The infamous Soulnaught Syndrome.

Sounded like a terrible punk band, but it was actually named after the first king of Soulnaught, His Majesty Urien Soulnaught Pendragon.

This poor chap had the rotten luck of being the first officially documented person to contract this terrible, terrible disease.

You see, this particular ailment made the sufferer into a magical dud. They couldn't gather or produce Mana with their soul, and thus, they were absolutely hopeless at delving into Vision Art. It was like being a fish allergic to water—since souls were supposed to actually like Mana.

But wait, there was more! As if being magically impaired wasn't bad enough, the disease also took a toll on one's life expectancy.

As the years rolled on, the sufferer's soul got nibbled away bit by bit, like a block of cheese at a rat convention. The life energy dwindled, the body weakened, and before you knew it, they were pushing up daisies at a ripe young age.

The peculiar thing was, it was usually the offspring of two absurdly powerful parents who ended up with this disease. It was like the universe, upon seeing two such potent forces combined, decided to say, "Nah, let's throw a spanner in the works."

But it wasn't a given. This disease was incredibly rare.

Then there was Urien of Soulnaught, who defied the odds and lived past 70.

How did he do it? Well, he became a Force Art Master, that's how. He managed to coexist with his deadly disease, treating it like an unwelcome roommate who never did the dishes.

He pumped up his body with Force energy, and even though his soul was eroding faster than a sandcastle at high tide, he managed to hang on into his twilight years.

His badassery actually kicked off what's known as the Force Golden Age. Turns out, his power was as contagious as his disease wasn't, inspiring droves to learn Force Art. But alas, even this magical beefcake met his end at 75, courtesy of his lifelong nemesis, the Soulnaught Syndrome.

Throughout his life, Urien was a walking, talking testament to suffering.

He once confessed that the pain caused by the gradual erosion of his soul was so excruciating that he sometimes fantasized about shaking hands with the Grim Reaper just to end the torment.

But, like a boxer who refuses to throw in the towel, Urien went toe to toe with his affliction. He hammered away at training his body and delving into the mysteries of Force Art until the very end.

Perhaps he eventually lost the war against the disease, or maybe he just decided he'd had a good life and said his goodbyes.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Urien was a force to be reckoned with in the Force Art world. The rumor mill suggested that if not for his pesky disease, he could have clocked up several centuries on his lifespan, given his profound mastery and understanding of Force Art.

But alas, Urien probably figured that spending hundreds of years in constant agony was about as appealing as a vacation in Hell.

And this disease—was the very same that was in Burn's cards.

"I think he’s having a relapse.”

Burn was one of the select 'lucky' few to have won this particular lottery. Because, who wouldn't want a disease that makes your soul about as effective as a chocolate teapot, right?

“Soulnaught Syndrome…?”

Tristan turned toward one of the Round Table members, Erec, who blurted out the name of the disease, his eyes widened.

Urien set up his kingdom with one goal in mind: to ensure that the name Soulnaught was associated with a mighty and invincible kingdom, not a horrible disease with no remedy.

But, oh, the irony! The disease made a comeback tour in the unlikeliest of individuals—the last, most formidable king, and the first emperor who turned his kingdom into an empire—Caliburn.

It was like a cruel joke - "You wanted Soulnaught to be remembered as a powerful empire? Here, have your most powerful emperor born with the very disease you were trying to distance yourself from!"

"It was quite the story back in the day, wasn't it?" Erec mused, seated between Tristan and Yvolt. "His late Majesty's illegitimate child having the same disease as the first King of Soulnaught—"

"Hang on a tick," Tristan interjected, his brow furrowed like a freshly plowed field. "If it's supposed to be an incurable disease, then how did His Majesty…?"

Percival finally chimed in, "One day, His Majesty arrived home looking like he'd been through a lot. New scars all over him, some still fresh. This was when he was around... 12, right?" He glanced at Galahad for confirmation, who responded with a nod.

"After that, His Majesty seemed to have recovered from his symptoms of the disease," Galahad added.

For one long, awkward second, you could hear a pin drop.

"You mean... he never actually recovered?" Sagramore, perched next to Percival, asked with an air of cautious speculation.

"At the time, we chalked it up to divine intervention. His Majesty had a knack for pulling miracles out of his hat, after all. We genuinely thought he was somehow cured," Percival explained.

"But even then, he never... even before his 'recovery', he never whined about the pain, even when we knew he was in agony," Galahad said.

"And you're telling us that today, this morning, he's in more pain than he ever was...?" The last member of the Round Table to open his mouth, and one of the few members who hadn't been present in the hall during the incident, Howl, asked.

His query truly hung in the air, like a balloon waiting to be popped.

"You all remember that one random morning before the war, don't you?" Galahad leaned back in his seat, a reflective gleam in his eyes. "Out of the blue, he asked for painting supplies."

"To hunt for the empre—Miss Morgan Le Fay?" Erec ventured.

"Exactly," Galahad confirmed. "It was too spontaneous, too out of the blue for someone like His Majesty."

"You're suggesting... Miss Morgan had a hand in his condition?" Tristan inquired, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

Galahad responded with a nod, "Didn't you catch their exchange?"

[I'll take your pain away... kiss me.]

[Did you share with me your soul between our kisses...?]

[Of course I did—That's the only way to keep you alive!]

And…

[The locket…]

[Didn't I tell you, you have to wear it always, so I can protect your soul, Caliburn?]

[You wouldn't feel as much pain if you wore it…]

[I’m fine now.]

"His Majesty was scouring the world for Miss Morgan to help him with his disease," Galahad said.

Of course. The pieces fell into place.