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 nds 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 a could outmaneuver chess grandmasters, and a queen whose intelled courtly innovatiohe stuff of legend.
Their reign was like a mastercss in making neighb kingdoms feel iely managed.
The king, with his Midas tou politiavigated the treacherous waters of diplomacy like he was born in a diplomatic pouch rather than a royal crib. The queen, oher hand, was the brains behind initiatives so forward-thinking, historians would ter 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 pace gates—so close to home yet as unreachable as a oner'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 ceivable.
The miscarriages she suffered thereafter were like nature's iive 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 legaot in the form of scrolls old, but a five-year-old prince.
A boy now tasked with the , a symbol that suddenly seemed too heavy, the throe, 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 bea lights extinguished too soon.
But then, a footstool emerged.
Climbing the throne, a task Herculean in its impossibility for our pint-sized prince, suddenly became achievable, all thanks to this lowly assistant. Imagihe se: a child king, his royal bottom hoisted atop the throne by the medieval equivalent of a step dder.
And this footstool had a name.
Man Le Fay, the Infinity Witch, known in some circles as the au pair of are arts, decided that pying guardian to a boy king was just the kind of side gig to break the monotony of immortality.
With her support, our little 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 this—or rather, the plotter vanishes.
Man Le Fay was o be found.
No. Ever sihe great invasion three years ago, where the crack appeared on the sky of hermere, she was gone.
“I don’t care how, find her, and kill her,” Burn decred, his voice as cold as the gnce 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 aced to the shadows than the spotlight of royal attention, blinked slowly, abs the weight of this decree. A smirk, as sharp as the bdes he wielded, curled his lips.
"Your wish is as good as done," he replied, his voice ced with a fidehat bordered on audacity. But internally, a thought flickered—'Easier said than done, Your Majesty.'
This was not just another tract; it was THAT Man Le Fay!
"Whatever you require—resources, magic scrolls, or eveest, most exorbitant teology the outsiders have—I'll e'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 mard more a parade of power, as if Burn was colleg kingdoms like they were limited-edition stamps.
Edensor Kingdom was first, a, the Elysian Kingdom, where the locals' pent 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 colle, smudging their hopes with a grin.
Luminus Kingdom, with its shining ideals and luminous hopes, dimmed siderably under Burn's shadow. "Let there be light. MY light," he quipped, ironically, as their hopes extinguished.
Finally, the grand fi the Wintersin Empire, where the cold reception was met with Burn's fiery ambition. It was less an epic battle and more a firmation that, yes, all empires eventually check out of the grand hotel of snty.
By the end, Burn stood atop the ti, not just a king or an emperor, but a collector of s, a curator of quered nds.
His march had been less a jourhrough territories and more a leisurely stroll through a garden, plug flowers that caught his eye. And like that, the ti was united, not by shared ideals or mutual respect, but by the undeniable logiight Makes Right, Especially When It's This Might."
And now, to see if it was for nothing again…
“She didn’t e… huh?”
The assassin Burn had sent for her might have her in a tight spot now. Burn had not only issiohem, but also spohem. It was a literal death sentence.
Burn was returning to his empire after ing and ing up the war when he saw his pace, t in the distahe wind blew and a wisp of dust caught in his eyes, f him to blink—
***
Chirp…! Chirp chirp…
Rustle…
KNOOCK!
“Your Majesty, the preparation for the war is plete.”
The seventh loop started, and Bururned back, awakened before the apocalyptic war started, cursing—“This stupid bi—witch!”
“Y-Your Majesty…?”
“Bring me my swahad!”
“Y-yes… here, Your Majesty.”
STAB!
Befahad could even gasp, Burn had stabbed his own throat. Not deep enough, he pushed even stroo himself that he almost severed his own head—before he actually did.
TWIST!
“YOUR MAJESTY!”
As Burn decapitated himself, the horror that unfolded befahad's eyes transded 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 fusion and dread; his own head, once a seat of power and and, nically divorced from its body, offered a final, grotesque panorama.
The sight of his own body succumbing to gravity, colpsing 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…
KNOOCK!
“Your Majesty, the preparation for the war is plete.”
Burn opened his eyes.
So… he also couldn’t die.
