The event threw Camelot into disarray. Never since the king's coronation had someone dared breach the treasure vault—let alone defeat Gawain and Lancelot. The humiliation was unprecedented.
What kind of thief could accomplish this?
Altria sat on the throne, no longer the wandering knight of old, but a sovereign ruler of half of Britain. Her face betrayed no emotion, evoking awe in all present.
As expected of the King. Even now, he remains unshaken.
In truth, Altria wasn't worried. Her intuition—sharpened by countless battles—told her this event posed no catastrophic danger. That alone meant it was manageable.
"King! Apart from the materials used to transform Sir Gawain, the only item missing from the treasury is the [Golden Sword of Victory]."
Gawain clutched his chest, wincing from Melusine's earlier blow. "Wasn't the Golden Sword broken? A thief wouldn't want a ruined weapon unless… unless they were an admirer of the King?"
Gawain's implication: the thief wasn't after value but sentiment. Like a crazed fan stealing a celebrity's childhood relic.
Even Aggravain, the stern royal chef, nodded solemnly.
What is a King's Chef? This is a King's Chef!
Yes, this must be it. That damn thief worshipped the King so deeply that he stole a sacred relic just to feel closer. And the idea that someone might use the King's sword in unspeakable ways—no, it was infuriating! Not envy! Absolutely not envy…
Aggravain suddenly found Gawain's words surprisingly agreeable and felt guilt rising in his chest. Clearly, Camelot required a purge. He had assumed all within the city were loyal. Now, he saw the truth.
No darkness shall exist under the King's light. Let me be the shadow that removes it. All for Britain.
"The Golden Sword of Victory…"
Altria's eyes flickered. She thought of the young man she'd met twice, tied by fate to her 'sister.' A boy... no, a man.
"Gawain, was the thief a blonde youth and a white-haired girl?"
He blinked, then bowed. "Yes, King. How did you—? Worry not. I, Gawain the Sun Knight, shall retrieve your sword!"
But Altria gently shook her head. To everyone's surprise, she sighed—and for once, looked… guilty.
None knew why.
She had matured. And with that maturity came clarity. The Golden Sword of Victory never fully accepted her—it had another chosen wielder, one who held greater priority in its will.
That youth, Aslan.
It had to be him.
She felt no hatred, only a bittersweet ache. The sword had accompanied her from adolescence to the throne. She had tried to repair it, but even the finest craftsmen of Camelot had failed.
Now that Aslan—himself a legendary smith capable of forging fairy-grade weapons—had taken it, perhaps it could be restored. Altria already had the Sword of Contracted Victory, a blade more compatible with her magic. She no longer needed the old relic.
Let it follow the one it chose. Let it be reborn.
She stood and delivered her verdict: "This matter ends here. Aggravain, handle the public response."
The Knights bowed. None questioned her will.
After escaping, Aslan headed to his next destination—the city of the Fisher King, where the Spear of Longinus rested. He had two goals: secure the holy spear, and say farewell to an old friend.
Balin.
When Balin unleashed the Spear's full power, it would mark his final stand.
Aslan planned to begin repairs on the Golden Sword outside the city and complete the contract ring with Melusine. He had recently realized the key to forging their bond lay not in raw strength, but in deep mutual understanding.
This was only a fragment of the Mecha God.
If he had the core, the contract would have formed instantly.
Speaking of Mecha...
When Arthur marched on Rome, Aslan would join. Amidst the chaos, ruins would be less guarded. If needed, he would act brutally and vanish without a trace. He needed to understand the Mecha God—especially its core.
His goal: the dissection of the Mecha God Ares.
Yes, the ancient divine machine of Greece. Red in hue. Worshipped as a god.
To become equal to gods, Aslan had to know them.
This ambition would sound mad to anyone—except Melusine. No, especially not to her. She would be furious if she knew his target was another man, even a divine one.
If it were a goddess, maybe…
But Ares? A male god?
Disaster.
Melusine was bizarrely jealous, possessive over every aspect of Aslan's attention. Every time, he had to coax and console her endlessly.
Now, in their small safehouse, Aslan turned to her with a grin.
He pulled a pair of pliers from his toolbelt.
"Come on, Melusine~ Ah—"