Burn waged a war in a transitional world.

  Every authority had ied the outsiders' teology into both their daily lives and military strategies. ing from teological and meical to those enhanced by advanced magical knowledge—were now standard in the arsenal of the modern warrior.

  In a world where even the m cup of tea could be brewed by the same tech that powered war mechs, Emperor Burn found himself at a crossroads.

  Gohe days when a sturdy sword and a mean gre could quer kingdoms. Now, if your warhorse couldn't sync with the battleships, you were living in the dark ages.

  Burn, with all the enthusiasm of a cat taking a bath, realized it was time to upgrade his arsenal.

  Not because he fancied pying with shioys—oh no. Burn was more the type to admire a good ol’ sharpeick. But apparently, when y an army to a tech fight, showing up with ented swords and spell-casting wands is sidered "vintage chic" rather than practical.

  The transition to tehanced warfare wasirely o Burn. He'd dabbled isiders' gadgets before, uhe same principle that if you 't beat 'em, you might as well join 'em—or at least steal their stuff.

  Prote of his people was the official line, after all. And if that meant his soldiers needed ser guns that also made espresso, so be it.

  If Buro go to war alone, he might not need such advas, but he was responsible for an army and a nation. Proteg his nd and his people ated keeping pace with teological progress, making it not the first occasion Burn had acquired teology from the outsiders.

  But this time was different. This time, Burn wasn't just shopping for the test in armor-pierg rounds or cloaks that doubled as Wi-Fi hotspots.

  No, he was after something far more elusive: AI. Not just any AI, though. Burn was in the market for an AI painting geor.

  “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.

  His voice was dripping with the impatience of a man aced to battling more than just artistiaccuracies. "I said that color—it's as if you've plucked it from a dreary day, not her vibrant gaze."

  Around him, the hall buzzed with ministers and aides, their expressions a mix of bewilderment and curiosity. There they were, the crème de crème of the empire, gathered not for matters of state or war, but for an art critique session led by her than their Emperor.

  "Why are we here?" whispered one aide to another, watg their leader fuss over an AI painting as if the fate of the realm depended on the perfect shade of azure.

  "Perhaps it's a rategy," 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 unexpihings. But Burn was never wrong. They k was for something.

  Burn, oblivious to the murmurs, tinued his meticulous instrus to the AI, demanding precision in capturing the ethereal beauty of the mysterious woman who haunted his thoughts.

  The court looked on, puzzled, w if their mighty ruler had traded his sword for a brush, all while the AI, the pinnacle of outsider teology, found itself at the mercy of an Emperor's artistic vision.

  "Her hair, to the right—makes it flow that way!" Burn directed, his tone brooking nument. "The aller and slimmer."

  "Extend the eyeshes; they should be longer. And the jawline, make it softer," he tinued, his ands eg off the ornate walls.

  "The eyebrows should float, like clouds at dawn," he decred, a note of inspiration in his voice. "And the lips, make them red. No, wait—gradient! The inside must be a deeper red."

  Amidst these demands, one could almost imagihe AI, hesitating uhe weight of artistiand, a virtual bead of sweat f in its circuitry.

  Gee! Gee! Gee!

  Yet, after two painstaking hours, the most advanced and powerful AI painting geor at st succeeded...!

  SLAM!

  Emperor Burn abruptly smmed the ha of his throne and growled, "Not pretty enough!"

  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. Yet, it remained...

  Inparable to the vivid image he held in his mind.

  The woman who had ensnared him in this time loop... that fug 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 dy...?

  "It's her face, but she barely looks alive. That woman's vibrancy is too immeo be captured by this cheap AI. Tch!" Burn clicked his tongue upon realizing the AI had reached its limit, uo surpass its maximum capability.

  Well, that was enough, still.

  "Trahis 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 depi," Burn anded.

  "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 decred.

  The man stood from his throne, tinued, “Now, let us restart the war.”

  This would be Burn's test game pn. The moment she—the architect of his temporal prison—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 wao know. Why did she do it? Why him? These questions haunted him more than the prospect of redecorating his empire for the umpteenth time in three years.

  Three more years? Please, that was just a blip in the grand scheme of things for Burn. A mere extended vacation in his tumultun. After all, what's a bit of temporal turmoil to a man who's faced down armies?

  Sure, this detour from querihermere to pying cat and mouse with a time-maniputing 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 er?

  However, giveential for a butterfly effect, he o 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!

  Burn was a man of his words.