It was plete silen the hall that day.

  There sat Burn, on his throne, a picture al calm with a side of simmering rage. Before him k a sea of ministers, nobles, aides, and knights, eae trying not to look like they were desperately w how to escape this test episode of "Guess the Date with Emperor Burn."

  "Again," Burn said, his voice smooth and somewhat menag. "What's the date?"

  One of his closest aides, a man who had obviously bee a bad hand in life, stood up. He replied with the forbearance of a saint and the resignation of someone who's tried to expin daylight savings time to a two-year-old. Once more.

  Burn hummed in response, a sound that somehow mao vey both aowledgement and the threat of a dragon deg whether now was a good time for a barbecue.

  The hall, collectively holding its breath, heard not a hum but a growl, a not-so-gentle reminder of the thin liween royal curiosity and "off with his head."

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

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

  That thought ran through Burn's mind like a runaway carriage, but heaven forbid he voice it out loud. Being beled the Emperor with a Loose Screw wasly on his to-do list.

  This was the time before he started the war!

  Imagine all the blood, sweat, and, let's not fet, theatrical monologues that went into quering the realm, only to have it all be for nothing. Poof! disappeared with the grace of a person tripping over a banana peel.

  Before he had even begun the flict that would turn him into a legend, here he was, right back where he had started. He saw the irony; it was almost as if the universe had chosen to pull the biggest practical joke ever.

  He wao curse, to yell, to give the sky the finger. All his hard work was erased by some ic backspace key.

  His empire, painstakingly built, reag the far ends of the ti, seizing the st nation like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle—gone.

  The frustration of having his imperial tapestry unraveled before it was even woven was enough to make him want to flip not just a table, but the entire heavenly table the skies rested upon. But as, there he sat, in his pre-quest glory, silently seething, a tempest tained within the calm before the actual storm.

  It was all to make sure everything didn't fall to the hands of the outsiders… So why, heavens?!

  “Show me my sword.”

  Burn demanded, ging to the hope that this was all an eborate prank by his court. Because, of course, staging an eborate prank involving time travel was entirely within the realm of possibility for them, right?

  The entire room hustled, a flurry of movement, as his aides scrambled to fetch the sword. And there it reseo him with the reverence due to a sacred relic.

  “This… little shit…!”

  Burn was fbbergasted.

  His sword.

  His trusty bde, looking as robust and sturdy as the day it was fed. No signs of wear, no hint of the crumbling to dust it had supposedly succumbed to after that final battle against the Wintersin Empire.

  The sword before him was a masterpiece crafted by that illustrious dwarf bcksmith, known far and wide for his refusal to repeat a design or share his trade secrets.

  The materials alone were as rare as a humble politi, impossible to find and even more impossible to replicate!

  So, this was it—the undeniable proof. He wasn't losing his mind; he had actually been hurled ba time. Not a prank orchestrated by his court, but by the universe itself.

  "Great, just great," he thought. "Of all the ic jokes to pull, the universe chose time fug travel…!"

  As the realization sank in, Burn couldn't help but marvel at the absurdity of his situation. There he was, the fearsome Emperor, brought to a moment of sheer disbelief not by an enemy's bde or a traitor's deceit, but by the very existence of his undamaged, defiantly intact sword.

  Okay, let’s calm down.

  It could be that the memory of the future was a dream, right?

  No, that would be even more absurd. His braiained all those memories, down to the smallest detail. All the decisions, the intricacy of humaions, fate dominoing, risks, and achievements—everything was too real to be called a mere dream.

  Dream?

  A fsh of blonde immediately bothered his mind.

  Blue eyes…

  Deranged smile!

  That woman… Who was she?

  The moment she appeared, Bur something indescribable. Fasation, admiration, and then… bck.

  He blinked and suddenly, he was awakehis m.

  But how?

  Well, there was no point iioning something now unanswered. He must do it all ain, but this time, let’s do it eveer. Let’s do it faster, more effectively, more decisively.

  “Fihe’s restart the war.”

  Burn decred to himself, probably making history as the only person to ever sound as casual about restarting a war as one might be about rebooting a stubborn puter.

  Rising from his throne, he seized his sword—the ohat was supposed to be as dead as his enemies' ces but was now inexplicably alive and kig.

  With the air of a man who’s just remembered he’s got a future to rewrite, Burn started to refine his pn. It wasn’t every day you got to take a mulligan on your own life’s work, after all.

  “This kingdom, that kingdom… this hat oo!”

  He summoned his strategist and anded his intelligence bureau to firm the information he knew from three years iure. Because, of course, who wouldn’t want a sneak peek at the exam papers before the test?

  Orders flew left and right, even before the war drums had started beating. It was like watg someone prepare for a party that hadn’t been announced yet—setting up the decorations, chilling the drinks, and ying out the welat fuests who had no idea they were even invited.

  “Crush them all before they even realize it!”

  ***

  “Caliburn Soulnon Pendragon!”

  SLASH!

  “Huh?”

  ***

  BLINK!

  Chirp…! Chirp chirp…

  Rustle…

  “What the fuck…?”

  He was back… once again.