When Aslan fell in love with Melusine, he began to ponder the problem of his short human lifespan. Sure, he could leave behind a legend in this era and tie himself completely to Melusine—becoming not only the strongest human blacksmith of this age, but also a Dragon Knight. If he managed that, then once he became a Heroic Spirit, perhaps Melusine could naturally become his Noble Phantasm.
But even so, it still felt a little unsatisfying. There had to be a way in this age to achieve something akin to immortality. Even if true immortality wasn't possible, he should at least be able to extend his lifespan, right?
Still, all of that had to be tackled one step at a time. He hadn't even begun to study magecraft in depth, and already he was dreaming of such far-off goals—it was a bit too fanciful.
Ever since their heartfelt conversation that day, Melusine had clearly seemed somewhat downcast. A human's century-long life, in her eyes, was nothing more than the blink of an eye. Aslan hoped to slowly search for a way to extend his life within his limited time, but to Melusine, that "blink" of time was far too short—she was desperate to find a solution as soon as possible.
It was a bit of self-inflicted worry, really.
But Aslan knew this wouldn't last. As long as something interesting came along, Melusine would surely put those thoughts aside for the time being. Helping this ancient dragon, who had slumbered for so long, find something worth striving for again—wasn't that a good thing?
Whether it was an instant to Aslan or the blink of an eye to Melusine, a hundred years would not increase or decrease simply because the two of them saw it differently. At least, for now, they still had time.
Compared to those who only began seeking longevity at the very end of their lifespans, Aslan was already a step ahead.
Since he hadn't found any magi for the time being, he might as well put that matter aside. First, he'd go attend the Sword Appreciation Gathering in Britannia. Perhaps he could learn some new forging techniques there—he couldn't put all his hopes on a single path, after all.
And who knew? Maybe he'd get lucky and run into a magus at the gathering. At the thought, Aslan couldn't help but hum a cheerful tune.
Upon hearing Aslan's humming, Melusine pouted slightly, her eyes tinged with a hint of complaint. In a voice only he could hear, she muttered softly, "It's such an important matter, so why does Aslan seem so unconcerned?"
Had Aslan heard her, he probably would've just shaken his head and explained that he wasn't being careless—just that worrying endlessly when there were no leads would only exhaust him. At the very least, he was born in the twilight of the Age of Gods, and the blood of the White Dragon flowed through him. Compared to ordinary people, he already had a longer lifespan.
Perhaps it was due to Aslan's strikingly handsome appearance, or the unusual aura surrounding Melusine, but even though they wore plain clothes and rode ordinary horses, the two of them still became frequent targets for bandits.
Especially with the Sword Appreciation Gathering approaching, many knights and nobles carrying heirloom treasures were headed toward the lord's castle. Bandits and wandering knights alike couldn't help but be tempted—this was a golden opportunity to seize a fine sword or a heap of gold.
And Aslan's group—traveling alone, without soldiers, not even a full party—was a prime target.
To be honest, ever since setting out, Aslan had lost count of how many bandit groups they had run into.
"Stop right there! Do young masters these days really think they won't get noticed just by putting on commoner clothes?"
Upon hearing the same lazy tone once again, Aslan instinctively covered his face with one hand. How many times had they heard this exact line from some highwayman trying to rob them?
Frankly, the first couple of times were mildly amusing. It was like running into low-level mobs on the way to a quest objective. But could they at least stop repeating the same lines every time? If this were a game, it'd drain most players of their patience!
At this point, Aslan's feelings had evolved from initial excitement to growing annoyance—and now to outright irritation.
"Goddammit!"
Aslan drew his forging hammer from his waist. After channeling magic into it, he hurled it forward.
A burst of magical power exploded. Combined with the hammer's special material, it cut through the air with a sharp whistle. The next moment, with a resounding crack, the head of the armored bandit leader—helmet and all—burst like a watermelon.
The bandits around them collectively froze, hearts skipping a beat. Their boss had been wearing full plate armor! That helmet had survived three wars without ever being damaged.
To their boss, that armor was his prized possession. This ambush was supposed to fund a nice weapon to match it.
And yet their boss—armor and all—had been flattened with a single throw.
Aslan raised his hand, and the thrown forging hammer swiftly flew back to him. As it returned, the blood on its surface was forcibly flung off by a surge of magic.
Then, without even sparing them a glance, Aslan led Melusine straight ahead. The remaining bandits, watching the scene unfold, instinctively stepped aside in fear—no one wanted to be the next "boss."
After all, hadn't they become bandits just to survive?
Aslan gave the surviving bandits no further thought. Like skipping a battle cutscene—once victory conditions were met, letting the rest flee didn't matter. Though, if this kept happening again, he might just snap and wipe out the next group entirely.
On a nearby mountaintop, a young knight in simple armor scratched his head and halted his steps, having been about to rush in to help. He couldn't help but sigh. In this day and age, traveling like that... you really couldn't get by without some serious skill.
"But... a forging hammer, huh?" the young man muttered to himself. "Could that boy be the blacksmith from the rumors? Heh, maybe luck's finally on my side. Maybe, just maybe, I—Balin—will finally get a sword of my own in the next few days."
Balin patted himself down, rummaging through every pouch and pocket. His brow furrowed deeply. No matter how many times he checked, he was still dead broke.
So... how exactly was he supposed to convince that blacksmith to give him a sword?