To entrust a nation's fate—its very right to choose a ruler—to a single sacred sword... this was something Aslan had never experienced before.
After all, in his past life's homeland, while there were things like the Imperial Jade Seal or the Nine Tripod Cauldrons said to symbolize state power, what truly mattered was the ethos of "Heaven rewards the diligent; a noble man strengthens himself unceasingly."
Throughout five thousand years of Chinese civilization, during the age of great floods, they weren't granted an ark from the gods—they dredged the rivers, channeled the waters eastward. Fire was not stolen from the divine realm—it was born from the friction of wood. When they fell ill, they didn't plead with gods for healing—they traveled across the Nine Provinces, tasting every herb to find cures. That was the way of the Eastern people.
So, Aslan couldn't quite understand why, in times of darkness, this land chose to pin its hope on a king selected by a sword, instead of struggling to change things through human effort. As the saying goes: Man proposes, Heaven disposes. One must first do all that one can, then leave the rest to fate.
But just because he didn't understand it didn't mean Aslan was opposed to this way of thinking.
In his eyes, even if Britain had splintered into warring fiefdoms with many petty kings, and even if foreign invaders were at the gates, one could still rally, bit by bit—conquer, unify, and gather strength. A single spark could ignite the whole island.
Right now, on this isle of Britain, the noble knights were competing to become king, while the common folk placed their hopes in a king yet to come.
And because all that hope was pinned solely on King Arthur, it was perhaps inevitable that Artoria would eventually meet such a tragic end.
Aslan couldn't help but ask himself—if he were not an outsider to this world, if he were a true lord or the son of one, what would he do? He would likely gather every knight and ally he could find, center his power in his own lands, and mobilize the people to begin rebuilding.
One must first secure the interior before repelling invaders!
Even before Arthur appeared, he could provide the people with a relatively stable life. While Arthur was off campaigning against the White Dragon, he could take the opportunity to expand his own influence. And perhaps, through early reforms and stabilization, win the hearts of the people—even more so than the distant and aloof Arthur.
At that point, he might seize the throne of Britain without spilling a drop of blood.
Wasn't he just an ordinary person? Then let him shout: "Why shouldn't heroes and lords come from humble birth?" Even if the path would be much harder, he wouldn't know his limits unless he tried.
But… this was all just a passing thought.
Because this wasn't just any world—it was the TYPE-MOON world.
And in this specific moment of history—the twilight of the Age of the Gods in Britain—things were far too delicate for him to stir the pot so carelessly. If this were just a normal Arthurian legend, he might dare. But in this world, it was best not to mess around.
Aslan shook off the thoughts crowding his mind and began to envelop the holy sword before him with his own magic, sensing the method by which it was forged, the blessings granted by the fairies, and trying to analyze the materials from which the sword was made.
If he could learn enough, see enough, then one day, Aslan could replicate this sword—or even forge one that surpassed it many times over.
Then, gripping the hilt tightly, he closed his eyes and began to focus intently. In that moment, moved by subconscious habit, he gently tugged and twisted the sword—just like he would when inspecting any other object.
And it might have been nothing if he hadn't moved—but once he did, it scared him half to death.
Eyes still closed, Aslan suddenly felt the sword shift ever so slightly in response to his touch. A faint clack, a slight creak, the sound of stone scraping against metal.
There was no one else around, and the place was deathly quiet. But the three people present were far from ordinary. The sound of the holy sword scraping against stone was instantly caught by both Merlin and Melusine.
Melusine raised a brow and asked instinctively,
"Did that knight's sword just... move a little?"
Merlin still wore his signature smile, but a bead of cold sweat slid down his temple. Gripping his staff tightly, he took a deep breath, then tried to act casual as he turned to her. With his free hand, he waved it lightly and said,
"Impossible. You must be imagining things~"
There's no way the sacred sword would acknowledge the White Dragon's child…
Merlin tried to ignore the ominous sound he'd just heard, silently reassuring himself that the sword would only choose the one who inherited the Red Dragon's will—Arthur. Artoria. As the daughter of Uther, the previous king, she should be the one most qualified to be king.
But it wasn't just Merlin who was rattled. Aslan, too, instinctively opened his eyes the moment he heard that subtle sound. His hand on the hilt loosened slightly, his eyes filled with disbelief.
You've got to be kidding me. Even if his name sounded vaguely like Arthur, he wasn't this world's destined King Arthur! If he really pulled out this sword meant to choose a king, wouldn't that make things very awkward?
But the hot-blooded recklessness of youth surged up in him. Aslan found his hand drifting back to the hilt.
Maybe it was the shock of hearing that sound, maybe his mind hadn't recovered its calm yet—but one stray thought struck a nerve:
Should I… just try to pull it out for real?
His body moved before his brain could stop it.
Gripping the hilt tightly, he pulled upward with force. The sound of metal scraping stone grew louder and more distinct.
Under Melusine's curious gaze, Merlin's stunned silence, and Aslan's own blank stare, the Sword in the Stone—the Golden Sword of Assured Victory, the Sword of Selection, the sword that chose kings—actually came free from the stone and landed in Aslan's hand.
"我#!"
A burst of profanity escaped Aslan's lips in his native tongue—something crude from faraway Eastern lands. Melusine and Merlin didn't understand a single word of it, but the emotional weight and intent behind it… they understood perfectly.
Looking at the sacred sword in his hand, Aslan's dazed mind suddenly cleared. In the next instant, he reversed his grip, aimed the blade at the very crevice from which it had come, and shoved it back in.
The entire motion was crisp and seamless—completed in just under two seconds.