The Rot Needed Pruning
THUD! THUD-THUD—
Oooo, ominous. What was that, you asked? I need to stop introducing Burn with ‘ya boi’ or ‘our boi’ again because we’ve started to introduce a literal child in this story, so, I’ll just cut the commentary short.
It was Burn’s metal heeled shoes. It’s metal as fuck, I know. But wearing it is heavy, and it’ll never let you be stealthy ever again. Well, not that Burn would ever need to be stealthy in his life.
He strolled down the opulent corridors of Edensor's royal palace. Seemingly on a mission. With him here, the palace seemed almost to shrink under his imposing presence. And it too would soon be under his command. Completely.
In the end, correcting Edensor’s political mess was a chore. That was not the main goal.
His goal for this loop was to locate Morgan, coerce her into lifting the curse, and reset 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.
"How could you do this, Your Majesty, as the king?!" one courtier bellowed.
"You are a disgrace! Just to keep your title, you sell your nation!" accused another.
"What would the late King and Queen say...!" chimed in a third.
"In the end, you're still a child!" concluded another.
Fingers kept wagging so vigorously at the young king, all seemed at risk of taking flight. Ahh, hypocrites. What were they thinking? That if they invoked the deceased royals, those ghosts might, at any moment, offer a posthumous thumbs down? Their tone, oh, how righteous, so condescending it typically reserved for explaining complex issues to toddlers
These were the same luminaries who would flip allegiances faster than a pancake on a hot pan at the hint of Burn's assault, yet here they were, casting stones at Yvain for being a coward who allegedly sold out the kingdom to save his own skin.
Sweet, sweet irony. It was thicker than the palace walls. Their faces.
Burn couldn’t help but smirk as he stood against the doorway beyond that charade.
They bellowed about honor and duty from behind a veil of imminent betrayal, ready to jump ship at the first sign of trouble, yet vilifying a boy for making a strategic choice in the face of overwhelming force.
Yvain, for all his youth and inexperience, was making a decision they never had the courage to face, the choice between a crown and a cage.
And as the verbal stones flew, Burn pondered the amusing spectacle of loyalty in this royal theater, where every actor knew their lines but none believed them.
“Silence!”
BLAAST!
The command thundered through the hall, not from the lips of an elder statesman but from the young king himself, Yvain.
Accompanying his decree was a tangible, forceful blast of mana that surged like a tempest unleashed.
Burn's eyebrows shot up. Intrigued. The raw power of the blast swept through the ornate doors. The hall, a crucible of courtly strife just moments before, was momentarily stilled by the display of raw magical prowess.
As expected of that woman’s disciple.
This wave of energy was powerful enough to send his hair and coat fluttering backwards, as if caught in a sudden gale.
Was it temper? Perhaps not. It was also part of the strategy.
“How dare you invoke my late parents in this debacle? Who among you presumes to know their will better than their own son?”
His words, laden with scorn, challenged the presumptions of his critics, calling into question their audacity to speculate on royal decisions.
Yes. Good job.
“And let’s not forget,” Yvain continued, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the gathered courtiers, “without my master here to guide us, what would your actions be if Emperor Burn were to attack? Would you not be the first to turn your coats, scrambling to curry favor from him?”
Kek. Exactly. A 100%. Bet on it.
Here, Yvain’s challenge laid bare the fickle nature of his court’s allegiance, underscoring the precariousness of his position surrounded by fair-weather followers ready to forsake him at the hint of adversity.
How could it not?
The young boy sighed. In this case, Burn was right.
Yvain was young, but if he wanted to be a benevolent leader, he needed strong support. But that foundation was eroded away with the disappearance of his master.
Bereft of this crucial backing, his wish to govern with kindness was compromised. 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 Morgan Le Fay was a privilege, giving him strength to govern benevolently. He also wondered whether his parents had faced similar 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 was opened, and Yvain descended from his throne.
“Welcome, Your Majesty, Emperor Burn of Soulnaught,” Yvain bowed in front of the mighty conqueror. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Burn smiled. It wasn’t bad gaining a smart boy as his subordinate.
Approaching the bowing boy, he asked, “Are you ready for a good pruning?”
The young boy raised his face, smiling, “Yes.”
***
Behold the latest concoction from the kitchens of intergalactic commerce! The new and improved battle mech armor, a veritable titan among tin cans!
It stood at a towering, why-even-bother-with-ladders height, having ditched the quaint charm of its 8'5" predecessors for a bulkier, brawnier build that promised to make doors everywhere tremble in their frames.
Where the first version pranced around battlefields with the delicate grace of a ballet dancer, the latest model thundered across the terrain like a four-legged tank on a caffeine binge.
Its sturdy exoskeleton was forged from a new, unpronounceable alloy. Hey, why bother with the details? You just need to know it’s strong!
This new suit was not just a pretty face with an intimidating body either. It was smarter, too!
Equipped with an AI co-pilot, the mech could make tactical decisions faster than a politician disavowing past statements!
And look! Its weapon systems had been upgraded from "mildly alarming" to "do we really need a tactical nuke for a sidearm?" levels of firepower, ensuring that whatever it pointed at became a poignant historical footnote.
Control-wise, the designers apparently decided that the previous interface, which required three doctoral degrees and a sacrificial offering to operate, was perhaps a tad inaccessible.
The new controls were as easy as playing a video game!
Well, the only downgrade was, if you want to power this marvel of destructive efficiency, you couldn’t just use your grandma's AA battery pack, you needed a miniature fusion reactor. Yeah, you needed to buy it occasionally too. Ahhh… what a money pit. But again, hey! It’s strong!
In summary, if you ever dreamed of striding into battle encased in several tons of sci-fi superiority, all while casually obliterating obstacles with the nonchalance of swatting a fly, this latest battle mech armor wasn’t just your ride, it was your throne!
“Let’s buy them.”
In an office, trimmed with the kind of opulence that suggested 'money is no object', a man leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the weight of his decision.
Oh, who is this mystery character? Guess with me.
Look at him, facing a group of individuals dressed in transparent blue robes that still reflect the light to hide what’s under.
"We'll take 20," he declared with a casual flick of his wrist. Rich! Filthy rich!
The futuristically dressed sales team barely masked their glee. My, oh, my.
"And what will be the cost?" the office-dwelling magnate inquired, bored.
The lead salesman, his smile sharp enough to slice through starship hulls, replied, "A fortune, sir. We require payment in pure, highest-grade mana stones straight from the mine. Three years worth of production."
“That’s basically thievery," the buyer mused, swirling his drink. "Very well, consider it done."
As the sales team departed, visions of virgin mana stones dancing in their heads, the man chuckled to himself.
"Better be worth their weight in gold," he muttered.
Just when the man was about to celebrate his purchase, the polished doors of the office swung open again.
This time, it was to usher in the worried visage of the butler, a man as finely groomed as the gardens of the palace and equally as rigid.
"Your Grace, buying this much modern weapon could be seen as treason to the kingdom..." he ventured cautiously, his voice carrying the tremor of a leaf in a hurricane.
"And who would dare accuse me of such a thing?" retorted who? Let me introduce you, the Duke of Velaryon, his sneer ugly and cold.
Velaryon, a duchy known less for its beauty and more for its machinations and power plays within the Edensor Kingdom.
"The king of this kingdom is my nephew. And only a twelve-year-old boy," he scoffed. "Yvain is smart enough not to intervene in his maternal uncle’s business. If he’s being a good boy, wouldn’t he get one or two good things from us too?"
