Chapter 67: What Does Your Search for Arthur Have to Do With Me?

"STOP THEM!" the woman howled. "Stop the reinforcements at all costs! Either King Arthur dies here… or we do! There is no third option!"

Why?! Why had help arrived so soon?

She had planned everything so carefully. Wanted only to spend these final days at her king's side before the world was swallowed in darkness.

Now all of it was unraveling.

Frantic, she ordered wave after wave of soldiers to hold the rear—but the sounds of battle only grew louder.

Why?! Why are they so strong?! Are our men just this useless?!

She seethed.

"Keep pressure on Arthur's line! If she escapes, I don't care if the world ends tomorrow—you'll die today!"

With that, she turned and stormed toward the rear, lashing aside monsters and soldiers alike. Her one eye burned with madness.

And then she saw him.

He was tall. Blond. Radiant.

For a moment, she froze.

That face—she knew that face. She had studied the portraits. She had kept them hidden in secret albums, memorizing every line.

It was him.

Arthur.

He'd set a trap. The real King Arthur hadn't been trapped at all—this was a pincer maneuver!

But fine. If fate delivered Arthur to her, then she would simply kill him here.

She charged.

"GO TO HELL, ARTHUR!"

Aslan's holy sword clashed with her barbed whip midair, sparks flying. He raised an eyebrow at the one-eyed madwoman glaring at him.

A woman, again. Not surprising.

The whip was good—strong, flexible—but he could already feel its weakness. It wouldn't take many strikes before it snapped.

And what did she just call him?

"Arthur?" he muttered, annoyed. "Let me be very clear. I'm not King Arthur. I don't even look like her. I am Aslan Pendragon. That's P-E-N-D-R-A—whatever. Point is, wrong person."

Her rage boiled over.

"You DARE lie to me?! You look just like the portraits! Different armor, maybe a different hairstyle, but don't think you can fool me!"

Aslan sighed, brushing back a bloodied lock of hair.

These portraits really need to show height or eye color better, he thought. And if Artoria ever cuts her hair short, it's over.

He narrowed his gaze. All playfulness vanished.

Battle was no place for distractions.

Maybe it was the white dragon's blood inside him, but when he wished, Aslan could become colder than ice. He inhaled slowly, drawing the corrupted power of the island inward.

No—he wasn't his father. He couldn't command the island like Vortigern. But he could still channel its energy.

Gold flickered in his pale blue eyes.

The woman recoiled.

For the first time, fear entered her heart.

Those eyes… they reminded her of him.

Of her king.