The Emperor Burn he knew wasn't the sort to flip the world on its head just to find the enchantress from his wet dreams.

Perhaps they'd crossed paths before—in his youth, when she played the white witch to his curse. And so, when the symptoms crashed his party again, he set out to find her.

Galahad unfurled his theory to the gang.

"So, you're implying that he didn't know her name back when she first worked her magic, so he had to play artist and painted her from his memories?" one asked.

"And he found her again... the beautiful lady who had been his savior once upon a time..." another mused, eyes distant.

"What is this, a romantic saga?" another sighed in admiration.

"But don't forget, the disease is still incurable. His Majesty required her kisses to live—And I heard she needed his kisses too, because she was recovering after her disappearance!" one member exclaimed, his eyes wide.

"Bloody hell, I'm tearing up," came a gruff voice, choked with emotion.

“Stop, I’m crying too, fuck,” another one whispered.

"This is fate at its most poignant... And oh, how tragic..." another sighed, lost in the tale's bittersweet echo.

Galahad found himself wrestling with a nagging question. Why was Burn pushing himself to the limits these days? First, by choosing the long haul to conquer Edensor, and then daring to square off against the White Dwarf himself.

At first glance, it was just Burn being Burn.

Like how he claimed the throne despite his illegitimate birth, how he killed his own brother following his rebellion, and how he single handedly thwarted the outsider's invasion…

But the reality was…

"His Majesty's looking out for us."

Galahad's statement cut through the murmuring chatter like a hot knife through butter.

"He always has been, and despite his predicament…" Galahad let out a sigh. "He's always there, standing tall at the front, guiding us. Even this war too—"

"Because he couldn't bear to see the world we live in fall so easily to conquest."

Percival’s words echoed in every heart.

After a moment of respectful silence, Galahad slowly rose to his feet. He held up an empty wine glass, its hollow body gleaming in the dim light.

“His Majesty doesn't know the meaning of surrender—nor has he ever tasted defeat. Regardless of the rumors and whispers, he's a man of honor and fairness.”

"He was there for Young King Yvain, he shielded the inhabitants of Elysian from the White Dwarf."

"He brought the legendary Morgan Le Fay to our side. That legendary, compassionate, and righteous Morgan Le Fay…"

"Our emperor…" Galahad's voice was steady, "Is the world's last hope."

He turned to meet every pair of eyes, his gaze unwavering. “And we, his loyal knights, must devote ourselves to his cause.”

Witnessing their emperor wrestling with a crippling, incurable disease, while simultaneously leading the charge for their world's future—there was no greater honor than to pledge their fidelity at his feet.

Galahad channeled his Force energy into the empty wine glass, the pure mana shimmering like molten gold. He passed it around, and each member added their own energy. Soon, the previously empty glass was brimming with a radiant liquid gold.

The holy grail ceremony.

“Tomorrow, I'll present this to our lord as a symbol of our unwavering loyalty. Before that, I must find Landevale. The rest of you, ready yourselves for our gathering tomorrow,” Galahad instructed.

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He then turned to Percival, handing him the precious glass. “I entrust this to you. I'll bring Landevale before nightfall to complete the ceremony.”

Percival accepted it and nodded solemnly.

The members of the round table had started to disperse when Yvolt's voice rang out, "Ah, now that I think about it, didn't His Majesty mention something before the war started...?"

All eyes turned to her.

"He said... we had three years to conquer the world—does that imply...?" Her voice trailed off, leaving the disturbing implication hanging in the air.

Their faces darkened.

"Did he mean that he only had three years left?" Tristan muttered, voicing the dreaded thought.

Gawain was quick to shut it down. "No. Before that happens, we must find a cure."

"But what can we do when even the legendary Morgan Le Fay had to resort to share her soul with His Majesty?" Bedivere questioned, despair creeping into his voice.

"Maybe they'll find the answer," Galahad interjected, his words sparking a glimmer of hope amongst the despondency. "His Majesty and Miss Morgan will find the cure."

He concluded, "All we can do is support them, and remain steadfast in our loyalty."

As the weight of their shared concerns settled around them, the members of the round table took a moment to absorb the gravity of their situation.

A quiet camaraderie filled the room, a testament to their shared dedication to their emperor and their world's future. As they left, each carried with them a renewed sense of purpose, their resolve hardened by their shared hope.

