It was complete silence in the hall that day.
There sat Burn, on his throne, a picture of regal calm with a side of simmering rage. Before him knelt a sea of ministers, nobles, aides, and knights, each one trying not to look like they were desperately wondering how to escape this latest episode of "Guess the Date with Emperor Burn."
"Again," Burn said, his voice smooth and somewhat menacing. "What's the date?"
One of his closest aides, a man who had obviously been dealt a bad hand in life, stood up. He replied with the forbearance of a saint and the resignation of someone who's tried to explain daylight savings time to a two-year-old. Once more.
Burn hummed in response, a sound that somehow managed to convey both acknowledgement and the threat of a dragon deciding whether now was a good time for a barbecue.
The hall, collectively holding its breath, heard not a hum but a growl, a not-so-gentle reminder of the thin line between royal curiosity and "off with his head."
But of course, none of them could comprehend what was on their Emperor’s mind right now. And the truth was, none of them could ever.
“What do you mean today is three years ago?!”
That thought ran through Burn's mind like a runaway carriage, but heaven forbid he voice it out loud. Being labeled the Emperor with a Loose Screw wasn't exactly on his to-do list.
This was the time before he started the war!
Imagine all the blood, sweat, and, let's not forget, theatrical monologues that went into conquering the realm, only to have it all be for nothing. Poof! disappeared with the grace of a person tripping over a banana peel.
Before he had even begun the conflict that would turn him into a legend, here he was, right back where he had started. He saw the irony; it was almost as if the universe had chosen to pull the biggest practical joke ever.
He wanted to curse, to yell, to give the sky the finger. All his hard work was erased by some cosmic backspace key.
His empire, painstakingly built, reaching the far ends of the continent, seizing the last nation like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle—gone.
The frustration of having his imperial tapestry unraveled before it was even woven was enough to make him want to flip not just a table, but the entire heavenly table the skies rested upon. But alas, there he sat, in his pre-conquest glory, silently seething, a tempest contained within the calm before the actual storm.
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It was all to make sure everything didn't fall to the hands of the outsiders… So why, heavens?!
“Show me my sword.”
Burn demanded, clinging to the hope that this was all an elaborate prank by his court. Because, of course, staging an elaborate prank involving time travel was entirely within the realm of possibility for them, right?
The entire room hustled, a flurry of movement, as his aides scrambled to fetch the sword. And there it was, presented to him with the reverence due to a sacred relic.
“This… little shit…!”
Burn was flabbergasted.
His sword.
His trusty blade, looking as robust and sturdy as the day it was forged. No signs of wear, no hint of the crumbling to dust it had supposedly succumbed to after that final battle against the Wintersin Empire.
The sword before him was a masterpiece crafted by that illustrious dwarf blacksmith, known far and wide for his refusal to repeat a design or share his trade secrets.
The materials alone were as rare as a humble politician, impossible to find and even more impossible to replicate!
So, this was it—the undeniable proof. He wasn't losing his mind; he had actually been hurled back in time. Not a prank orchestrated by his court, but by the universe itself.
"Great, just great," he thought. "Of all the cosmic jokes to pull, the universe chose time fucking travel…!"
As the realization sank in, Burn couldn't help but marvel at the absurdity of his situation. There he was, the fearsome Emperor, brought to a moment of sheer disbelief not by an enemy's blade or a traitor's deceit, but by the very existence of his undamaged, defiantly intact sword.
Okay, let’s calm down.
It could be that the memory of the future was a dream, right?
No, that would be even more absurd. His brain retained all those memories, down to the smallest detail. All the decisions, the intricacy of human reactions, fate dominoing, risks, and achievements—everything was too real to be called a mere dream.
Dream?
A flash of blonde immediately bothered his mind.
Blue eyes…
Deranged smile!
That woman… Who was she?
The moment she appeared, Burn felt something indescribable. Fascination, admiration, and then… black.
He blinked and suddenly, he was awakened this morning.
But how?
Well, there was no point in questioning something now unanswered. He must do it all over again, but this time, let’s do it even better. Let’s do it faster, more effectively, more decisively.
“Fine. Then, let’s restart the war.”
Burn declared to himself, probably making history as the only person to ever sound as casual about restarting a war as one might be about rebooting a stubborn computer.
Rising from his throne, he seized his sword—the one that was supposed to be as dead as his enemies' chances but was now inexplicably alive and kicking.
With the air of a man who’s just remembered he’s got a future to rewrite, Burn started to refine his plan. It wasn’t every day you got to take a mulligan on your own life’s work, after all.
“This kingdom, that kingdom… this noble, that noble too!”
He summoned his strategist and commanded his intelligence bureau to confirm the information he knew from three years in the future. Because, of course, who wouldn’t want a sneak peek at the exam papers before the test?
Orders flew left and right, even before the war drums had started beating. It was like watching someone prepare for a party that hadn’t been announced yet—setting up the decorations, chilling the drinks, and laying out the welcome mat for guests who had no idea they were even invited.
“Crush them all before they even realize it!”
***
“Caliburn Soulnon Pendragon!”
SLASH!
“Huh?”
***
BLINK!
Chirp…! Chirp chirp…
Rustle…
“What the fuck…?”
He was back… once again.