The old magician opened his arms wide, and flames erupted violently from beneath his feet. When his eyes opened again, they no longer showed the weariness of age but instead glowed a fierce red—like blazing fire. It was clear these were magic eyes, and closely tied to the element of flame.
As the magic eyes flared, the flames around his body burned hotter and hotter. The once slightly humid air inside the castle rapidly dried, growing oppressive and arid.
Not having a Magic Eye doesn't greatly limit a magician's potential, nor their quest for mastery. Look at Morgan—or the patriarch of the Thousand Worlds Tree Family in another realm. But possessing the right Magic Eye can elevate a magician's abilities significantly. For this old magician, his Magic Eye perfectly complemented his fire magic and affinity.
Fortunately, it seemed to be a simple elemental enhancement type. If it had been a Magic Eye that could peer into the past or glimpse the future—like those in the Magic Eye hierarchy, capable of planting attacks in the past to detonate in the future—it would have been far more troublesome.
Of course, Aslan had no illusions that these magicians could wield the feared Mystic Eyes of Death Perception—those rare hybrid abilities born from the Mystic Eyes of Transformation and the Pure Eyes of Fate.
If such eyes existed in this era, surely he would have heard of their godlike power by now.
Shaking off the thought, Aslan remained unmoved despite the rising heat around him. To be honest, if it weren't for his cheap father having been defeated by King Arthur in legend—and the desire to prevent these soldiers from pestering him again—he'd rather take Melusine and get straight to the heart of the matter in a proper Type-Moon-style act of filial piety.
After all, the best tactic is to catch the leader first.
Though he could not yet dispose of his cheap father, the young puppet master behind the scenes was rising. As long as he could eliminate the general and the old magician, the endless interruptions by soldiers and magicians would cease.
Then, he could focus on studying magic and forging techniques in peace.
Aslan knew he and Morgan were different people. One day, they would part ways—maybe tomorrow, maybe next month. Before that day, he needed to master all the skills he desired—not to be a master of everything, but enough to continue deep research once Morgan was gone.
Every moment spent fighting was a moment wasted.
With this resolve, Aslan's expression grew colder, his light blue eyes tinged now with gold.
Because of the familiarity he sensed from Aslan, the alien general watching him finally realized why this young man felt so familiar. Those golden eyes, the subtle look between his brows—there was no mistake!
But the realization shocked him deeply.
The general knew King Vortigern had placed his child in the military camp to assure the outsiders' loyalty. The general had met that child once—a child similar to this young man but with a very different temperament.
More importantly, the general had never believed the child would survive after fleeing into the forest. Even if not devoured by wild beasts, the child was not expected to grow into someone so outstanding. The king himself had assumed his cheap child died in the wilderness.
No matter what, the king's children had not been properly cared for. That was a fact. Yet the king chose to forgive those responsible—and because of that forgiveness, the outsiders quickly surrendered. This incident was a key reason why the king now ruled half the island: strength on one side, and mercy on the other.
But the child before him—the cold expression, the temperament—was far too similar to the king himself. If the general traced the king's youth, he'd find no great difference from this young man.
"Melusine, just deal with him directly. I know you can."
The order sounded crisp, clear in Melusine's ears. She felt no resentment, for this was exactly how things had been since their contract began. She was Aslan's dragon—his wings, shield, and sword.
So what was wrong with returning to her duty?
Besides, being occasionally ordered around by Aslan was something she secretly enjoyed. For once, the weaker one led the stronger, breaking the usual hierarchy of dragons being revered by the powerful. It gave Melusine a different kind of pleasure.
As for the rebels fleeing the island, neither of them cared. So no one else was going to argue.
Melusine had long wanted to teach these soldiers and magicians—who constantly disturbed their peaceful lives—a proper lesson. If Aslan hadn't insisted on honing his own combat skills against lesser foes, she could have eliminated them the moment they appeared.
"I quite like this armor," Melusine said, sword pointed at the old magician's neck. "So I'll finish you quickly! I'll sink you with my cold, sharp blade!"
Through the shimmering steel, she saw the old man—his body already sliced in half by her sword.
The old magician said nothing, but began compressing a fireball in his hand. He sensed the girl before him was no mere mortal. But so what? Even if she were a favored elf's human or fairy servant, she would never be a match for an immortal like him.