“Ah, right. Didn’t you also come for her?”
Burn eyes widened.
It had been a while since something could surprise Burn to this degree. And to think that it was because of the same woman… heh.
“You’re saying… she’s already…” Burn couldn’t control the irritation in his chest. But if she already died, then he would’ve returned, right?
“Accept His Highness’ kindness, you demon worshipers!” bellowed the prince’s right-hand man, his voice laced with condescension.
It was immediately met with a symphony of uproar from the crowd. Here comes, the mob suggested—that the church receive a rapid, unscheduled renovation by fire! To the ground!
"LEAVE! LEAVE! LEAVE!" They chanted, their voices a harmonious blend of outrage.
The dwellers of the church were encouraged, with the gentle subtlety of a sledgehammer, to pack their bags and explore the exciting world of anywhere-but-here.
“Evict yourselves, or be evicted!” they cried out.
The air was thick with the perfume of righteous indignation and the smoky essence of impending arson, creating a festive atmosphere that really brought the neighborhood together.
Ah, nothing says ‘unity’ quite like a good old-fashioned church burning, guided by the tender mercies of His Highness’ most gracious diplomacy.
Yes.
This was the pinnacle of medieval justice.
But they didn't realize how much their actions had inconvenienced a certain Mount Tai. This person was deep in thought, and their actions disrupted that train of thought.
Burn sighed. “Can you shut up for a bit?”
It was like a spell.
Oh, the irony was delicious. One moment, the mob was a cacophony of curses and threats, the next, an exquisite silence descended like a curtain at the end of a particularly tragic play.
Their mouths were agape, a comical array of O’s and U’s, as if the concept of silence was an alien artifact they couldn’t quite comprehend.
It was as though an invisible hand—perhaps belonging to a particularly irked being—had reached down and gently squeezed their throats shut. Not enough to harm, mind you, just enough to hush them into a stunned, breathless quiet.
The knights, in their clanking armor, looked particularly foolish, like tin soldiers wound up for battle but suddenly bereft of their bravery.
And the second prince, oh the prince! His royal indignation at being silenced mid-pompoussy was a portrait of thwarted arrogance that would have delighted the most cynical of court painters.
The force? Let's just say it had the subtle charm of a velvet glove with an iron fist inside. Absolutely terrifying.
Still, it was nothing compared to what was coming.
Previously concealed with his Force, deluding people of his presence, Burn emerged. Shedding his disguise, even a lot of the vampires got a chill from his entrance.
Burn noticed that the knights, and even the second prince himself, didn't possess much of the outsiders' technology.
This indicated that they lacked support from the imperial family or any significant nobles, except perhaps the prince's maternal family, who might have grown tired of his antics.
So he didn’t hold back.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Tap!
As he strode forward, each step a proclamation of doom, the common folk did what any puny human would do in the face of impending annihilation—they collapsed backward in a rather unflattering display of bladder betrayal.
No. Some even almost shit themselves. How the ground must have glistened with the sheen of fear itself!
The entourage was no less pathetic. The horses, those noble beasts of burden, transformed into skittish shadows of their former selves.
NEIGH!
WHEEZE!
Their screams pierced the air, a symphony of high-pitched terror, as they danced backward in a clumsy ballet of panic. What a spectacle it was, a veritable circus with Burn as the ringmaster, commanding dread and wet trousers with mere footsteps.
GASP!
HA!
PANT! PANT!
And let’s not forget the knights—the frozen statues of men! Their mouths agape, yet void of sound, as if someone had cruelly hit the mute button on their vocal cords.
There they stood, a gallery of petrified souls before Burn’s presence. The silence was so profound, one could almost hear the quiet whimper of their dignity, fleeing the scene.
As Burn approached the regal centerpiece of this silent opera, the prince, mounted high upon his steed like a tin soldier on a toy horse, his façade of bravery was as thin as the veneer on a cheap armoire.
The steed, bless its equine heart, had apparently not signed up for this level of malice. With a frantic leap, worthy of the grandest stages, it unseated its royal burden.
NEIGH! GRR!
“AAAAAAAH!”
THUD!!
There lay the prince, the epitome of royal grace, sprawled in the dirt. His body writhing, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of his own mortality.
As Burn closed in, each step a tolling bell of doom, the prince seemed to shrink smaller, a shriveling violet confronted by the golden white sun.
Truly, if Burn was the god of death, then this pitiful scene was his underworldly domain, a realm where pride came to whimper and bravery to wet itself.
As the shadow of Burn loomed over the fallen prince, one could almost hear the faint echo of the underworld’s laughter, amused by the mortal play unfolding.
“W-w-WHO are you to DARE—!”
SLAP!
Burn’s palm landed successfully on the cheek of Prince Cletus.
“Huh…?”
The slap, as resounding as a judge's gavel, echoed through the courtyard, a sound so profound it could likely awaken the dead from their peaceful slumber.
The impact was nothing short of seismic. One might say it had enough force to realign the very continents, or at least the dental configuration of our dear prince.
As the prince's teeth wobbled precariously, like a drunkard on a tightrope, the flesh in his cheek gave up the ghost, rotting instantly as if touched by the dark hand of the Grim Reaper.
Blood vessels, traumatized by such unbridled brutality, decided to clot in horror, forming a small, morbid congregation at the site of impact.
Oh, the knights and peasants alike bore witness to this royal recalibration, their silence hanging heavy in the air—a dreadful, almost delicious silence.
It was as if they were all collectively holding their breath, not daring to let even a single protest escape, lest they be next in line for such a "noble" correction.
"Ou DARE! OU DARE!" Despite losing half of his face, the prince felt no pain, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Unable to flee, he stood his ground, screaming through his tears with a defiant, yet pompous air.
And so,
SLAP!!
There you go, the second slap—a symphony of disdain played out on the delicate canvas of Prince Cletus' cheek.
With a flourish less vigorous than its predecessor, it still managed to resuscitate the pain from the initial assault, which had momentarily retreated into the shadows courtesy of the adrenaline.
How thoughtful of Burn to orchestrate such a painful reminder.
In that splendid interlude between pain and humiliation, Burn had, indeed, extended an olive branch disguised as a pause—perhaps a moment for reflection or surrender.
Yet, Prince Cletus, in his infinite wisdom and experience of being perpetually unopposed—save for the occasional scolding from his regal brother or the imperial disappointment from Daddy Dearest—failed to grasp this lifeline.
You see, poor Cletus had never been taught the elegant dance of retreat. No, the steps he knew were those of forward march, the spoiled stomp, the royal tantrum.
So, when faced with the novel sensation of a repeated slap, his shocked faculties were as unprepared as a cat in a bathtub.
Thus, our Prince stood there, hellishly stinging cheek and all, the perfect portrait of bewildered aristocracy drenched in tears, blood and saliva.
SLAP!!
The third slap echoed sharply through the air.
At that moment, a bizarre transformation swept over the crowd. The mobs of peasants, who had been paralyzed by an indescribable fear, now erupted in tears.
Watching the prince fall to the ground, humiliated and defeated, they did not shed tears of helplessness as one might expect. Instead, their faces, wet with tears…radiated joy.