Ahhh, we’ve finally e to this!

  In a se that could only be described as a tethusiast's worst nightmare, once again, the battlefield y in ruins under a sky so red it seemed like the sun was having a sale omosphere.

  Among the wreckage, the test in med tech warfare were now nothing more than oversized paperweights, scattered across the nd like the world's most depressing yard sale.

  Here and there, warriors and mages alike shared the ground, their final resting pces marked not by heroic stances but by poses that suggested they were all part of a very lethargic fsh mob.

  And there, amidst the chaos, stood Emperor Burn, his sword crumbling in his grip as if to say, "I've had enough of this, thank you very much." for the FOURTH time.

  But lo and behold, before this solitary figure—Burn, the man who believed a good sword swing could solve all life's problems—y a woman.

  Not just any woman, but the architect of his time-travel woes, now rendered limbless in a bid to keep her from her usual party trick: killing herself and sending him back to square one.

  “Huhuhu…”

  Burn's ughter began as a low rumble, akin to a dormant volo waking from a long slumber. His deep voice, usually reserved for ands and threats, found a new expression in the form of a chuckle that echoed off the desote battlefield.

  “Huhuh heh, hahaha…”

  As the chuckles grew, they cascaded into a ugh so rid urai bordered on the unhinged.

  “Hahaha!”

  Burn threw his head back, the remnants of his once mighty sword fotten at his side, as his ughter spiraled into hysteria. His shoulders shook with each bellow of mirth, a physical testament to the absurdity of his triumph.

  “HAHAHAHA!”

  There he was, the mighty emperor, reduced to a figure of manic joy. In this moment, Burn wasn't just ughing at his capture of the woman; he was ughing at the ic joke that had bee his life.

  Ah, what a sight they made—like a twisted rendition of 'Beauty and the Beast,' if the Beast's curse involved a sisyphean situation of time loop and the Beauty couldn't run away because, well, someoook the liberty of ensuring she couldn't make a ‘quick exit’.

  Or a, for that matter.

  But, it wasn’t like she wouldn’t die.

  The only difference was, it would be Burn who would dictate her life or death now.

  Before him, the woman y on the ground, a stark figure against the charred battlefield. Her dition was a grim testament to Burn's resolve to halt the cycle that had tormented him.

  Breathing heavily, shock painted on her features, she was a vivid embodiment of the flict's brutal reality. Arouhe air hung heavy with the aftermath of battle, the st of metal and magitertwining with the earthy aroma of the disturbed nd.

  Burn approached, his expression a plex tapestry of triumph and solemnity. The grim set of his mouth belied the victory he felt; this was not a triumph born of glory, but of y.

  "You failed to call my full name and kill yourself," he remarked, his voice carrying a weight that echoed the gravity of their endless dahrough time. In his hand, he held not the sword that had seen tless battles but a spare, its bde catg the light of the dying day.

  “Why?” Burn asked. “Why did you do this to me?”

  The womae her dire state, looked up at Burn with a gaze that held an unfathomable depth. As he decred the end of their shared torment, a subtle smile graced her features—

  She had no iion of answering, no. Burn saw the sign that she was going to bite off her own too it suicide!

  “I won’t let you!”

  STAB!

  Burn wedged his bde between her jaws, staring deep into her eyes.

  “Now, die.”

  ***

  BLINK!

  Chirp…! Chirp chirp…

  Rustle…

  KNOOCK!

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

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

  Burn didn’t even feel like getting out of his bed.

  Ahh, what a peaceful start to the day. Beautiful m sky, birds chirping, singing a song he knew all too well. Yet, this calm was not just the m's gift; it was the quiet after the storm of enlighte.

  He had been thrust bato the past once again.

  fusion clouded his mind. Wasn’t the ritual supposed to be inplete? The woman, the architect of his cyclical torment, hadn’t mao utter his full name, hadn’t mao kill herself. So, what twisted strand of fate had flung him back to this point in time?

  Questions spiraled in his mind as he y there. The loop persisted, an enigma ed in the munday of a new day.

  Why did the cycle decide to tio ensnare him? iece of the puzzle was he missing? The m’s tranquility now mocked him with its normalcy, and he cursed.

  “Fu—”

  “Your Majesty…? Are you alright?”

  “Shut up, Gahad.”

  This would be the fourth loop. Huh? Was it? If the inal timeline was ted, then, this would be his fifth time having to redo the war.

  "Hand me a sketchbook and some charcoal. Inform someoo ready a vas and a set of oil paints for tomorrow. Summon our strategist and the intelligence bureau. We will ehe war in three days."

  Burn’s order was fast, effective aiculous. His deep voice didn’t lose its freezing point.

  Gahad, initially baffled by Burn’s list of requests, was qui his feet. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  In the end, Burn didn’t pletely waste two to three years of his st loop. The mome his hands on the sketchbook and charcoal, he started drawing her face.

  Three years of relentless, realistic drawing training had transformed him. Who would have thought? Burn, the man famed for his martial prowess, not only possessed hand-eye coordination otlefield, but also emerged as the tury's unsung genius is.

  As he sketched the woman's face, it was as if every stroke of charcoal was a stroke of master. The lines flowed under his and, meticulously capturing the essence of her beauty.

  Shading her eyes with the precision of a man who had seen too much, yet suddenly found himself pying in the realms of shadow and light. He only drew her face from memory for all those years, after all.

  Her lips, oh, how he bored over them, ensuring the curve was just right, a cruel mimicry of her smile that haunted him.

  But let's not fet the eyebrows, sketched with an arch that suggested surprise or perhaps perpetual bemusement at the turn of events.

  "Floating like clouds at dawn," he'd insist, though ah a sense of aesthetics might question his metaphorical accuracy.

  In the end, as Burn leaned baire his work, one could almost detect a hint of pride. A sarcastic but cold chuckle escaped him.

  “This time, witch, let’s talk. I really won’t let you die before you talk,” he whispered.

  “But how would I get you to speak?”