They knew the road ahead would be fraught with uncertainty and peril, but they also knew they would face it together, as one. For their emperor, for their world, they would stand united, their loyalty unwavering, their spirits undeterred.

The round table might have been empty now, but the echo of their pledge remained, a silent promise hanging in the air, a beacon of hope in the face of the looming unknown.

***

Yeah, no.

Let's rewind the tape here, folks. You see, Burn had already given Soulnaught Syndrome the boot when he was a mere lad of twelve. He cured it completely.

Remember that little incident where a unicorn horn conveniently found its way into his heart?

Yep.

Our dear Burn went on a unicorn hunting spree, devouring their flesh raw like some sort of medieval paleo-diet enthusiast.

Oh, and let's not forget about that pitchfork that also pierced his heart. In reality, it was the trident of the merfolk king.

Why, you ask? Well, because Burn had apparently developed a taste for seafood, and not just any seafood. Nope, he had to have the exotic kind, the kind that required him to tick off the King of Merfolks and turn him into a rather unwilling supplier of exotic meat.

Yeah, hunting mythical creatures and turning them into his personal buffet solely for their mythical benefit. That was how he kicked Soulnaught Syndrome to the curb.

Dying because of this disease? Not even close. He was as healthy as an ox on steroids. Saving the world? Hardly. Burn was playing a grand game of monopoly, and he wanted all the properties for himself.

And as for Morgan, sweet, kind-hearted Morgan, saving his life? Ha! If anything, she was the one cursing him.

So, you see, everything—the despair, the heroics, the undying loyalty—was simply a product of his subordinates' overactive imaginations. They were creating a blockbuster fantasy epic, while Burn was just living his life, one unicorn steak at a time.

But, oh, don't be fooled. It's not like Burn was without his share of problems. In fact, he had a whole laundry list of them—and 99% of these headaches had a name.

Morgan Le Fay!

Yes, the same Morgan who was supposedly his kindly soul-sharer. Well, she wasn't just sharing her soul; she was also sharing a good portion of Burn's troubles. It's almost poetic, don't you think?

Every hero needs a villain, every story needs a twist, and poor old Burn, he had Morgan Le Fay.

Wait.

He was the villain, she was the… hero(ine)?

"Caliburn… mngh!"

Burn flopped Morgan onto his bed. Their lips were locked in a passionate tango that left little room for small talk. When they finally broke apart, it was for him to fill his lungs with much-needed air and to share his next course of action.

"I'm going to rip your dress open."

No sooner had he said it, than the sound of tearing fabric filled the room. RIIIIIIIP!

"Oh—mmh!" Morgan let out a sigh of relief. The dress, while not overly tight, had been like a straightjacket on her weakened body.

They shared more than just longing gazes and passionate kisses. Force energy, Vision energy, even their very souls were exchanged in their intimate dance. But Burn wasn't done yet.

With a gesture to his back, a young boy handed him a high-grade mana potion.

Yvain, the diligent boy he was, had been trailing them, passing potions to Burn whenever his hand beckoned. By the time they reached his room, the potion supply had run dry, having been funneled into Morgan via Burn's mouth along the way.

The one he just passed was the last bottle.

Yvain watched as Burn uncorked it with his teeth, downed the contents, and then funneled most of it into Morgan’s mouth.

The sight left Yvain on the brink of tears. Would they be okay?

It was a chilling sight, seeing them on the precipice of death. He wondered when they would share the truth about their deal, and why they were dying together like this. He hated how he was still too small to be trusted with the truth—or it was just too big of a secret even if he was a bit older.

"Ain," Morgan's voice broke him from his thoughts.

"Yes, Master?" Yvain approached, peering around Burn's broad back. He saw Morgan, looking more fragile than ever, short of breath.

"Can you leave me with His Majesty?" she asked in a whisper. "I'm okay now. You should rest too."

"Mm," Yvain nodded, his voice barely a murmur. "Take care, Master, Your Majesty..."

He closed the door behind him, lingering for a moment before his footsteps faded into the distance.

Only when the sound of his departure had completely vanished did Burn and Morgan let out a shared sigh of exhaustion—"Fuuuuck."

Yep, they fucked up.