Morgan didn't care what happened to the male knight she'd turned into a duck. The curse lasted only one day. When that time passed, he would reappear naked in the lord's kitchen—and undoubtedly face punishment from the lord.
If, by some unlucky twist, his head ended up chopped off and roasted as duck, well, that was his own misfortune. After all, he had offended a witch and placed his desires on her—any outcome would be deserved. And once dead, the curse would remain on his soul forever, so there was no need to worry about the taste of the duck born from a human.
Morgan didn't even bother to cast a spell to break the curse after death.
She raised her head again and fixed her gaze on the necklace in her hand. The time was almost upon her—someone bearing the same bloodline as Uther would arrive soon. Narrowing her eyes, she let her magic flow, connecting her vision to a crow scouting the area.
She didn't consider that because Vortigern and Uther shared blood, her necklace might detect Vortigern's son as well. Perhaps she never expected the old man to leave behind any descendants. After all, he'd left such a deep impression on the world.
Aslan arrived at the conference venue, and the boredom that had weighed on his heart vanished entirely. Endless repeats of levels and battles were endured only for moments like this—the joy after clearing them.
Everywhere he looked, exquisite swords gleamed. With a quick glance, Aslan discovered techniques he'd long wanted to learn.
Holding a sword, Aslan activated the ability gifted by the elves. Magic surged into his eyes, which flickered like stars. He scanned the sword's forging materials and methods, quickly absorbing its entire history.
It was a pity he couldn't read the abilities of the sword's previous wielders; otherwise, he'd already be a master swordsman.
Still, being able to study the forging and refinement techniques of such weapons was far beyond ordinary mortals. Thanks to his charm and the favor of fairies, Aslan had acquired many abilities normally exclusive to mysterious beings.
He wasn't ashamed of making a living by his looks. What was there to be ashamed of? Making a living by your face was a skill. Many had done it, some even gaining that talent from fairies.
Of course, calling it a "skill" might not be accurate—it was more like a blessing acting on his eyes. Aslan's eyes were now magical eyes.
Not the powerful, aggressive kind like the Distortion Mystic Eye, Death Perception, or Domination Mystic Eye—yet the perfect tool for a blacksmith.
Many forging methods were closely guarded secrets, but Aslan could now explore and learn them at will.
Without this gift, how could he, at his age, have forged a sword comparable to Arondight? The slow grind that other blacksmiths endured meant nothing to him; all he had to do was integrate the skills, knowledge, and experiences he had gathered.
One day, when Aslan mastered all these techniques and created his own style, he would surpass every blacksmith before him. In truth, he already had an inkling of his future path.
"Ah... How beautiful~ How white~ These gems are just the right amount of adornment—not too flashy, but adding a touch of unimaginable elegance. Truly worthy of praise," Aslan's voice rang out, joyful and sincere.
Don't get it wrong—he wasn't complimenting a beauty, but a sword. To a blacksmith, every weapon was like a person, and this sword was certainly a beauty.
Aslan held a sword encrusted with a multitude of gems, eyes gleaming as a rare, genuine smile crossed his face. This wasn't a weapon meant for battle but a ceremonial sword—used to display status or grace grand occasions.
Yet even so, the forger had been extremely meticulous. Ordinary ceremonial swords were fragile, but this one could still withstand battle. It was only slightly less durable than a sword forged specifically for combat.
Hearing Aslan's praise, the sword's young lord owner smiled proudly. As more people noticed the new blacksmith's uniquely insightful comments—and that he never erred—those wielding famous swords gradually gathered.
Some lords even sought to win over this promising young blacksmith. With such discernment, his future achievements would surely be extraordinary. Even if he needed time to mature, this was a worthwhile investment.
"Forger, could you please take a look at my sword?" a lord asked.
Cheerful as ever, Aslan gladly agreed. Turning with a proud smile, he said to himself: this wasn't a conference at all—it was heaven!!
"Of course! Oh! Although this sword lacks a blessing, its forging method is unique, and the materials are precious. It's a pity it was made by an ordinary craftsman. But if you're willing to pay, I can strengthen it for you."
Melusine watched Aslan, so happy among the crowd that his usual cold demeanor had vanished, and she covered her face with her hands.
At the same time, she couldn't help but feel a secret envy. She wished she could see that smiling face more often in daily life. Suddenly, she wanted to hide Aslan away, so only she—the dragon—could see him.
But no. Melusine didn't want Aslan to become some "unknown" blacksmith. If that happened, their time together would be limited to the span of their lives.
Pouting, Melusine decided Aslan owed her compensation tonight.
While pondering what she wanted, Melusine suddenly narrowed her eyes. Her gaze shifted to the distance, and she sniffed the air.
The stench of her own kind... so strong.