Chapter 64: Black Island

Depression. Terror. All that met the eye was endless darkness.

Though it hadn't left any lasting trauma, Gawain was deeply reluctant to recall the events of that day. It was a world without light, as if he had been cast into a bottomless abyss. Even the Sun Holy Sword in his hand had dimmed, as if the sun itself had been swallowed by the dark. Only when the overwhelming gloom slowly receded did he begin to see again.

The soldiers behind him, those who had followed him into the castle and charged at the evil dragon, disintegrated one by one in that suffocating blackness. Their metal armor melted, flesh turned to dust, and even bone was reduced to powder. One swing of the dragon's blade had annihilated them all—without even leaving bodies to bury.

The evil dragon hadn't granted them even that mercy.

Though their king had wielded both the holy spear and the holy sword, the dragon had the power of the island itself as reinforcement. Their king, on the other hand, was weakened—deprived of her scabbard. Perhaps, in that moment, even Artoria felt regret. When Merlin had asked her which was more important—the sword or the scabbard—she had chosen the sword.

Had she chosen differently, would things have changed?

Come to think of it, there was already a master blacksmith on this island. Even if the Sword of Contractual Victory had been lost, she could have acquired a weapon just as powerful as the one now wielded by Aslan. She could have saved the nation with a different blade. Why had she believed the sword was more important?

But there are no "ifs" in this world.

During the battle, there had been no time for second-guessing. But after realizing she could not defeat the dragon—could not even protect her knights in the aftermath—Artoria had no choice but to retreat.

Before falling back, Gawain glanced once more at the dragon. It stood tall and arrogant, wreathed in shadow, making no attempt to pursue them. To the dragon, the mission was already complete. The island would inevitably descend into darkness.

As they retreated, Gawain saw how the land had changed. Demon-like beings roamed freely, and even black fairies had begun to attack. Centered around the dragon's castle, half the island now resembled hell—a domain transformed by the dragon's presence.

During their escape, weakened and demoralized, it was mostly their king who carved a path forward. Now, resting briefly at a temporary encampment, Gawain bowed his head.

"We've only dragged the King down… We are ashamed beyond words. From this day on, I swear it will never happen again!"

Artoria, seeing her knight's despair, quickly helped him to his feet and shook her head.

It wasn't truly Gawain's fault. She had lost the scabbard. She had failed to endure. If she had only been more cautious, this disaster might never have happened.

"We'll think about the future later. For now, let's rest and regroup with the others. We'll need a new plan to deal with Vortigern."

Her teeth clenched as she stared out at the shadows crawling beyond the camp's perimeter. They had just fought back a wave of these black beings, and yet more were already gathering. Time was running short. If this had once felt like a simple subjugation mission, it now carried the weight of a countdown.

The current task felt heavier than any before. But the more oppressive the situation, the more they must remain calm. There had to be a way to break this deadlock.

Compared to Gawain and the others, it was Kay who felt the most anxious. As they moved deeper into enemy territory, the chaos they encountered only made things worse. Seeing the devastation wrought upon the land, the knights who had stayed behind couldn't hide their unease.

Their King was in peril. She needed aid—urgently.

But at the front of the group walked Aslan, the young knight who seemed far too calm for his age. His composure contrasted starkly with the experienced knights behind him. How could they, as official Knights of the Round Table, be so visibly shaken while this boy—barely more than a youth—remained unfazed?

What they didn't know was that Aslan, despite his calm exterior, was more anxious than any of them.

He simply refused to show it. Especially in front of strangers. Aslan was someone who hated losing face, who clung to his pride with stubbornness bordering on neurosis. If you wanted to defeat him, all you had to do was make him die of social embarrassment.

Of course, he would never allow that to happen. Aslan was extremely cautious about appearances. He wasn't the kind of person who would, say, leave behind a middle-school novel titled The Dark Knight in his personal library. (Not again, anyway!!)

With a flick of his wrist, he pulled the dagger from his waist and casually threw it. Midair, the weapon shifted, reshaping itself into a small missile before slamming into the nearby forest. A small mushroom cloud rose into the sky.

Years of experimentation had refined these disposable hybrid weapons. While most wore them as ornamentation—simple decorations or backup arms—they could be thrown or embedded, detonating with a surge of magical energy when needed.

Just imagine: you're locked in a sword fight, then suddenly your opponent's dagger morphs into a missile. What kind of chaos would ensue?

The decorative string on Aslan's waist held countless such failed or semi-successful prototypes—each a milestone in magical and technological integration. To the right hands, the pendant wasn't just a weapon but a legacy. With fluency in the Elven language, one might even retrace Aslan's research and resume his work.

Recently, Aslan had repaired all his damaged experimental artifacts. It was a small, selfish wish of his—that one day, if he met a worthy disciple, he could pass this pendant on.

After all, this was his life's research. If it could be inherited, all the better.

Aslan gently clenched his fist as the smoke cleared from the explosion, gauging the strength of the blast. It was stronger than expected. And that confirmed it—his body was still in excellent condition.