Aslan opened and closed his hand, testing the movement of the dragon-head gauntlet. The metallic jaws snapped shut with mechanical precision—sharp enough to tear through anything caught between them. Though the internal muzzle had sustained damage, the gauntlet still functioned smoothly. And even if it didn't, it hardly mattered. Aslan didn't need a long-range weapon to handle the likes of these knights.
He adjusted his stance. If they were going to fight, it would be up close and personal now.
Even damaged, the Dragon Fist Armor was lethal. During its forging, Aslan had inscribed countless fairy runes into the frame to drastically reduce its weight. For him, it felt as light as chopsticks. For his enemies, however, the weight had not changed—it remained as crushing as ever.
The knights before him hesitated, stunned by the weapon's transformation. Aslan gave them no time to recover. He lunged forward, his fist trailing the sound of rushing wind and the distant echo of a dragon's roar.
His first strike landed squarely on a knight's chest. The man's torso folded unnaturally inward, ribs shattered, blood spraying from his mouth. Though not pierced, his body was deformed beyond recognition. The sheer force of the impact left a dragon-shaped scorch mark etched into the earth beneath him.
Another knight, reacting just in time, raised a heavy shield inscribed with crude magical runes—a defense designed for mages. But in Aslan's eyes, it was embarrassingly primitive.
With a low growl, the dragon-head gauntlet snapped forward and bit down on the edge of the shield. Aslan funneled magic into the mouth of the gauntlet. At this range, precision was irrelevant. The blast erupted point-blank, overwhelming the shield's enchantments. The metal began to bubble and dissolve before the magic punched through, tearing into the knight behind it.
When the smoke cleared, only one knight remained.
The last man collapsed to the ground, his sword clattering uselessly from his trembling hands. He stared in horror at Aslan's weapon, eyes wide. "T-This weapon... How can something like that exist?! It doesn't belong in this world!"
Aslan chuckled, almost sympathetically. He understood the knight's confusion. To him, the weapon must've seemed like something ripped straight from myth or nightmare.
But this wasn't the future. Nor was it progress in the traditional sense.
"No," Aslan said softly, almost kindly. "It's not that times have changed. This is the Renaissance."
He traced his fingers along the armor's surface, a glint of pride in his eyes. "Long ago, during the age of the Olympian gods, such weapons existed. Back then, they were called divine tools—miracles, the powers of gods. All I've done is reforge that lost power in a human body."
Right now, he was only scratching the surface—this version of the gauntlet focused solely on offense. But eventually, he had plans to go further. He had his sights set on legendary constructs like the Trojan Horse. After all, what boy didn't dream of building a Gundam?
But he wouldn't stop at imitation. He would improve upon the myth—evolve it.
He grinned to himself. If I don't create a Justice Gundam in this life, wouldn't it be a waste of the name Aslan?
As the last knight tried to crawl away, begging and sobbing, Aslan merely shook his head.
"Please! Spare me! I won't—won't cause any more trouble!"
But Aslan's expression was cold now. If fear and apologies could resolve everything, this island wouldn't be drenched in conflict. Besides, he had no interest in letting a tiger return to the mountain. That old bastard Vortigern had sent men after him again and again. It was time to make a clear statement:
Come if you dare. But if you fail… I will not let you go.
To some extent, this was shaping up to be a classic tale of father and son—if by "father" you meant a tyrant, and by "son," a rebellious genius with a dragon arm.
Vortigern's soldiers and mages had come to crush Morgan and Aslan before they could grow into a threat. Morgan, of course, had her own reasons for retaliating. You hit me first, her logic went. So if I don't hit back, doesn't that make me easy to bully?
Aslan raised his hand slowly. The dragon-head gauntlet opened wide, casting a long shadow over the trembling knight's face.
He had grown used to blood. That didn't mean he liked it. But some people just never knew when to back off.
With a dull roar and a flash of light, the final knight was gone.
Silence returned to the battlefield. The gauntlet retracted, its gleaming parts folding back with elegant precision. In moments, the towering dragon-arm transformed back into a cracked, fragile dagger—its body laced with fractures from channeling too much magic.
Aslan pulled a small box from his satchel and gently placed the dagger inside. The box shrank down into the size of a pendant, which he strung onto a silk thread.
This dagger was the first step—the prototype. It had served its purpose.
Aslan smiled faintly. He would keep it close. Not as a weapon, but as a memory. A token of his progress.
Someday, I'll have a dozen of these prototypes, he thought, each one locked in a pendant, all strung together like charms on a chain. A forge's history worn proudly on the chest.