“Maybe next time you see a skinny and dirty slave on the street, you shouldn’t kick him with your metal-heeled boots, which will save us some time because I won’t need to fix his concussion,” Morgan said as they were about to approach the moon.

“Oh, with pleasure, Madam. Next time we meet a suspicious stranger who holds up our carriage on the way home, I’ll let him touch me all over so I can bring a curse back to you and Yvain,” Burn said sarcastically.

He continued, “If we’re lucky, you can even catch a disease from the clothes I wore whenever I embrace you after saving a random dirty person on the street.”

Morgan scoffed. “Fine. I’ll never argue with you anymore.”

Burn mock-gasped, “What? What have I done? Heavens forbid—no, the Gods have forsaken me. What did I do to deserve never being able to argue with you anymore?”

Morgan desperately held back her smile.

“I’m serious, Morgan. Don’t take my arguing privilege away, I beg you. It’s the only thing keeping me alive. Please, argue more with me,” his tone was almost too serious now, and Morgan glanced at him, only to see the little sneer on his lips.

Morgan glared. “Caliburn.”

Pinch—well, it was barely a pinch on the arm since she had delicate fingers that couldn’t twist his skin, and also because she wasn’t seriously trying to hurt him.

Burn grasped her arm and put it back on the mana rope she had created to secure the two of them on this ride. The man became genuinely serious now. “I don’t want to take chances after your last death.”

“I get it, but you could’ve dodged if you actually didn’t want to get touched,” Morgan sighed.

“It’s a habit. I’m used to kicking people away. And I didn’t kick him that hard. There are a dozen other reasons why I didn’t dodge, too. Do you want me to list them one by one?” Burn asked.

“Okay.”

“First, what if I dodged and he somehow got to you in the blink of an eye? After the surprises, I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to protect you even in my own territory,” Burn said.

“Alright, I get it; you don’t have to—”

“And you know I don’t like dodging or avoiding things. It’s kinda stupid in hindsight, but I’m familiar with danger, and I like to confront it directly most of the time. It’s part of my instinct and experience.”

“Fine, you can stop—”

“And I was this close to killing something that day. He was just conveniently there,” Burn said, reminding Morgan of his mood after returning from the future.

Morgan couldn’t argue anymore.

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After a lengthy silence, Burn sighed and conceded. “Fine. I’ll apologize to him when and if he manages to regain consciousness.”

“Thank you, Caliburn,” Morgan said, looking at him with a hint of pride and relief.

Why did it feel like he was still in the wrong, even though he was clearly right? Why did this feel like a loss? This persistent nagging at his pride as a man, feeling like he was in a dilemma…

But then he turned to Morgan, and there she was—smiling at him, brimming with pride and affection. He couldn’t utter a single word. She acted as if he had improved and risen to the occasion, while he felt like a character in a bad play, getting cheated out of his rightful lines.

What is this ridiculous feeling?! Is this what they called… marriage?!

“Thou art correct, Mistress Momo. The son of Arthur is a good man,” Isaiah suddenly interjected, rather helpfully.

“Right? He’s not only strong and cool but also a good man,” Morgan chimed in gently.

Burn understood the problem. He had changed—!

“I am not a good man,” he replied sullenly, with the enthusiasm of a wet blanket. “I have always been the last person you could call good.”

Morgan shook her head, smirking faintly. “Nope. You’re the goodest man in the world.”

Burn blinked. Switch out "man" for "dog," and suddenly it all became painfully clear for Burn. He’d been tamed?! When? How? The memory hit him hard—the one where he’d buckled, dropping to one knee when Morgan first unearthed his little secret—his history of sapiophagy.

He had caved long ago.

Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t stop the worst thing he’d ever done, not by a long shot. He’d do it again in a heartbeat. Gnawing on the flesh of a sentient being? Slaughtering his own family? Hard to top that, honestly. But he’d do it again, all of it, if it pushed him closer to his goals. Every single time.

Like when he had to kill Morgan to reset the loop. Again. Just yesterday.

Burn felt a twisted sort of relief wash over him, bitter and sharp. No, he hadn’t changed, not even an inch. Still the same wicked soul. If he had become a better person, well, he’d have killed himself instead, wouldn’t he? But nope—he killed her.

The burden of being the cruel one? Let him be the one to shoulder that.

***

Morgan hadn’t read Burn’s mind.

For whatever whim, she thought peering into those murky depths would not just shatter her heart, but also steal something fundamental from Burn.

Naturally, she opted for the charmingly old-fashioned approach: listening to his words directly. But, of course, surprise, surprise! Unlike looking directly into his memory, there were certain "minor" details he conveniently left out.

Like…

“Mama! Papa! Unc—? Big? Brother? Uncle…?”

Morgan’s jaw dropped, and Isaiah’s followed suit, his own disbelief crashing to the floor.

“We meet again, Nemo,” Burn grinned.

Mnemosyne’s Aeons radiated joy with the innocence of a little girl spinning gleefully at her father's return from work. She even emitted sounds resembling giggles, albeit with the endearing quality of baby babble.

Burn hovered nearby, attempting the most awkward of gestures, possibly to pat her head. The ouroboros snake performed a playful headbutt against his palm before coiling back around her form.

“H-how…?” Morgan finally found her voice, deep in confusion.

The man turned to her and Isaiah, his expression a mix of incredulity and bewilderment. “What?”

“Caliburn, did you know what just happened?” Morgan asked once more.

“I hadn’t really told you this, but Nemo and I made a contract to share our perspectives of the futu—”

Isaiah interjected, shaking his head vigorously. “Nemo shouldst not even be capable of speech!”

Burn creased his eyebrows.

“Well,” Morgan resumed, her tone now tinged with gravitas, “for her to gain sentience… this is… a miracle.”

“What do you mean? Isn’t she your catalyst? I assumed she was like those sentient legendary or mythical swords they prattle on about in stories and fairytales,” Burn asked.

“Caliburn, Nemo… she’s a Construct. Granted, there have been instances of a Construct gaining sentience, but they… usually don’t talk—”

“Nemo! Talk! Help! Mama, Papa!”

“Holy fuck.”

“Fuck!”

“No! Bad Nemo. Don’t mimic your Papa!”