The Sword of Glorious Victory didn't change Aslan's daily routine or demeanor—but it did make his dragon jealous. She grumbled that he had another sword on his waist now, one more thing drawing his attention away from her. And the sword wasn't helping matters either. It clung to Aslan like a newlywed spouse.
Imagine turning around during a grocery run only to find a golden sword tailing you like a puppy.
To avoid suspicion, Aslan started limiting his public outings. He had no desire to draw attention.
He lingered in King Fisher's city for some time, until one day, while eating lunch, a massive magical force surged through the air. Without hesitation, Aslan grabbed the sturdiest shield he had forged and threw it in front of himself and Melusine.
A devastating impact followed.
The house collapsed. Cracks spiderwebbed across the shield. The earth was torn asunder. In the wake of such destruction, no crops would grow here again. This was the twilight of the Age of Gods—what flourished here was now dead.
Even if Balin had acted in self-defense, this much destruction couldn't be justified. Too many lives were lost. Balin's future death could no longer be considered innocent.
Aslan tossed the broken shield aside. He looked toward the ruined castle in the distance, sighed, and walked toward it. His magic spread through the air, searching for one thing: the Spear of Longinus. Wherever that was, Balin would be nearby.
"Let's go, Melusine. Time to greet an old friend and finish this mission."
Melusine scowled at her ruined lunch. If this "old friend" was responsible, he owed her a fang for the trouble.
The Holy Spear's castle had once been among the sturdiest. Now it lay in rubble. The surrounding cities were no better—flattened forests, cracked earth, silence pierced only by wails from the ruins.
Balin bore too much karmic weight now.
Aslan didn't turn away. Instead, he raised his hammer and struck the ground. Magic, guided by fairy runes, spread out and began propping up rubble, creating passageways for trapped survivors. He couldn't save them all—but he could give them a chance.
Near the castle, a deep crater split the land. Blood tainted the air. The houses flanking the trench were silent. No survivors there. Even the residents Aslan had helped would struggle to recover.
King Fisher, who had taken the attack head-on, still lived—but would remain bedridden until the Holy Grail was found.
Guided by his magic, Aslan moved debris until he uncovered a familiar form. Disheveled and bloodied, Balin looked more like a vagabond than the elegant knight he once was.
"…What happened to me?" Balin muttered, groaning.
Aslan plucked the Spear of Longinus from the ruins and said, "It's been a few years, hasn't it? You really made an entrance—flattening four cities with the Holy Spear. A bit much, don't you think?"
Balin blinked, squinting in the sunlight. His eyes adjusted, and when he saw Aslan's face, he laughed joyfully. "Hahahaha! Aslan! What a surprise! What are you doing here?"
Aslan hesitated, then replied honestly. "I came to retrieve the Spear of Longinus—and to see you one last time. According to the threads of fate, you don't have much time left."
Balin's smile faded as memories stirred. He thought back to a girl who once demanded her sword returned. The red-handled holy sword—cursed, yet precious—had become his own. She had cried out:
"I curse you! That sword will bring your ruin. You'll die with regret in your heart!"
He had done both good and evil. He had met Aslan, gained his first sword, claimed another, killed a Lady of the Lake, helped many, harmed a few.
If his fate was to die in sorrow… then so be it. That was the curse he bore.
"So, this is it," Balin said, still smiling. "We won't see each other again, will we?"
Aslan smiled faintly. "If fate allows… perhaps one day, as heroic spirits, we'll meet again in the far future."