THUD! THUD-THUD—

As Burn strolled down the opulent corridors of Edensor's royal palace, his metal heel echoed on the marble with the somber rhythm of a man on a mission.

The palace, a labyrinth of luxury and secrets, seemed almost to shrink under his imposing presence. Each step was a calculated move in his grand strategy, not merely traversing space but plotting a course through the murky waters of political intrigue.

“Well, in the end, correcting Edensor is a chore. That’s not the main goal,” he muttered.

His goal for this loop was crystal clear: locate Morgan, coerce her into lifting the curse, and reset the game board to his advantage.

And what better pawn in this high-stakes chess game than young King Yvain? Solving Edensor's woes could earn Burn a bargaining chip shiny enough to catch the eye of the elusive witch.

But first, the rot needed pruning—a task Burn approached with the enthusiasm of a gardener tasked with uprooting particularly stubborn weeds.

As he passed under gilded arches and between towering columns, his mind wasn't on the architectural beauty or the whispers of courtiers peeking from behind heavy drapes. No, he was mentally sharpening his metaphorical shears.

"Trimming the hedges to clear the view," Burn mused, a wry smile playing on his lips.

The palace might have been a cage to some, but to him, it was just another garden maze to navigate, one where every turn held a potential ally or an obstacle to his ultimate objective.

As Burn sauntered towards the throne hall of Edensor's palace, the cacophony that greeted him could have been mistaken for a market square rather than the dignified confines of a royal court.

Inside, the scene was less a debate and more a verbal brawl, with the courtiers of Edensor lambasting their young king with the fervor of sports fans at a losing game.

"How could you do this, Your Majesty, as the king?!" one courtier bellowed, his outrage as inflated as his sense of self-importance.

"You are a disgrace! Just to keep your title, you sell your nation!" accused another, her finger wagging so vigorously it seemed at risk of taking flight.

"What would the late King and Queen say...!" chimed in a third, invoking the deceased royals as if they might, at any moment, offer a posthumous thumbs down.

"In the end, you're still a child!" concluded another, his tone dripping with the condescension typically reserved for explaining complex issues to toddlers.

These were the same luminaries who would flip allegiances faster than a pancake at the hint of Burn's assault, yet here they were, casting stones at Yvain for being a coward who allegedly sold out the kingdom to save his own skin.

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The irony was thicker than the palace walls.

Burn couldn’t help but smirk as he stood against the doorway, unobserved yet observant. The court's hypocrisy was almost admirable in its transparency.

They bellowed about honor and duty from behind a veil of imminent betrayal, ready to jump ship at the first sign of trouble, yet vilifying a boy for making a strategic choice in the face of overwhelming force.

Yvain, for all his youth and inexperience, was making a decision they never had the courage to face—the choice between a crown and a cage.

And as the verbal stones flew, Burn pondered the amusing spectacle of loyalty in this royal theater, where every actor knew their lines but none believed them.

“Silence!”

BLAAST!

The command thundered through the hall, not from the lips of an elder statesman but from the young king himself, Yvain.

Accompanying his decree was not merely the weight of royal authority, but a tangible, forceful blast of mana that surged like a tempest unleashed.

Burn's eyebrows shot up in a mix of surprise and intrigue as the raw power of the blast swept through the ornate doors. The hall, a crucible of courtly strife just moments before, was momentarily stilled by the display of raw magical prowess.

This wave of energy was palpable, powerful enough to send his hair and coat fluttering backwards, as if caught in a sudden gale.

The burst of mana was not just a mere display of temper—it was a testament to Yvain’s potent abilities, honed under the guidance of Morgan Le Fay herself.

It rippled through the air, dense and charged, a vivid demonstration of why Yvain was not just any king, but a true scion of magic, a disciple of the revered Infinite Witch.

“How dare you invoke my late parents in this debacle? Who among you presumes to know their will better than their own son?”

His words, laden with scorn, challenged the presumptions of his critics, calling into question their audacity to speculate on royal decisions.

“And let’s not forget,” Yvain continued, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the gathered courtiers, “without my master here to guide us, what would your actions be if Emperor Burn were to attack? Would you not be the first to turn your coats, scrambling to curry favor from him?”

The accusation hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of their potential disloyalty.

Yvain’s challenge laid bare the fickle nature of his court’s allegiance, underscoring the precariousness of his position surrounded by fair-weather followers ready to forsake him at the hint of adversity.

His words not only defended his decisions but also put the court on notice: he was no puppet king, but a ruler who saw through their veneer of feigned loyalty.

The young boy sighed. In this case, Burn was right.

Yvain was young, but if he wanted to be a benevolent leader, he needed strong support—a foundation now eroded away with the disappearance of his master.

Bereft of this crucial backing, his wish to govern with kindness was compromised. It was time, he realized, to learn the harsher art of rule; he must begin to wield an iron fist.

Gone was the day he dreamed of being a kind and wise ruler. He wondered if his time with Morgan Le Fay was a privilege, giving him strength to govern benevolently. He also wondered whether his parents had faced similar choices during their reign.

Well, now with Burn standing behind him…

CLICK! CREAK!

…Yvain had no choice but to follow his style of rule.

The door of the hall was opened, and Yvain descended from his throne.

“Welcome, Your Majesty, Emperor Burn of Soulnaught,” Yvain bowed in front of the mighty conqueror. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Burn smiled. It wasn’t bad gaining a smart boy as his subordinate.

Approaching the bowing boy, he asked, “Are you ready for a good pruning?”

The young boy raised his face, smiling, “Yes.”