Before heading out, Burn made a beeline to see Shorof alone, while Morgan was busy talking with the mythical community, discussing the treasures Nahwu had brought for Shorof.

She couldn’t wrap her head around how they managed to hide such cursed goodies in the sacred shadow of the World Tree itself. It was like putting a mime in a musical, but she suspected they had crafted a curse using the corrupted mana with Shorof as its target.

Meanwhile, everyone else, like her servants, wouldn’t face severe effects.

Burn stood in Shorof’s empty room, imagining her peacefully slumbering among the very objects designed for her demise. Narrowing his eyes, he felt his expression grow colder.

His mind wandered back to his father. What was the trick back then? What was the method?

Once this loop wrapped up, he planned to storm the palace's storage room—only this time, he'd drag Morgan along to examine the goods. After all, Soulnaught wasn’t exactly a holy land, so surely a curse wouldn’t require the stealth of a ninja.

But then again, Morgan had already poked around the palace and found nothing amiss.

How had they pulled off such a masterclass in deception?

“Your… Majesty?”

A voice slinked closer, as subtle as a cat in the shadows.

Burn turned to spot Shorof, wheeling in Nahwu like a reluctant shopping cart, clearly supporting her haggard state. He graciously gestured for them to enter the room, leading the charge toward the bed.

Nahwu approached with all the confidence of a deer in headlights, her gaze glued to her feet as if she were afraid her eyes might betray her.

“I want to examine your body,” Burn stated, not bothering to sugarcoat it.

Shorof's breath hitched. “Yes?”

Although not one to linger on pleasantries, Burn patiently waited for Shorof to plop down on the bed. He dragged a chair closer, settling in like someone preparing for an intense round of 20 Questions, grasping her wrist as if it were the last doughnut at a staff meeting.

His impatience was an uninvited guest, but there was a glimmer of gentleness hiding behind it. He examined her body with his touch, confirming that she indeed had the same illness as his father.

Nahwu, the silent accomplice, didn’t dare to voice a single protest, as though any sound might summon the wrath of a thousand gods.

“My father’s symptoms were more hidden. How did your symptoms end up staging a grand protest on your body?” Burn probed, unafraid to engage in a messy examination.

“Sir… I don’t have any reason to hide it…” Shorof replied, her voice a soft tremble. “My family… They tried their absolute best to hunt down a cure, which meant I didn’t play the stoic martyr in front of them. Or… maybe I just have a weaker resolve than Your Majesty’s Royal Father.”

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Well, that was possible. His old man, a stubborn knight who’d probably duel death itself, would trade years of life just to keep his ailments tucked under a proverbial rug.

And really, who could blame him? Those years had been like a stubborn fog: relentless, oppressive, and about as enjoyable as a soggy biscuit.

Before Burn ascended the throne, there were many problems in the court. As strong and righteous as his father was, it would never have been enough.

With the added weight of his age and the mysterious illness, it was easy for him to hide it for some years. However, it eventually came crashing down sooner or later.

And it crashed all at once.

“Morgan and I must dash off for some business,” Burn announced, clearly not winning any awards for the warm-and-fuzzy club.

“You endure and have a chat about recovery methods with your mother. Right now, she’s probably glued to Morgan’s instructions, taking notes about mana poisoning.” Burn was never one for comforting words, but Shorof had committed no sins.

Not to mention, he loathed this pesky illness known as mana poisoning.

“Her Holiness is leaving?” Nahwu tilted her head, catching the shadow that draped Burn’s face, revealing just how far he was detached from her vibrant, noble-tinted view of the world.

“You think you’re our only headache?” Burn shot up. “The world is already one giant problem on her shoulders. And then there’s me, not to mention those delightful outsiders.”

Enemies were popping up like weeds in a garden, and tallying each potential harm was about as exhausting as herding cats.

“And she still has to fret over this unknown evil lurking in the shadows.”

Burn turned away, not bothering to cast another glance at their faces. It was a blend of fury and a helplessness that only a toddler witnessing a broken toy could muster. The world had many problems, but once again, this wretched hellhole was the soil he was born in.

Stepping out, his mind flickered back to his earlier chat with Morgan.

“The Demon Lord and I, who’s stronger?”

Morgan pondered.

“You,” she answered. “But he’s as sly as a fox in a henhouse, and corruption made him about as easy to kill as a cockroach at a pest control convention. He’s almost like me, almost unable to die.”

“Romeuf met his end—despite being stronger than the Demon Lord. Urien too, if alone, would be a prime candidate for a quick trip to the afterlife.”

The ‘how’ of Romeuf’s crucifixion remained the world’s worst-kept secret, an enigma wrapped in an unsolvable puzzle. Of course, the cross was a statement. But the truth?

“If you were alive back then, the Demon Lord wouldn’t have stood a chance,” Morgan smiled, flashing him a look as warm as the sun that could light up a shadowy alley.

In short, the Demon Lord wasn’t even comparable to him.

He knew Morgan was simply acknowledging that when it came to problem-solving, he was still the best this world had ever seen. He would handle everything better than the world did 500 years ago.

He destroyed the first wave of the outsiders alone three years ago, after all.

If the crises of the Demon Lord 500 years ago and the outsiders three years ago were at the same level, well, that just proved he had a knack for nipping chaos in the bud.

The sound of his metal heels echoed down the corridor, growing fainter with each step. Once he was out of sight, Nahwu turned to her older sister, surprised to find her blushing like a ripe tomato.

“Sister? A-are you okay?” Nahwu asked, half-expecting Shorof to sprout hearts and flowers.

Shorof shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just… His Majesty Emperor Burn is such a complex character.”

Nahwu tilted her head, channeling her inner confused puppy. “Well, yes… his intentions are easy to misunderstand.”

Shorof nodded, glancing at her wrist as if it held the answers to the universe. The man’s touch lingered on her pulse, and for a fleeting moment, she imagined it was as delicate as a feather caught in a breeze.

His father had met a grim end; she would have too if this continued. How… tragic.

Yet somehow, he had taken it upon himself to be the executioner of misery.

“If they weren’t able to find my cure by the end… Nahwu, to end my misery, would you kill me?” Shorof suddenly asked.

Nahwu widened her eyes. Her hand clenched as she answered softly, “That… could be the fate that might just be waiting to happen.”