Not Pretty Enough, You Clanker
You see, Burn waged a war in a transitional world.
Not only the common, every authority had integrated the outsiders' technology into both their daily lives and military strategies.
Weapons, ranging from technological and mechanical to those enhanced by advanced magical knowledge, were now standard in the arsenal of the modern warrior. It was no longer strange to see a morning cup of tea brewed by the same tech that powered war mechs.
With this rapid change in the world, Emperor Burn found himself at a crossroads.
Gone were the days when a sturdy sword and a mean glare could conquer kingdoms. Now, if your warhorse couldn't sync with the battleships, you were living in the dark ages.
Thus, Burn realized it was time to upgrade his arsenal.
Don’t misunderstand. Of course Burn was more the type to admire a good ol’ sharpened stick. It was not that he liked the shiny new toys. But if you bring your army to a tech fight, showing up with enchanted swords and spell-casting wands, you’d get blasted with nuclear bombs.
The transition to tech-enhanced warfare wasn't entirely new to Burn. He'd dabbled in the outsiders' gadgets before, under the same principle that if you can't beat 'em, you might as well join 'em—or at least steal their stuff.
Protection of his people was the official line, after all. And if that meant his soldiers needed laser guns that also made espresso, so be it.
If Burn were to go to war alone, he might not need such advancements, but he was responsible for an army and a nation. Protecting his land and his people necessitated keeping pace with technological progress, making it not the first occasion Burn had acquired technology from the outsiders.
Well, at least, despite the downsides, the outsiders also brought with them a bunch of interstellar literaries. Some of them were intriguing, at least. Like the popular literature with Neo Armstrong Cyclone Jet Armstrong Cannon in it.
But this time was different. This time, Burn was after something far more elusive. AI. Not just any AI, though. Burn was in the market for an AI painting generator.
“Make her eyes sharper. And the color is off,” Burn sat on his throne, dictating how the AI should paint the figure in his mind.
He was clearly impatient, accustomed to battling more than just inaccurate illustration. "I said, that color, it's as if you've plucked it from a storm-lit day, not like—you little shit, lighter!"
Around him, the hall buzzed with ministers and aides, bewildered and curious. There they were, the crème de la crème of the empire, gathered not for matters of state or war, but for an art critique session led by none other than their Emperor.
"Why are we here?" Just to suffer? But no one dared to voice the second part. One aide whispered to another, watching their leader fuss over an AI painting. The problem was, he was obsessing over it as if the fate of the realm depended on the perfect shade of azure.
"Perhaps it's a new strategy," mused another, "distract the enemy with beauty before the battle."
The ministers shrug their shoulders. They were on the brink of war, and their emperor was busy doing unexplainable things. But Burn was never wrong. They knew it was for something.
Burn, oblivious to the murmurs, continued his meticulous instructions to the AI, demanding precision in capturing the ethereal beauty of the mysterious woman who haunted his thoughts.
The court looked on, puzzled, wondering if their mighty ruler had… gained a new hobby, all while the AI, the pinnacle of outsider technology, found itself at the mercy of an Emperor's artistic vision.
"Her hair, to the right—makes it flow that way!" Burn directed, brooking no argument at all. "The nose, taller and slimmer."
"Extend the eyelashes. They should be longer. And the jawline, make it softer," he continued, letting his commands echo off the ornate walls.
"The eyebrows should float, like clouds at dawn," he declared. "And the lips, make them red. No, wait—gradient! The inside must be a deeper red."
Amidst these demands, one could almost imagine the AI produced a virtual bead of sweat in its circuitry instead of decent art.
Generate! Generate! Generate!
Finally, after two painstaking hours, the most advanced and powerful AI painting generator at last succeeded...!
SLAM!
Emperor Burn abruptly slammed the handrest of his throne and spat, "Not pretty enough!"
Bruh. What did you expect?
“You clanker!”
Pulverizing in his throne, the man couldn’t believe this just made him more frustrated than his years in the loops.
However, the truth was that Burn had meticulously captured every feature of the mysterious woman with utmost precision. The pores of her skin, the subtlest beauty marks. Just…
It was still incomparable to the vivid image he held in his mind.
The woman who had ensnared him in this time loop... that fucking woman...
"Why was she so beautiful?"
After two long hours of anticipation, Burn's quiet musing made the courtiers' ears perk up.
Could this finally be their empress...? Were they witnessing his search for the lady of the house...?
"It's her face, but she barely looks alive. That woman's visage is too devastatingly gorgeous to be captured by this cheap AI," Burn clicked his tongue upon realizing the AI had reached its limit, unable to surpass its maximum capability.
Well, that was enough for now.
"Transfer this painting to paper and begin the search for the woman who resembles this. But remember, the real her is far more beautiful than this crude depiction," Burn commanded.
"Yes, Your Majesty! We will search for Her Majesty the Empress—"
"If you find her, cut off all her limbs and throw her into the dungeon," Burn coldly declared.
The man stood from his throne, continued, “Now, let us restart the war.”
This would be Burn's latest game plan. The moment she dared show her face, the order was clear. Off with her limbs, but let's keep the grim reaper at bay.
Because, of course, Burn wanted to know. Why did she do it? Why him? Arguably, these questions haunted him more than the prospect of redecorating his empire for the umpteenth time in three years.
Why? You can’t believe it? The ‘three more years’? Please, that was just a blip in the grand scheme of things for Burn. After all, what's a bit of temporal turmoil to a man who's faced down intergalactic armies? Right? Riiiiiight?
“True.”
See? It’s ya bo—alright, stop glaring at me. Come on, can’t a narrator hype up the protagonist? Be thankful the Author didn’t write you in the first person voice, you little shit. I’m better than most narrators in the world!
Right? Riiiiiight? Hey—don’t leav—
Tch.
Hmm. Ahem, ahem.
Speaking about three more years, sure, this detour from conquering Nethermere to playing cat and mouse with a time-manipulating witch might seem like a slight... misallocation of imperial resources.
But, priorities, right?
How dare she, indeed. How dare a woman with the audacity to wield such power think she could just put Burn, the tyrant emperor, in a time-out corner?
However, given the potential for a butterfly effect, he needed to anticipate where and when this woman would emerge in the current loop. Preparation was key.
Before she could take her own life—no, even before she screamed his full name!
This time—
“Caliburn Soul—”
SLASH! SLASH! SLASH!
SPLATT! SPLATTER!
He would cut off her limbs.
After all, Burn was a man of his words.
Ahhh, we’ve finally come to this!
Time skips really are neat, right? Another three years had passed, and it was time for the plot to roll again.
Once again, the battlefield lay in ruins under a sky so red it seemed like the sun was having a sale on the atmosphere.
Among the wreckage, the latest in mech and tech warfare were now nothing more than oversized paperweights, scattered across the land like the universe's most depressing yard sale.
Here and there, warriors and mages alike shared the ground, their final resting places marked by their own unique dead body poses that suggested they were all part of a very lethargic flash mob. Night night.
And there, amidst the chaos, stood Emperor Burn, his sword crumbling in his grip, rasply whispering in its dying breath, "I've had enough of this, thank you very much." for the FOURTH time.
But lo and behold, ladies and gentlemen! Before Burn, the solitary figure in this scene, the man who believed a good sword swing could solve all life's problems as long as it was his sword, in his hand, swung by him—lay a woman.
Our witch.
“My witch.”
Ahem. Fine. Yours, yours. Fine. Jealous ass.
