It was far from the first time Burn had a blade, or for that matter, any other dinnerware shoved through his heart.

His chest had been transformed into a pin cushion, stabbed with everything from broadswords to butter knives, and had been on the receiving end of every magic spell imaginable.

You name it, he's had it through the heart. Swords, arrows, a pitchfork once, and even an ill-aimed unicorn horn. His heart had seen more metal than a scrapyard magnet and had absorbed more magic than a fairy godmother's wand.

But Burn, oh our dear, indestructible Burn, always managed to survive, every single time. He had a knack for heartbreak, literally.

It was as if he was playing a never-ending game of 'how many things can I survive getting stabbed with?' and spoiler alert: he was winning.

Still, none of that held a candle to the pain he felt today.

"Ugh—"

What in the seven hells was that—

"Your Majesty!"

Someone shouted, and immediately the hall erupted in chaos. It was as if someone had dropped a firecracker in a chicken coop. Guards, led by Galahad, scrambled in a flurry of armor and clanging weapons.

Even the half-drunk party-goers sobered up enough to gawk at the scene.

But among the screams and shouts, one voice stood out.

"Master!"

It was Yvain, who, instead of joining the frenzied mass of people rushing to his aid, decided to leap in the opposite direction like a rabbit on steroids.

He wasn't interested in helping to apprehend the audacious servant who had just stabbed Burn. Instead, as Burn followed his movements with his eyes, he saw Yvain running towards his master, Morgan Le Fay.

Marissa and the other noblewoman, who was unfortunate enough to have front-row seats to the spectacle, let out screams that could have shattered glass.

One part of their terror was straightforward enough: they had just witnessed Burn, their emperor, get impaled violently. But the second part of their horror was a tad more... unexpected.

At the same time as the sword made itself at home in Burn's heart, Morgan vomited blood.

"COUGH!"

Morgan's normally elegant demeanor was replaced with a violent, bloody interruption. And boy, did it send another wave of pain surging through Burn's chest, where the sword was still lodged.

Burn reached out to Morgan. Pain—

"Mor...gan..." The name came out as a raspy whisper, like sandpaper on his vocal cords.

Morgan lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes full of a sadness so deep, it could have drowned the capital.

"It hurts..." Burn's words were gritted out through clenched teeth in pain. "Are we going to die together?"

Cursing time demanded an upfront payment, like when they returned to their checkpoint after Morgan's organ failure in the vampire church basement. She paid the price then, and a new loop began right from that moment.

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And now, Burn was left wondering what loomed in his future that was bad enough to kill him. The pain he was feeling was like someone had reached into his chest, grabbed a chunk of his soul, and yanked it out with a blade that was not only red-hot but also serrated and dull.

"Don't speak... Caliburn..." Morgan reached up to him, propping him up as best as she could. "I'll take your pain away... kiss me."

Burn, despite his current predicament, managed to voice his question. "Did you share with me your soul between our kisses...?"

"Of course I did—That's the only way to keep you alive!" Morgan blurted out, frustration making her eyes glisten with unshed tears.

Just like how Burn had shared his Force through their kisses, Morgan had shared her Vision—no, she had shared her very soul with him.

She had begun this soul-sharing business from the very start, bit by bit, with every kiss they shared, all to prepare for a moment like this. A moment when the curse might demand Caliburn's soul as its toll fee.

But as it turned out, this time, even the locket necklace and the fragments of her soul she'd shared weren't enough. It looked like they were headed towards a tragic ending: dying together.

"Kneel and lower your heads!" Galahad commanded, his voice cutting through the room like a sword. His order fell at the same time as Burn and Morgan's lips met.

Immediately, every soul in the room, except for the pair in the middle, hit their knees. Heads bowed low, their bodies became monuments to fear, and not a single person dared to lift their gaze. Their hearts were jittery rabbits, thumping wildly in their chests.

They had never heard their mighty emperor utter the words, 'It hurts.' The very concept was alien, unthinkable.

This was the man who had laughed in the face of a dozen spears skewering him, who had continued to battle his adversaries as if it was just another Tuesday. The emperor who had chased after his own severed limbs to reattach them himself.

Emperor Burn had never been one to complain about pain.

"Painful... Morgan... COUGH!" Burn's words were punctuated by a violent cough, spattering the floor with blood. The sight of it was enough to drain the color from every face in the room.

They had never seen him bleed this much before—

CLANK!

As she kissed him, she gently tugged the sword from his chest, letting it fall to the floor with all the grace of a drunken swan. And then, she used her right hand to plug the suddenly vacant hole in his chest.

Healing it? Oh, that was as easy as stealing candy from a baby. Or from a fully grown, sword-wielding warrior, same difference. But the real kicker, the real cherry on top of this misery sundae, was trying to shove more soul energy into the man to quell his pain.

“Mor… gan…”

Pain!

Imagine being served a five-course meal of pain, each dish more excruciating than the last. That's what Burn was experiencing. First up, a delectable appetizer of white-hot pokers being jammed into every joint. Divine.

The main course? An exquisite blend of molten lava cascading over exposed nerves, garnished with a generous sprinkling of electric shocks. A culinary masterpiece of torment.

The palate cleanser was a refreshing glass of acid, chased down by a swarm of furious hornets stinging from the inside. Dessert, you ask? A delightful platter of your worst migraine, multiplied by the equivalent of root canal, served on a bed of shattered glass shards.

And for the pièce de résistance, a digestif of existential despair, a soul-deep agony that makes the physical torment seem like a tickle fight. Bon appétit, Burn.

Pain never tasted so… painful.

“Fuck—”

"Sssh..." Morgan whispered, her voice as soothing as a lullaby, "It doesn't hurt anymore, right?"

It was still… wait, what sorcery was this?

As if obeying her command, the pain began to fade like a reluctant star at dawn.

"Ha—" Burn expelled a sigh of relief. Sweat trickled down his forehead. His knees threatened to buckle, but then he sensed Morgan, her strength waning, about to join him in a knee-meeting-floor maneuver.

With a fortitude that would impress a granite statue, he stiffened his body, became her pillar, and pulled her close in an embrace.

A flood of memories hit him, like a cruel tide dragging in shards of broken glass. Like him, her soul must have been shredded by the curse, each episode more brutal than the last, until there was nothing left but scraps.

And now, she was not only paying the price for the curse, but she was also playing handyman to his battered soul.

"I'm all good now, heal yourself, Morgan Le Fay!" Burn declared urgently. "Morgan—!"

His call echoed through the room, but as he was mid-yell, he felt her hand grace his chest. She pried her eyes open, the effort visible, as if she were lifting two fortress gates.

"Where... is the locket... I gave you...?" she asked with a voice so beautifully weak it tore on everyone present.

Especially Marissa.