Dude, You Can Just Skip to This Part

Hissing fire.

Small explosions.

Wind carrying the scent of death.

Pfff.

Yeah, duh, it was a battleground. Everything was crimson and burnt. Not to be outdone was the sky. It was also red, matching the destructive fireworks display below. 

The battleships and mechas that stole the show have turned into giant lawn ornaments. Did they actually bring the room together? One might suggest.

Soldiers that were once shining in their technologically advanced armor now lay trying to make out the not-so-ancient ruins. And magicians! Magicians! Magicians? Yep, those people too, with wands of rare ore in hand, lay there dead. Nothing was panacea.

Especially not for war.

Especially not for him.

What? You're asking what odor was that? Ah, indeed, everything was blazing, and the delicious scent of victory permeated the air. Thus, there had been time to enjoy the silence as the last flame had burned out and the last drone had buzzed away.

And that was exactly what a man standing in the middle of it all was doing.

Not just any man. It’s ya bo—

Ah-ahem.

His white hair was almost a beautiful contrast to the devastation all around it. Those golden eyes, too? Totally unfazed by the mayhem all around him.

There he was, standing like he owned the place amidst the carnage.

As fires raged and remnants of what once were fluttered in the acrid breeze, he remained as nonchalant as usual. It was all as expected, of course. After all, he was him.

There stood Emperor Burn. Seeming as if he thought the blood soaked ground was his personal red carpet. 

“You allow those outsiders to entice you with toys and create wedges between us."

"You could have sworn loyalty to me, but you prioritized greed over people. What a disappointment, Wintersin Empire."

His sword, reduced to a… how to say this… glorified stick, was lying mounted on the blood-soaked ground.

"Such a faithful companion," he groaned, his shoulders bearing the weight of the world, or at least the weight of the destruction of his weapon.

A guy who had seen entire civilizations collapse and innumerable enemies perish, grieved over a chunk of metal like a little child grieves over a broken toy. Perhaps, that was just how he was.

A sentimental man.

"It's been quite the party, hasn't it?" He smirked as he made a joke, directed at nobody in particular.

But alas, it was the end of the road for his sword. It somehow stung more than the countless assets and lives he had laid to waste.

"More than most things, it's you, my trusty blade, that I'll pine for. What am I without you? Just another sword, I suppose."

His sword started to crumble to dust.

Come on, if only he talked about the narrator the same way. It’d be nice. But well, it was deserved. The sword reminded him of the civil war some years ago. He killed his brother with his own two hands, after all.

What did that brother of his say again…? Ah, yes.

“You’re not the king’s son! I, Clarent, am his only son!”

It was years before those invaders came.

But so what? Despite not being the real son of the king, he still killed his brother, the one with the real royal bloodline. Well, it wasn’t like he knew before that he wasn’t of the bloodline. He was raised as one nevertheless.

Burn recalled how it was similar to today. The red sky, the body scattered about… except the space junks and fancy tech he destroyed just now, of course.

“It has been an eventful decade…”

Yes, since he was crowned the King, killed his brother for his rebellion in the civil war, stopped the invaders, and declared himself the emperor of the Soulnaught Empire.

Even if time turned back to a decade ago, he would still do the same.

He would change nothing.

With the collapse of the Wintersin Empire, the entire continent now lay within his grasp. And soon the world too…

Just as Burn was about to call it a day on the battlefield, hoping to catch up with his troops who were off having their own little skirmish elsewhere, a shadow flickered.

A woman.

Burn’s first reaction to it—no, his first thought when he saw what it was was… ‘beautiful’.

Blocking his path, she drew her blade. The world in his eyes turned into a slow motion. Then, she screamed his full name—"Caliburn Soulnon Pendragon!"

SLICE!

Burn widened his eyes.

As she stood there, blocking his way, her face twisted in a visage of pure hatred, eyes ablaze with a fury that could ignite the very air. Then, she drew her blade across her own throat.

SPLAT!

Blood spilled on the already blood soaked ground. Red on top of the red, yet it looked redder than the charred ground.

Her face changed at that very instant, from hatred to a smile, as if, in her dying breath, she had accepted some triumph he had yet to understand.

It had a lasting influence on her features before giving way to peace.

And Burn—

***

Chirp…! Chirp chirp…

Rustle…

“Ugh!”

BLINK!

Burn suddenly opened his eyes, finding himself in his room, on his bed.

“A dream?”

It was as if time had folded upon itself. One moment he was on the battlefield, and the next, he was here. But… in a blink of an eye?

He stood up, trying to compose himself. His brain confused, he tried to draw the boundaries between his reality and his dream. Still, his thoughts kept going back to the vivid picture of the woman he had seen.

She was ethereal. An almost unearthly embodiment of beauty. Her gorgeous blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders gracefully, framing her face like liquid sunshine.

Her lofty stature and sharp, curvaceous figure was a contradiction. It somehow combined strength and tenderness equally. And her movements… it was with grace and fluidity in every motion. How could it give the impression that she was untouched by agitation or hurry, despite, clearly, she was?

How did he know?

It was her eyes. They were a stark storm-blue that, on the clearest of days, matched the sky. They were radiant, a brilliance that appeared to overwhelm her surroundings and overwhelm everything else in general.

And they were mad.

Burn observed a range of emotions reflected in those eyes. Fierceness, despair, resolve, and… how to explain the unknown? How would he know what she was truly feeling? Why would those emotions be there, reflecting his presence?

Burn sat on his bed, everything of her imprinted in his mind. Even though it might have been a dream, she felt as real to him as the air he breathed.

It felt… something precious had been taken from him by waking. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.

No. Of course he would feel this loss.

She cut her own throat in front of him.

She robbed herself from him. It was something no one had ever done in his presence. Even in a dream—

KNOCK-KNOCK!

The door to his room was opened, and a man he knew as his closest aide entered.

“Your Majesty, the preparation for the war is complete.”

Burn raised his eyebrows. “Huh?”

Wasn’t the war… already over?

***

It was complete silence in the court that day.

Before Burn knelt a sea of ministers, nobles, aides, and knights, each one trying not to look like they were desperately wondering how to escape this latest episode of "Guess the Date with Emperor Burn."

And up above the dais, there sat Burn, on his throne, calm yet enraged. Soon, we’d know why.

"Again," Burn said. "What's the date?"

One of his closest aides, Galahad, a man who had obviously been dealt a bad hand in life, stood up. He replied, calling himself a saint in his heart, resigned, as if he was someone who'd tried to explain daylight savings time to a cat. Once more.

Burn hummed in response, somehow sounded like both acknowledgement and threat. The hall held its breath, of course. They heard not a hum but a growl. It not-so-gently reminded them that with Burn, there was a thin line between curiosity and "off with his head."

But of course, none of them could comprehend what was on their Emperor’s mind right now. And the truth was, none of them could ever.

Because—

“What do you mean today is three years ago?!”

—was the thought that ran through Burn's mind right now. But heaven forbid he voice it out loud. Being labeled the Emperor with a Loose Screw would be bad this time of the year.

Speaking of this time of the year, this was the time before he started the war!

How?

And… that woman…

That woman.

This was the part you should skip to. Because arguably, it was the start of his long years of frustration.

Or was it?