To strengthen the Golden Sword of Victory, Aslan needed to incorporate rare materials—and for now, the only viable source was Melusine herself. Even her shed skin, once forged and polished through conventional means, could rival a national treasure. Her dragon fang, of course, was something else entirely.
There was also a contract between them. By integrating a part of Melusine's body into the sword, Aslan would deepen the connection between himself and the blade. As the son of the White Dragon, this would also improve his compatibility with a dragon-attribute weapon.
Melusine watched Aslan's preparations and swallowed nervously. Her teeth were tough—painfully so. The extraction would hurt like hell.
"I'm not pulling teeth for free," Aslan said casually. "Give me a fang, and I'll give you a surprise later."
Reluctantly, Melusine opened her mouth. Even though the pliers in Aslan's hand had been reforged with the same technique used to forge a legendary weapon, pulling out one of her teeth was still no small task. The fang was so dense that Aslan briefly considered using a chainsaw.
Eventually, after exhausting most of his strength, the dragon fang was wrenched free. No sooner had it left her body than it began to revert to its true form.
Melusine's regeneration closed the wound almost immediately, but the pain lingered. She looked up at Aslan with tearful, pitiful eyes.
In response, Aslan leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss. Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned away and began repairing the Golden Sword of Victory using the extracted fang.
Melusine touched her lips, stunned. The pain in her mouth vanished, replaced by something far stranger—a sweetness, a shock. He'd never done that before.
Though she'd often teased him and tried to get closer, she had always respected Aslan's boundaries. He had remained emotionally distant, overwhelmed by her appearance—even though she was 4.6 billion years old.
But after Guinevere, things changed.
Aslan didn't want Melusine to suffer the way Guinevere had. So he decided to take a step forward.
Watching his back as he worked, Melusine's cheeks flushed. She twisted where she sat, hugging herself.
Did that kiss mean their relationship would deepen?
Would Aslan show his domineering side and mate with her next? She needed to get their love nest ready—definitely filled with gold.
Unseen by Aslan, her eyes briefly turned icy. Yes. She might need to take on some side jobs—robbery, perhaps?—to finance her interior decorating plans.
Also… could they have children? Aslan, though not a full dragon, had traits only dragons possessed. There might be no biological barrier. But what would the baby be called? And would she be the one to take the lead in the relationship, as was proper among dragons?
Aslan, oblivious to his dragon's spiraling thoughts, continued refining the Golden Sword of Victory. With his magic eye open, he read the sword's structure and began melding the fang and the blade. His forging hammer danced in his hands, striking both materials until they liquified and blended together. Magic formats formed one after another, removing impurities and enhancing the weapon's integrity.
The melted dragon fang worked like a healing balm, repairing the damage done to the sword when it had been forcibly infused with overwhelming magic. It was like healing meridians torn open by reckless cultivation—the fang restored the channels, reinforcing the sword's ability to bear magic.
If anything, Aslan now owed Altria a debt. Her reckless use had prepared the sword for evolution.
Even without further forging, the blade would now be capable of handling far more magic than before—perhaps even the full power of a future Artoria. But of course, Aslan had no intention of giving it back.
During the forging, Aslan infused his own magic continuously, imprinting himself on the blade. Inside and out, it would belong solely to him.
He was wiping away every last trace of Artoria from the Golden Sword of Victory.
The blade had moved on. It wouldn't want to carry her mark any longer.
Under his hammer, the weapon gradually took form. The design now differed from its original, ceremonial shape. The blade was wider, built for war. The silver body was framed in gold. Elven runes and the image of a flying dragon were etched into the metal.
A coiled dragon adorned the hilt. The former gemstone had transformed into the dragon's gleaming eyes.
Aslan held up the completed weapon, smiling. As he swung it, a faint dragon's roar echoed in the air. The sword shimmered in celebration, as if rejoicing in its rebirth—and in finally finding a worthy master.
Though it didn't yet match Arthur's Contracted Sword of Victory, it rivaled Altria's.
He gently touched the blade and whispered, "From today on, your name is the Sword of Glorious Victory."