What?

What was Yvain thinking in the last chapter?

[Well, now Yvain thought that facing that man head on was easier for him than facing these old politicians.]

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!”

BLAAAAAAAST!!!

“WAAAAAAAA!”

Yvain dashed across a vast clearing, his breaths quick and ragged, as two hulking mech armors—shiny new models—lumbered after him.

They fired bursts of laser beams, the miniature version of what they used in the war, yet menacing, that zipped through the air, singeing the grass at his heels.

Not too far behind, Emperor Burn trailed the chaotic scene, his cackle cutting through the tense atmosphere.

"IS THIS REALLY FORCE TRAINING?!" Yvain yelled over the noise, dodging another laser that scorched a path alarmingly close to him. “WAAAAAAAAAH!”

"This is physical training. Outsmart the AI weapons targeting you automatically with their lasers!" Burn called back, his voice bubbling with a villainous mirth that seemed thoroughly unhelpful.

Burn’s laughter echoed around them, a sound that seemed to find particular joy in the situation.

Yvain, meanwhile, turned agility into an art form, weaving between laser blasts with a grace born of sheer panic, his every move a reluctant dance with technology.

"WHAT’S NEXT! Are you asking me to dodge raindrops in a thunderstorm next time?! YOU’RE CRAZY!" Yvain shouted back.

Burn just laughed harder, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of his new sword playing a high-stakes game of tag with machines.

“What? You wanna give up? Do you even want to find your master?” Burn teased.

Yvain flinched.

This so-called Force training was Burn's latest training idea, aimed at ensuring Yvain's body was as robust as his Vision talents.

The idea was that Yvain needed to be more than just a long-range magical sniper; he had to endure the occasional grunt work of close combat without wheezing like a retired draft horse.

The training regime, cooked up by Burn (possibly during a moment of sadistic whimsy), was multifaceted.

It wasn’t enough for Yvain to simply summon spectral armies or rain magical destruction from a safe distance. No, he needed to dodge, duck, dip, dive, and dodge—essentially becoming a nimble ninja in a wizard’s robe.

"Stamina and defense, boy! Imagine you're dancing—except every misstep could singe your dearest behind," Burn would shout, almost helpfully, as Yvain scampered around trying not to get zapped.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

In theory, blending Force and Vision was a masterstroke—marrying the endurance of a marathon runner with the devastating finesse of a sharpshooter.

In practice, it looked more like teaching a cat to swim by throwing it into a lake and yelling, “Paddle!”

The goal was to transform Yvain from a delicate magic wielder into a robust mage-warrior, capable of dispatching enemies whether they were across the field or in his face.

But as Yvain leapt about, narrowly avoiding laser blasts, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps his survival was less a testament to his emerging skills and more to his growing paranoia about what Burn might think of next.

"Great, so now I’m training to be an acrobat in a circus act. Next, you'll have me juggling flaming swords, or maybe dancing on tightropes over spike pits!" he'd mutter under his breath, adding a mental note to maybe skim a few self-help books on boundary setting with tyrannical guardians.

"Pussy boy, how gentle was your master in training you that you keep protesting like this?"

“My master’s training is harder than this!” Yvain yelled in anger. “A muscle brain like you won’t understand!”

"Ho..." Burn smirked, intrigued to have finally found a youngster who wasn't intimidated by him. He yelled back in response. “So I am the one too lenient that you dare talk back?”

Yvain paled.

“Make it faster!”

BLAAAAAAST!

“GAAAAAAAAAH!!!”

***

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of dramatic red, Yvain lay sprawled on the ground, gasping like a fish out of water after the day's grueling physical training.

Burn, ever the keen observer, had finally measured up the young king's prowess—or lack thereof—in mastering the Force art.

“Not bad for a Vision user,” Burn muttered. “Maybe because you’re young.”

It was a scene reminiscent of a tragicomic play: here lay Yvain, in the same defeated pose as when he had trained before trying to force his nobles into magical allegiance.

Well, only that time he was blasting apart outdated mechs with his Vision art.

The ground beneath Yvain might as well have been a bed of honor, or so his heavy panting suggested.

Burn's training regimen, which could easily be mistaken for a medieval boot camp meets a futuristic torture device, had pushed Yvain to his limits.

The old mechs he used to demolish? Child's play compared to the relentless force of Burn’s "basic exercises."

Indeed, for Yvain, the journey to mastering Force art was looking to be as long and painful as a saga penned by a particularly spiteful scribe, and Burn was just the man to write it.

“When... haa... huff... are you going to... start... training me... in my father’s... Force art?”

Burn raised his eyebrows, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Starting tomorrow, I suppose. You're agile, and your stamina isn't half bad—probably a side effect of your previous trainings."

"Really?!" Yvain's eyes widened in surprise. "I can actually start tomorrow?!"

"Yes," Burn replied nonchalantly. "You absorb knowledge like a sponge—quickly and efficiently. Just keep up with the physical training, and you'll master your Force faster than anyone else."

Yvain was skeptical. Burn wasn’t known for doling out trust or compliments easily. He wondered if this unexpected praise was just another one of Burn's strategic maneuvers, wrapped in a rare compliment to keep him motivated—or perhaps off-guard.

"B-but..." Yvain sat up, suspicion creeping into his expression. "How do you know I'll be able to learn my family's Force art? And how did you find out about it, anyway? Did you ever witness my father's abilities firsthand?"

"I have," Burn replied. "It was interesting."

Yvain turned to face the man who stood against the backdrop of the setting sun. His silhouette was dark, yet his white hair seemed to glow, outshining even the sun itself.

He appeared every bit the regal and formidable figure he was destined to be—a man who had risen to become a great ruler. All his manipulative, cold, and pragmatic traits stemmed from the fact that he truly embodied the qualities of one.

Burn turned to Yvain.

"In my youth, I considered your father the only man who posed a threat to me."