Just as the soldiers and magicians were clearing the castle of all who remained, not far from the city, a panting horse finally arrived, dragging a weary knight behind it.
Balin sighed, glancing down at the warhorse he had borrowed from a local lord. He had never imagined the legendary blacksmith could run so fast—so fast that even this horse, given freely and without complaint, was near collapse. Still, Balin never stopped to consider how long a free horse could endure such torment.
"Huh? What's going on?" Balin narrowed his eyes as he looked toward the distant castle. A strange light shimmered around the fortress, like a giant crystal globe encasing it.
Realizing the gravity of the situation, Balin patted his horse's neck and took a deep breath. "Hold on, my dear, my love," he murmured. "Just a little longer, and once we reach the city, I promise I'll set you free."
The warhorse gave a weary blink—an almost human expression of doubt and exhaustion—as if to say, I don't believe you.
This horse had long since learned that Balin was a scoundrel who demanded too much from too little. Though not a cruel man, Balin's desperation often pushed his poor steed to the limits.
Listen, Balin! the horse seemed to plead silently. I'm dying here! I'm exhausted!
But the knight's commands were law to the beast, and with a final groan, it pushed on toward the castle—panting heavily.
—
Meanwhile, Aslan could no longer remain idle in his chamber. The sounds of battle, the cries of pain, and the unmistakable scent of blood told him that waiting quietly was not an option.
The best defense, after all, is a good offense.
Why waste time facing the enemy head-on when a surprise attack could shift the tide?
But Aslan and his two companions didn't act separately. They didn't know the enemy's strength or numbers—and it was clear these attackers intended to trap and kill them. Splitting up would only spell disaster, like a death flag in a horror movie. They were no seasoned heroes, reborn from countless swimsuits and near-death experiences. Every obvious trap had to be avoided.
Morgan clenched her palms, flames coalescing into three fiery crows. They took flight, scattering throughout the castle. At the same time, a veil of flames enveloped the trio's own eyes, letting her see through the fiery drones like living surveillance cameras.
Grasping her staff, Morgan scanned the soldiers and magicians below. Her simulated personality—an echo of the original—instantly recognized the attackers. These were the same enemies who had hunted the original self. Now, at last, she could exact revenge.
A flicker of joy lit Morgan's empty eyes. Her brow rose slightly.
Tapping the wall with her staff, black flames unfurled along the stone like tendrils, snaking into a narrow passage. Just as several soldiers and a magician stepped into the corridor, the flames erupted, swallowing the entire space.
The magician raised his staff, summoning a torrent of water to shield himself from the fire's wrath. But Morgan's black flames were no ordinary fire. They devoured everything, leaving nothing behind.
Moments later, several charred corpses tumbled from the passageway.
—
Elsewhere, a group of magicians floated on gusts of wind, carrying soldiers up to the castle's upper floors through a damaged section. Their plan was to sweep through the rooms above and crush all resistance.
But as they neared the breach, a massive hammer swung toward them—a forging hammer etched with countless fairy runes, wielded by Aslan.
The magician spread his arms defensively. A suit of magic armor, shaped like wings, unfurled slowly behind him, folding tightly like a shield.
In this age, flying warriors were dazzling and deadly. The magician, often airborne, prided himself on his defenses.
Yet he had gravely underestimated the forging hammer in Aslan's grip.
The hammer's runes were no mere decoration. They could soften the hardest of materials.
The moment the hammer met the magician's winged armor, the suit's nature changed. Cracks spidered across the wings, splintering rapidly.
With a thunderous strike, the hammer shattered the wings and smashed into the magician's head.
Struck with deadly precision, the magician collapsed unconscious. The airborne soldiers cried out in panic and plummeted to the ground.
Melusine poked her head out, surveying the carnage.
She shook her head, clicking her tongue. "Tsk, tsk, tsk… unreliable to rely on others for your fate. Now you understand. Be careful next time."
Her expression darkened instantly. The sword on her arm snapped free, and with a powerful swing, she cleaved an incoming fireball in two.
A faint dragon's roar echoed in the air as the searing flames split apart.
—
The old magician, unfazed, surveyed the three defenders calmly.
Then he gestured sharply to his remaining magicians and soldiers. They moved to isolate the trio, intending to defeat them one by one.
No matter the individual power of each, united, Aslan, Melusine, and Morgan were an unstoppable force—twice as dangerous as alone.
Aslan scratched his light-golden hair and exhaled deeply.
"If you think your small numbers can defeat us, you're severely overestimating yourselves."
His expression was cold, edged with anger.
The alien general behind the magician frowned at Aslan's familiar face. Something about the young man struck a nerve—a feeling of recognition that made the general uneasy.
Before he could speak, the old magician was already preparing to strike.