THUD! THUD-THUD—

  As Burn strolled down the opulent corridors of Edensor's royal pace, his metal heel echoed on the marble with the somber rhythm of a man on a mission.

  The pace, a byrinth of luxury as, seemed almost to shrink under his imposing presence. Each step was a calcuted move in his grand strategy, not merely traversing space but plotting a course through the murky waters of political intrigue.

  “Well, in the end, correg Edensor is a chore. That’s not the main goal,” he muttered.

  His goal for this loop was crystal clear: locate Man, coerce her into lifting the curse, a the game board to his advantage.

  And what better pawn in this high-stakes chess game than young King Yvain? Solving Edensor's woes could earn Burn a bargaining chip shiny enough to catch the eye of the elusive witch.

  But first, the rot needed pruning—a task Burn approached with the enthusiasm of a gardeasked with uprooting particurly stubborn weeds.

  As he passed under gilded arches aween t ns, his mind wasn't on the architectural beauty or the whispers of courtiers peeking from behind heavy drapes. No, he was mentally sharpening his metaphorical shears.

  "Trimming the hedges to clear the view," Burn mused, a wry smile pying on his lips.

  The pace might have been a cage to some, but to him, it was just anarden maze to navigate, one where every turn held a potential ally or an obstacle to his ultimate objective.

  As Burn sauowards the throne hall of Edensor's pace, the cacophony that greeted him could have been mistaken for a market square rather than the dignified fines of a royal court.

  Ihe se was less a debate and more a verbal brawl, with the courtiers of Edensor mbasting their young king with the fervor of sports fans at a losing game.

  "How could you do this, Your Majesty, as the king?!" one courtier bellowed, his e as infted as his sense of self-importance.

  "You are a disgrace! Just to keep your title, you sell your nation!" accused another, her finger wagging so vigorously it seemed at risk of taking flight.

  "What would the te King and Queen say...!" chimed in a third, invoking the deceased royals as if they might, at any moment, offer a posthumous thumbs down.

  "In the end, you're still a child!" cluded another, his tone dripping with the dession typically reserved for expining plex issues to toddlers.

  These were the same luminaries who would flip allegiances faster than a pa the hint of Burn's assault, yet here they were, casting sto Yvain for being a coward who allegedly sold out the kingdom to save his own skin.

  The irony was thicker than the pace walls.

  Burn couldn’t help but smirk as he stood against the doorway, unobserved yet observant. The court's hypocrisy was almost admirable in its transparency.

  They bellowed about honor and duty from behind a veil of immi betrayal, ready to jump ship at the first sign of trouble, yet vilifying a boy for making a strategic choi the face of overwhelming force.

  Yvain, for all his youth and inexperience, was making a decision they never had the ce to face—the choice between a and a cage.

  And as the verbal stones flew, Burn pohe amusing spectacle of loyalty in this royal theater, where every actor kheir lines but none believed them.

  “Silence!”

  BLAAST!

  The and thuhrough the hall, not from the lips of an elder statesman but from the young king himself, Yvain.

  Apanying his decree was not merely the weight of royal authority, but a tangible, forceful bst of mana that surged like a tempest unleashed.

  Burn's eyebrows shot up in a mix of surprise and intrigue as the raw power of the bst swept through the ornate doors. The hall, a crucible of courtly strife just moments before, was momentarily stilled by the dispy of raw magical prowess.

  This wave of energy alpable, powerful enough to send his hair and coat fluttering backwards, as if caught in a sudden gale.

  The burst of mana was not just a mere dispy of temper—it was a testament to Yvain’s potent abilities, honed uhe guidanan Le Fay herself.

  It rippled through the air, dense and charged, a vivid demonstration of why Yvain was not just any king, but a true s of magic, a disciple of the revered Infich.

  “How dare you invoke my te parents in this debacle? Who among you presumes to know their will better than their own son?”

  His words, den with s, challehe presumptions of his critics, calling into question their audacity to specute on royal decisions.

  “A’s not fet,” Yvain tinued, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the gathered courtiers, “without my master here to guide us, what would your as be if Emperor Buro attack? Would you not be the first to turn your coats, scrambling to curry favor from him?”

  The accusation hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of their potential disloyalty.

  Yvain’s challenge id bare the fickle nature of his court’s allegiance, undersg the precariousness of his position surrounded by fair-weather followers ready to forsake him at the hint of adversity.

  His words not only defended his decisions but also put the court on notice: he was no puppet king, but a ruler who saw through their veneer of feigned loyalty.

  The young boy sighed. In this case, Burn was right.

  Yvain was young, but if he wao be a benevolent leader, he rong support—a foundation now eroded away with the disappearance of his master.

  Bereft of this crucial bag, his wish to govern with kindness was promised. It was time, he realized, to learn the harsher art of rule; he must begin to wield an iron fist.

  Gone was the day he dreamed of being a kind and wise ruler. He wondered if his time with Man Le Fay rivilege, giving him strength to govern benevolently. He also wondered whether his parents had faced simir choices during their reign.

  Well, now with Burn standing behind him…

  CLICK! CREAK!

  …Yvain had no choice but to follow his style of rule.

  The door of the hall ened, and Yvain desded from his throne.

  “Wele, Your Majesty, Emperor Burn of Soulnaught,” Yvain bowed in front of the mighty queror. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Burn smiled. It wasn’t bad gaining a smart boy as his subordinate.

  Approag the bowing boy, he asked, “Are you ready food pruning?”

  The young boy raised his face, smiling, “Yes.”