Hissing fire.
Small explosions.
Wind carrying the scent of death.
Once a gorgeous site, the battleground was now a masterclass in colors of crimson and burned flair.
Not to be outdone, the sky decided red was actually its color, matching the destructive fireworks display below to perfection.
The battleships and mechas that stole the show have turned into giant lawn ornaments. Did they actually bring the room together? One might suggest?
Once shining in their technologically advanced armor, soldiers now lay trying to make out the not-so-ancient ruins.
And magicians, magicians, magicians! With wands of rare space ore in hand, they lay there definitively demonstrating that magic was not a panacea.
Especially not for war.
Especially not for him.
What? You're asking what odor was that? Ah, indeed, everything was blazing, and the delicious scent of victory permeated the air. Thus, there had been time to enjoy the silence as the last flame had burned out and the last drone had buzzed away.
There was a man standing in the middle of what seemed like the remnants of a cosmic clearance sale.
Not just any man, but one who appeared to have made a false turn while traveling to a post-apocalyptic, high-end photo session.
His white hair, which seemed to be radiating an ethereal light, provided a striking, almost beautiful contrast to the devastation all around it. Those golden eyes, too? Totally unfazed by the mayhem all around him, he shone with the cool assurance of someone who has just discovered the last slice of cake in a conflict zone.
There he was, standing like he owned the place, probably contemplating the eternal question: "To brunch or not to brunch?" amidst the carnage.
As fires raged and remnants of what once were fluttered in the acrid breeze, he remained as nonchalant as someone deciding on a latte or tea.
It was all as expected, of course. After all, he was him.
There stood Emperor Burn. His nonchalance let him seem as if he thought the blood soaked ground was his personal red carpet.
Not one to miss a beat in the political drama of Nethermere, he had turned his battlefield into a statement piece.
He said, clearly amused by the chaos around him, "You allow those outsiders to entice you with flashy technology and create wedges between us."
"You could have sworn loyalty to me, but you prioritized technology over people. What a disappointment, Wintersin Empire."
His sword, reduced to a glorified stick, was lying mounted on the blood-soaked ground.
"Ah, my faithful companion," he groaned, his shoulders bearing the weight of the world, or at least the weight of the destruction of his weapon.
This was a guy who had seen entire civilizations collapse and innumerable enemies perish, yet he grieved over a chunk of metal like a little child grieves over a broken toy.
"It's been quite the party, hasn't it?" He smirked as he made a joke, directed at nobody in particular.
But alas, it was the end of the road for his sword, a loss that seemed to sting more than the countless assets and lives he had laid to waste.
"More than any siege or skirmish, it's you, my trusty blade, that I'll pine for. What's an emperor without his sword? Just a man with a very expensive piece of metal, I suppose."
His sword started to crumble to dust.
It reminded him of the civil war some years ago. He killed his brother with his own two hands.
"You're not the king's son! I, Clarent, am his only son!"
It was before those invaders came.
Despite not being the real son of the king, he still killed his brother, the one with the real royal bloodline. Well, it wasn't like he knew before that he wasn't of the bloodline. He was raised as one nevertheless.
Burn recalled how it was similar to today. The red sky, the body scattered about… except the space junks and fancy tech he destroyed.
"It has been an eventful decade…"
Yes, since he was crowned the King, killed his brother for his rebellion in the civil war, stopped the invaders, and declared himself the emperor of the Soulnaught Empire.
Even if time turned back to a decade ago, he would still do the same.
He would change nothing.
With the collapse of the Wintersin Empire, the entire continent now lay within his grasp. And soon the world too…
Just as Burn was about to call it a day on the battlefield, hoping to catch up with his troops who were off having their own little skirmish elsewhere, a shadow flickered.
A woman.
Burn's first reaction to it—no, his first thought when he saw what it was was… 'beautiful'.
Blocking his path, she drew her blade with a flourish. Then, in a move that would leave even the most avant-garde playwright scratching their head, she screamed his full name—"Caliburn Soulnon Pendragon!"
SLICE!
Burn widened his eyes.
As she stood there, blocking his way, her face twisted in a visage of pure hatred, eyes ablaze with a fury that could ignite the very air. Then, with a sudden, eerie calm, she drew her blade across her own throat.
SPLAT!
Blood spilled on the already blood soaked ground. Red on top of the red, yet it looked redder than the charred ground.
Her face changed at that very instant, from hatred to a frantic, disturbing smile, as if, in her dying breath, she had accepted some sinister, twisted triumph.
It had a lasting influence, carving a raw, emotional anguish into her features before giving way to a terrifying peace.
And Burn—
***
Chirp…! Chirp chirp…
Rustle…
"Ugh!"
BLINK!
Burn suddenly opened his eyes, finding himself in the familiar surroundings of his room, on his bed.
"A dream?"
It was as if time had folded upon itself; one moment he was on the battlefield, and the next, he was here, the transition as seamless as a blink.
Remarkably composed, he stood up, his brain reeling with confusion. Drawing the boundaries of his reality with the brushstrokes of a dream, his thoughts kept going back to the vivid picture of the woman he had seen.
She was ethereal, an almost unearthly embodiment of beauty. Her beautiful blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders in a graceful manner, framing her face like liquid sunshine.
Her lofty stature and sharp, curvaceous figure conveyed a contradiction that combined strength and tenderness in equal measure. She moved with grace and fluidity in every motion, giving the impression that she was untouched by agitation or hurry.
Her eyes were the most noticeable feature; they were a deep blue that, on the clearest of days, matched the sky. They radiated a radiance, a brilliance that appeared to overwhelm her surroundings and overwhelm everything else in their shadow.
Burn observed a range of emotions reflected in those eyes, including fierceness, despair, resolve, and an eerie depth that suggested she held secrets as enormous as the oceans.
Burn sat on his bed, her appearance imprinted in detail in his memory with unexpected precision. Even though it might have been a dream, she felt as real to him as the air he breathed.
He felt confused, but also as though something precious had been taken from him by waking. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.
No.
She cut her own throat in front of him.
She robbed herself from him. Even in a dream—
KNOCK-KNOCK!
The door to his room was opened, and a man he knew as his closest aide entered.
"Your Majesty, the preparation for the war is complete."
Burn raised his eyebrows. "Huh?"
Wasn't the war… already over?