Melusine, Become my Noble Phantasm!

Gawain clenched his fists.

A vein bulged on his forehead.

His elegant, knightly demeanor cracked like glass.

He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried—tried—to remain composed.

No. Not here. Not now. Not in front of the King.

Not in front of that man.

He always considered himself a gentle, noble, and even-tempered knight. Truly, he treated others with fairness and courtesy. He had never lost his temper publicly. Ever.

Until he appeared.

That infuriating bastard, Aslan.

Gawain could feel it already: the scowl forming on his face, the stiffness in his jaw, the desperate urge to scream into the heavens and hurl his armor into the nearest lake.

He inhaled slowly.

Breathe. Focus. Don't snap in front of the King. You're still a Knight of the Round Table.

But in the deepest part of his heart?

In the chamber of his soul where dignity and rationality were stuffed into a broom closet?

Gawain had already grabbed a pillow embroidered with Aslan's smug face, slammed it to the floor, stomped it, then picked it up and threw it against the wall, five times in a row.

And then?

He drew the Holy Sword of the Sun and incinerated the pillow until not even ashes remained.

Only this could calm the storm in his chest.

If possible, he wanted to scream at Aslan from the rooftops:

"Don't come over here—!!!"

Though in truth, what he really wanted to say involved several traditional British expletives and the violent application of a catapult.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, Tristan's expression grew darker.

Aslan's arrival meant the others weren't far behind.

And sure enough, with a metallic roar, the Supreme Masterpiece descended from the sky. Its palms opened, and Gareth and Bedivere launched from them like cannonballs, descending toward Tristan with swords raised.

Up above, Aslan stood on the Supreme Masterpiece's shoulder, drawing his ship-slaying sword with one hand, the other channeling mana into the cockpit.

Tristan's eyes flicked toward Bedivere—and widened.

Galahad was one thing. The boy had always been a saint among knights, and his appearance here could be explained by youthful idealism or misdirection.

But Bedivere?

The most loyal knight.

The one who stood at the King's side until the bitter end.

Even now, Tristan could scarcely believe he would oppose the King. He had no grand magic, no unparalleled skill—just unwavering faith.

If even Bedivere stood with the rebels...

Then what did that say about them?

What did that say about him?

What did it say about the sacred oath he had once sworn?

No. It's too late. I've already made my choice. My hands are stained. There's no going back.

Above, Aslan didn't spare Tristan a glance.

Instead, he swung his ship-cutting blade down—straight at Gawain.

The blade cleaved the air like a comet.

Gawain, gritting his teeth, raised the Sword of the Sun and met it head-on.

The two weapons collided with a thunderous clang, a shockwave rippling outward.

Magic surged between them, and the heat alone turned the air into shimmering waves.

Aslan's blade forced Gawain backward, the overwhelming pressure combing through his hair—quite literally.

Under the intense clash, his already curly locks grew even curlier.

If you squinted, he was starting to look less like a gallant knight and more like a well-toned noble lady at a garden party.

With glittering muscles.

And a very angry pout.

"Sun! Grant me strength!" Gawain roared.

At his call, the sky grew brighter, as if answering his prayer.

Sunlight blazed overhead, gathering in a burning orb above him.

Flames began to flicker at his feet, swirling in radiant patterns.

He threw his sword high into the air—where it hovered and turned into the image of the sun itself.

Then it fell back into his hands, reborn.

"According to the King's command…

All who defy her will be burned to cinders!

This sword is the incarnation of the sun!

The blazing twin to the Holy Sword of the Star!

[Sword of Rotating Victory]!!"

As the sword slashed forward, raging fire burst forth across the battlefield, igniting every shadow it touched.

Unlike the pinpoint light of King Arthur's blade, this was a sweeping inferno—a wave of destruction meant to cleanse entire armies.

The battlefield turned into an ocean of flames.

And now, this holy wildfire surged toward Aslan and the Supreme Masterpiece.

-End Chapter-

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