an outsider, a foreigner to this world, and his knowledge was alien to the gods themselves.
If they knew the truth—that Aslan's forging arts could birth an entirely new Mecha God given enough materials—they would covet him. Some might try to enslave him. Others would kill him outright.
But Aslan cared nothing for their ignorance.
Ignoring Perseus's disbelief, he twisted the spear in his hands. Power surged. A torrent of golden magic roared forth, crashing down toward Perseus like a divine flood.
-End Chapter-
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