44 - Not as Dangerous as You

Eschewing the predictable route to Edensor Capital, Burn and Momo opted for a jaunt straight to the Elysian kingdom—a whimsical detour that turned their journey into a nearly 48-hour marathon, punctuated by necessary pauses for 'rest and other things'.

Burn seemed perpetually unfazed, while Momo, despite being about as comfortable as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, didn't voice a single complaint.

Truly, the epitome of grace under pressure—or perhaps she just lost her complaint department's number.

By the 40th hour, with the persistence of a particularly stubborn barnacle, they finally caught up with the army commanded by Yvain.

The young king, who seemed as knee-deep in paperwork in the middle of the war, was frantically gathering information and reports.

The Soulnaught army, a fearsome assembly of might and magic, stood ready, bristling with the raw power of seasoned warriors and magical adepts.

It was a sight to freeze the blood of their enemies: banners fluttering like the pulse of a dragon's wing, armor gleaming under the sun in a silent threat, and the air thick with the promise of impending doom.

Yvain, flanked by an impressive cadre of generals freshly drafted from Edensor, managed the chaos with the flair of a circus ringmaster.

These generals brought not just additional muscle but a certain gravitas—after all, it's not every day that one gets to see such an illustrious gathering outside of an epic bard's tale.

Marquis Reune was standing beside Yvain when he witnessed the grand entrance of Burn. With all the subtlety of a storm breaking, Burn strode into the strategy meeting tent, Momo cradled in his arms.

"Sir, th-this… His Majesty has…"

Marquis Reune's mouth was agape.

The infamous Morgan Le Fay, known far and wide for her legendary strength, seemed to have taken a brief detour from her usual mystique to play the role of a distressed damsel.

As Burn carried her into the tent, her blonde hair swayed with a life of its own, catching the sunlight and scattering it like a personal entourage of fireflies dedicated to making her look good at all hours.

Her face, a masterpiece of fatigue touched with a charming blush, suggested she might have just run a marathon in her dreams.

Yet, despite appearing as though she might crumple at any moment from the sheer weight of her own eyelashes, there was an undeniable magic about her. 

Her eyes, a blue so clear that the sky might file a lawsuit for identity theft, peeked out from beneath those lashes, capturing hearts and probably a few souls.

It was enchanting, really, how someone could look both like they needed a good nap and as if they might command the very stars to rearrange themselves with a mere flicker of those cerulean depths. 

Truly, Morgan Le Fay, even in her most disheveled state, managed to look ethereally beautiful—like a goddess who had decided to slum it with mortals for a day, just for the divine giggles—

"Master…?"

There she was, Morgan Le Fay, not just a figment of imagination but very much in the flesh, and looking like she'd just stepped out of an epic saga—albeit one about napping beauties.

It had been three years since she vanished into whatever mystical sabbatical she'd taken, leaving behind nothing but whispered rumors and an unfillable void in leadership that Yvain had awkwardly tried to plug.

Now here she was, in the arms of Burn, who looked as if he'd wrestled a tornado and then ran a marathon through a sandstorm.

Disheveled? The understatement of the century. Irritated? If looks could kill, his glare would have already set the tent on fire.

Yet, despite resembling a walking, grumbling storm cloud, Burn had the decency to deliver the missing enchantress like a courier with an express delivery.

Yvain, overcome with emotion, dashed forward, arms outstretched for a reunion hug that would have made cinematic history. "Master!!"

He exclaimed, tears practically forming crystalline structures in his eyes.

GRASP!

However, the touching scene was abruptly paused by Burn's palm, which met Yvain's face with the subtlety of a stop sign. 

"HMPH!"

"HWAT? L-LET ME GWPH!"

Burn, a tired spirit from behind Momo, whose arms clung to him with the tenacity of ivy, effectively barricaded any further attempts at group affection.

The palm-face interface was a clear, if not particularly gentle, reminder that personal space was still a concept, even in such heartwarming reunions.

"Get back, I'm tired."

Yvain, halted mid-hug, his face squished comically against Burn's hand, could only blink in startled confusion, his emotional runway abruptly cut short.

Ah, right, his master looked incredibly tired right now.

Burn breezed past Yvain, depositing Momo into the main chair with the casual air of someone dropping off dry cleaning.

"I'm taking over," he declared with the kind of authority that suggested he wasn't just talking about the chair. "The Edensor delegation can pack up their toys. Escort King Yvain and the Infinite Witch off the battlefield."

"Galahad! Everyone, front and center in ten minutes—"

"Your Majesty," Momo interrupted, her fingers latching onto Burn's sleeve just as he started to turn away. He swiveled back, a picture of impatience, but her gaze was filled with concern. "I saw everything. Will you be okay?"

Ah, the White Dwarf. The weapon so potent it could send the planet to oblivion with a mere sneeze of its full power.

A weapon harnessing the rage of a contained stellar core, so monumentally powerful and absurdly compact, you'd think it was a cosmic joke.

The sheer audacity to deploy such a universe-ending party favor on the ground was enough to make any sane person check if they'd accidentally wandered into a badly scripted sci-fi thriller.

Burn, faced with Momo's wide-eyed worry, might have wanted to reassure her with something soothing—like how standing next to a weapon that could potentially vaporize them wasn't the worst way to spend a Tuesday.

But really, what do you say in the face of such apocalyptic firepower?

What happened in the previous loop was merely a teaser, a mere tickle compared to the White Dwarf's full tantrum. Blasting off her head with that almost undodgeable power was using just 0.000000001% of its full capabilities.

To put that into perspective, that's like using a peashooter in a nuclear war—quaint, but hardly the main event.

It's crazy to think that such a weapon appeared this early in the game. It's like bringing a chainsaw to a butter knife fight—overkill doesn't even begin to cover it.

"Isn't it better if you're completely out of my sight?" Burn quipped, trying to extricate his sleeve from her grasp.

Yet, Momo was not to be outdone. She switched tactics, grabbing his hand with an urgency that suggested she was clinging to the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.

"I don't want you to die, it's different if it's me. We still had time, so let me make an artifact to deflect the attack you receive to hit me instead. I… Caliburn… I…"

Her voice wavered.

As her trembling voice trailed off into uncertainty, the warmth from her hand crept into the icy aloofness of his, a stark contrast that could have melted glaciers—or at least thawed his chilly disposition.

Her expression was a live painting of desperation, eyes glistening with hysteria. The silence that followed was thick enough to slice with a knife.

"Momo, did you forget something?" Burn sighed, his tone dripping with the kind of exasperation usually reserved for a parent who's found yet another forgotten lunchbox.

With a slight maneuver, he brought Yvain into view.

The poor boy looked like he'd been caught in a rainstorm of his own tears, silently crying as he eavesdropped on their conversation.

The emotional weight of his first reunion with his master after such a long separation was clearly more than he had bargained for.

"W-what is going to happen? What is happening? A-are you going to die too? H-His Majesty Burn… Master too?"

Yvain stammered, his voice a shaky collage of fear and confusion. His questions hung in the air, each one layered with the kind of dread that could easily stab someone in the feels.

Here stood their young king, grappling with the potential loss of not just one, but possibly both of his mentors in one fell swoop—like his parents.

"...Ain…" Momo grasped her chest, grimacing.

"Enough." Burn's voice was impatient. "Haven't you already rummaged through my memories? I've fought the White Dwarf before."

The man sighed at her. "It's not as dangerous as you."

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