Chapter 65: Is There Anyone Who Loves Vortigern?

Perhaps it was the blood of the white dragon flowing through his veins, but the darkness covering the island seemed to strengthen Aslan rather than weaken him. In fact, if he chose to absorb the black mists saturating the land, his power would rise exponentially. But the cost… his appearance might be twisted, perhaps even reversed.

Aslan Alter? A black-armored dragon rider wielding a magic sword, a magic spear, and a magic dragon?

Even if things never reached that extreme, he knew such a transformation would invite hostility. And besides, Aslan didn't think he looked good in black armor. Sure, blackening might double his strength—but wasn't it too early to cross that line?

Still... if this black fog could empower him, then there was no reason to ignore it.

"Ah—!!"

With a sharp cry, Aslan swung the holy sword to his side. Magic surged from its edge, carving a glowing trench across the ground and cleaving through the corrupted fairies that had emerged from the forest. Once, he had been friendly with the fae. But now that they had fallen to darkness, he believed it kinder to end them himself rather than let them suffer any longer.

And this was only the beginning. While the earlier explosion from his thrown dagger—transformed midair into a missile—had cleared a wide area, the forest was vast. More corrupted fairies would surely follow.

"Everyone stay alert!" he called to the group behind him. "Remember: even if the next one that rushes out looks like your boyfriend or girlfriend, they're gone. The only way to free them now... is to take their head!"

At first, Aslan had only planned to say "girlfriend," but then remembered there were female knights in the company. And this was Great Britain, after all—so "boyfriend" it was. Equality in all things, even fairy slaying.

Besides, where he lived, male fairies didn't get much attention. The reason? All the female fairies had already set their hearts on him—Aslan, the untouchable moonlight in their night skies. No other male fae could compare. Better for them to leave and try their luck elsewhere.

If beauty was a sin, then Aslan was as guilty as they come.

Glancing around and seeing that none of the new enemies were particularly dangerous, Aslan dismounted. From his dimensional storage, he pulled out refined metal and a forging hammer, then began shaping it on the spot. The metal bent into the shape of a bottle, and as he etched fairy runes into its surface, the bottle began to draw in the black mist swirling around the island.

This miasma—thick, suffocating, like a tear in the world—was sucked into the container. Though he had already forged a cap with sealing inscriptions, Aslan didn't close the bottle.

Why would he?

The chance to absorb something that could boost his power while reversing his state of being was too rare to waste. The mist wasn't permanent—it was a consumable power source. The more he gathered now, the greater his edge in future battles.

If there came a moment when he was outmatched, he could pull out this bottle and drink deep. His injuries would vanish. His body would darken, and his strength would skyrocket—enough to catch even the most prepared enemies off guard.

Taking a slow breath, Aslan felt the surge of strength through his limbs. Satisfied, he rejoined the battlefield. Once they finished clearing the corrupted fairies, the unit pressed onward.

His advance—relentless and brilliant—soon drew the attention of Vortigern's followers. Though Vortigern was a demon dragon, it couldn't be denied: he had charisma. He'd drawn loyal followers, if only those with... somewhat unbalanced minds.

One such follower now stood before the rotting throne. Her head bowed respectfully as her king sat with eyes closed, silent and still—like a coiled dragon, radiating dread.

The aura around him grew darker, heavier with every passing hour. He was the one who would plunge Britain into eternal night.

"King," the subordinate reported softly, "we've yet to find King Arthur, but a new army approaches. Judging by their colors, they're under her command."

Vortigern opened one eye and yawned.

Why did people insist on struggling?

"Let them come," he said lazily. "They can rush in all they want… I'll kill them with a swing of my sword. If you want to intercept them ahead of time, do as you like. It changes nothing. This country is already fated to fall. From the moment I claimed this throne, that end was sealed."

The subordinate gazed at him with eyes full of rapture. Such overwhelming arrogance. Such utter conviction. It made her love him all the more. No man had ever seemed so distant—so unattainable. And that made him all the more irresistible.

Yes, this loyal servant was a woman.

At this moment, her blindfolded eyes lingered on the lazy figure lounging on the throne. Her expression was flushed, obsessed. She longed to bear his child, even if—no, especially if—it meant nothing to him. For the dragon that would destroy the land, she would sacrifice everything.

But Vortigern belonged to no one.

Not to love. Not to family. Not to kinship or friendship. His path was one of isolation. Of decay. Watching the world burn from his throne of rot.

Still, the woman's smile was soft and bright as she turned away.

"I won't let these intruders disturb your rest, my king. The fate of this land is already decided. They only need to wait—quietly."

Damn you, King Arthur!!

Her smile twisted into a snarl. Why couldn't Arthur accept the inevitable? Why cling to the foolish dream of salvation?

Why not simply let the world fall, and spend its final hours in silence... beside him?

Why can't you let me have this one thing?

"Why didn't your knights die under his sword like they should've?" she hissed. Her hands trembled. "No, calm down. Calm down. I must fulfill the king's wish... Yes... hehehe... that's right. I'll kill them all... I'll kill them all for you!"