There was a reason why Yvain had let all of his doubts about Burn fall by the wayside.

It wasn't just that Burn had achieved the impossible by bringing his master back, a monumental feat no one else had ever accomplished. It was more than that—he had never seen his master, the Infinite Witch, display such genuine warmth and rapport with anyone else.

The Infinite Witch wasn't cold by any means, but neither was she prone to offering open displays of affection, particularly to those unfamiliar to her.

She was a figure shrouded in beauty so absolute it was almost a curse. No matter how subtly she attempted to blend into the crowd, her luminous presence was impossible to miss.

She was a visionary of unparalleled genius, a figure whose insight and wisdom comparable to even the legendary Merlin.

Holding an equal conversation with her was a daunting task, for few could truly comprehend the depths of her mind or the essence of who she was. Her intellect created an invisible barrier that separated her from the rest of the world—even from the rest of the Vision users.

But Burn was different.

He didn't need to laboriously climb up to reach the flower perched on the high cliff. He was already standing atop his own towering cliff, matching her in stature and grandeur.

And the flower, instead of staying distant and aloof, seemed to naturally gravitate towards him, reaching out in an unspoken bond of mutual understanding and respect.

Burn was one of the few who could meet her gaze on an equal footing, an exception to the norm, a beacon that called out to her in the vast sea of faces.

This shared high ground they occupied was a testament to their unique connection, a connection that Yvain could not help but acknowledge and respect as her disciple.

So, when Yvain witnessed them chatting in the mundane, a sense of relief washed over him.

He had feared that Morgan would spend her infinite lifespan in solitude, a goddess forever confined to her own world. But perhaps Morgan wouldn't have to bear her eternal existence alone. At least, not for a while.

Yvain blinked, a subtle smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He slowly rose from his chair, his gaze sweeping across the room in search of Galahad. But his search was in vain; Galahad was nowhere to be found.

It seemed that, for the moment, he would have to content himself with the reassuring sight of Morgan and Burn until—

CLACK! SLAM!!

The hall door decided to put on a dramatic performance. It slammed open with a flourish, disrupting the tranquility like an overzealous actor entering stage right.

In charged Galahad, a grim expression etched onto his face, flanked by a group of guards. They were dragging behind them two unfortunate souls, a man and a woman, who, by the look of their attire, were servants.

The guards, in a display of chivalry that would make any etiquette coach weep, saw fit to force these two to kneel by giving their legs a swift, none-too-gentle kick.

The hall erupted into a symphony of gasps and stunned silence, the shock value of this spectacle effectively jolting the still half-drunk party goers into sobriety.

Eyes, previously glazed over with the after-effects of the night's indulgence, widened in surprise. The hangover remedy of the century, ladies and gentlemen. No need for strong coffee or a greasy breakfast. A dash of unexpected drama in the morning does the trick just fine.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"As you ordered, Your Majesty," Galahad announced with as much flourish as a man could muster while leading a pair of terrified servants into a room full of hungover nobility.

Morgan, in her infinite wisdom, decided to step aside and let the show unfold. Burn, however, seemed to be in no hurry. He rose from his seat with the languid grace of a man who had all the time in the world, causing the noblewomen clinging to him to hastily follow suit.

As Burn sauntered down to the center of the hall, a hush fell over the crowd. The spectacle was too enticing to ignore, and every pair of eyes followed his progress. The whispers died down and the room was swallowed by an expectant silence.

"Speak," Burn commanded, his voice breaking the tension like a sharp blade.

The two servants looked as if they had seen a ghost. Their faces were pallid, their eyes wide with fear. They fumbled for words, their mouths opening and closing like fish out of water.

Finally, the woman managed to squeak out, "T-this is a mistake, Your Majesty! I'm wrongly accused!"

Burn turned his gaze to Galahad, who seemed to have been waiting for just such a cue. He unsheathed his sword—

SLASH! ...THUD!

The woman's head rolled on the ground, painting a grotesque picture in scarlet. The crowd gasped, a ripple of shock sweeping through the room.

Blood spattered across the polished floor and only a select few, those accustomed to such brutal executions, remained unmoved, their faces impassive amidst the gasps and cries.

The other servant, a man, had his eyes stretched wide open at the grisly sight before him. It was the kind of scene that would induce nightmares for weeks.

Yet, quite unexpectedly, a sense of calm seemed to wash over him. His trembling ceased and his façade, like a poorly worn mask, dropped.

Burn noticed this change. The man's newfound serenity intrigued him, a stark contrast to the terror he'd exhibited moments earlier. Perhaps this one had a bit more spine.

So, in the stillness that followed the horrifying spectacle, Burn issued the same command, "Speak."

The man tilted his face upwards, his gaze meeting Burn's. He seemed to completely disregard the fact that he was standing in a room full of nobility, dressed in a servant's attire, ankle-deep in a pool of his comrade's blood.

The rules of decorum? Ha! They might as well have been written in invisible ink for all he cared. He addressed Burn with a directness that would have made a diplomat faint.

"You're still alive despite drinking all of that poison," he stated matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the weather. The room fell into a stunned silence, shock hanging thick in the air like a dense fog.

He continued, an air of disappointment in his tone, "I guess our effort is never destined to bear fruit." As if he were lamenting a botched batch of apple pie, not an attempted regicide.

It was the kind of understatement that could only be pulled off with a certain flair, a certain... panache.

Burn knew about the poison and had drunk it anyway. He'd even directed Galahad to round up the culprits—the very pair who'd smuggled the poisoned wine into the palace. He was alive even after that, but more so, he knew who wanted him dead.

The servant tried to rally, a desperate cry escaping his lips, "Long live Inkia—!"

SLAP!

Galahad silenced him with a swift hand. He turned to Burn, a sly smile on his face, "With this, even Wintersin wouldn’t be able to refute our decision to invade Inkia, Your Majesty."

Burn simply shrugged nonchalantly. "It's not like I need Wintersin’s opinion about what I am going to do, but how convenient. Inkia next, ready our arms and we’ll march next week."

Here he was, brushing off an assassination attempt as if it were a pesky fly at a picnic. Survive poison, check. Expose traitors, check. Plan invasion, in progress. Just another day in the life of an emperor, folks.

But just when everyone thought the show had fizzled out, the servant decided to pull a last trick. He tapped into his hidden Force energy and with a surprising agility, he swiped a sword from one of the guards and sprinted towards Burn, all the while bellowing, "Long live Inkia!"

Risking it all.

The cry echoed around the room, his voice infused with an adrenaline-fueled desperation.

Burn watched the scene unfold as if it were a slow-motion. The man's charge, the terrified faces of the spectators, the gleaming sword aimed at his heart. It was all so... slow.

Everyone, including Burn, knew he could easily dodge the attack. After all, he was far stronger and had the advantage of not being a servant trying to stage a one-man rebellion.

“Ugh—”

But then, as if the universe had a perverse sense of humor, a sharp pain exploded in Burn's chest. It was as if someone had set off a firework inside him. The pain was so intense, so unexpected, it stole his focus just as the servant lunged.

STAB!

And then, just like that, the sword found its mark. It pierced Burn's heart, the irony of the situation as sharp as the blade itself. A servant had managed to do what poison couldn't.

To make Emperor Burn stagger.