In the Kingdom of Edensor, known to the envious and the admirers alike as Heaven's Sun, prosperity wasn't just a state of affairs; it was a relentless bragging right.
Blessed with bountiful seas and lands that practically begged to be farmed, Edensor thrived like a socialite in the spotlight.
At the helm were the kingdom's celebrity power couple: a king whose political acumen could outmaneuver chess grandmasters, and a queen whose intellect and courtly innovations were the stuff of legend.
Their reign was like a masterclass in making neighboring kingdoms feel inadequately managed.
The king, with his Midas touch in politics, navigated the treacherous waters of diplomacy like he was born in a diplomatic pouch rather than a royal crib. The queen, on the other hand, was the brains behind initiatives so forward-thinking, historians would later suspect she had a crystal ball.
Tragically, this golden era was bookmarked not by a period but by an ellipsis, signaling an abrupt pause rather than a graceful end.
The king, in a twist that not even he could have politically outmaneuvered, succumbed to an illness just outside the palace gates—so close to home yet as unreachable as a commoner's dream of the throne. He died with the abruptness of a cliffhanger in a season finale, leaving subjects and narratives hanging.
The queen, upon hearing the news, was so engulfed in shock that her body betrayed her in the cruelest manner conceivable.
The miscarriages she suffered thereafter were like nature's insensitive way of adding insult to injury, leading to her demise through blood loss—a loss as metaphorical as it was literal.
It was as if fate, having penned a tale of prosperity, decided to dabble in tragedy, thinking perhaps the genre shift might add depth to Edensor's history.
They left behind a legacy, not in the form of scrolls or gold, but a five-year-old prince.
A boy now tasked with the crown, a symbol that suddenly seemed too heavy, the throne too large, and the royal shoes too vast to fill.
The kingdom, which had basked in the warmth of Heaven's Sun, now found itself under a gathering storm, its beacon lights extinguished too soon.
But then, a footstool emerged.
Climbing the throne, a task Herculean in its impossibility for our pint-sized crown prince, suddenly became achievable, all thanks to this lowly assistant. Imagine the scene: a child king, his royal bottom hoisted atop the throne by the medieval equivalent of a step ladder.
And this footstool had a name.
Morgan Le Fay, the Infinity Witch, known in some circles as the au pair of arcane arts, decided that playing guardian to a boy king was just the kind of side gig to break the monotony of immortality.
With her support, our little crown prince was not just metaphorically lifted but also literally elevated to kingship at the tender age of seven.
Fast forward five years, and the plot thickens—or rather, the plotter vanishes.
Morgan Le Fay was nowhere to be found.
No. Ever since the great invasion three years ago, where the crack appeared on the sky of Nethermere, she was gone.
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
“I don’t care how, find her, and kill her,” Burn declared, his voice as cold as the glance he tossed to the guild leader kneeling before him. "You have three years—no, scratch that, make it before three years’ time."
The assassin guild leader, a person more accustomed to the shadows than the spotlight of royal attention, blinked slowly, absorbing the weight of this decree. A smirk, as sharp as the blades he wielded, curled his lips.
"Your wish is as good as done," he replied, his voice laced with a confidence that bordered on audacity. But internally, a thought flickered—'Easier said than done, Your Majesty.'
This was not just another contract; it was THAT Morgan Le Fay!
"Whatever you require—resources, magic scrolls, or even the latest, most exorbitant technology the outsiders have—I'll ensure it's at your disposal. Kill her."
The guild leader's eyes glimmered with hope.
Of course, now he would succeed, right?
***
As it had always been, the journey from the Soulnaught Empire was less a march and more a parade of power, as if Burn was collecting kingdoms like they were limited-edition stamps.
Edensor Kingdom was first, and next, the Elysian Kingdom, where the locals' penchant for peace was rudely interrupted by Burn's "diplomacy by sword" approach.
The Inkia Kingdom tried to squeeze a quick surrender, hoping to write themselves out of history's harsh judgment. Burn just added their royal seal to his collection, smudging their hopes with a grin.
Luminus Kingdom, with its shining ideals and luminous hopes, dimmed considerably under Burn's shadow. "Let there be light. MY light," he quipped, ironically, as their hopes extinguished.
Finally, the grand finale at the Wintersin Empire, where the cold reception was met with Burn's fiery ambition. It was less an epic battle and more a confirmation that, yes, all empires eventually check out of the grand hotel of sovereignty.
By the end, Burn stood atop the continent, not just a king or an emperor, but a collector of crowns, a curator of conquered lands.
His march had been less a journey through territories and more a leisurely stroll through a garden, plucking flowers that caught his eye. And like that, the continent was united, not by shared ideals or mutual respect, but by the undeniable logic of "Might Makes Right, Especially When It's This Might."
And now, to see if it was for nothing again…
“She didn’t come… huh?”
The assassin Burn had sent for her might have her in a tight spot now. Burn had not only commissioned them, but also sponsored them. It was a literal death sentence.
Burn was returning to his empire after cleaning and warping up the war when he saw his palace, towering in the distance. The wind blew and a wisp of dust caught in his eyes, forcing him to blink—
***
Chirp…! Chirp chirp…
Rustle…
KNOCK-KNOCK!
“Your Majesty, the preparation for the war is complete.”
The seventh loop started, and Burn returned back, awakened before the apocalyptic war started, cursing—“This stupid bi—witch!”
“Y-Your Majesty…?”
“Bring me my sword, Galahad!”
“Y-yes… here, Your Majesty.”
STAB!
Before Galahad could even gasp, Burn had stabbed his own throat. Not deep enough, he pushed even stronger to himself that he almost severed his own head—before he actually did.
TWIST!
“YOUR MAJESTY!”
As Burn decapitated himself, the horror that unfolded before Galahad's eyes transcended the bounds of loyalty and duty, plunging into the depths of sheer terror and disbelief.
Burn saw the world spun in a surreal dance of confusion and dread; his own head, once a seat of power and command, now tragically divorced from its body, offered a final, grotesque panorama.
The sight of his own body succumbing to gravity, collapsing to the ground in a haunting echo of finality, after his own head plunging to the ground was a vision that would be etched into Burn's memory.
Out of spite.
***
Chirp…! Chirp chirp…
Rustle…
KNOCK-KNOCK!
“Your Majesty, the preparation for the war is complete.”
Burn opened his eyes.
So… he also couldn’t die.