“Ah, right. Didn’t you also e for her?”

  Burn eyes widened.

  It had been a while sinething could surprise Burn to this degree. And to think that it was because of the same woman… heh.

  “You’re saying… she’s already…” Burn couldn’t trol the irritation in his chest. But if she already died, then he would’ve returned, right?

  “Accept His Highness’ kindness, you demon worshipers!” bellowed the prince’s right-hand man, his voice ced with dession.

  It was immediately met with a symphony of uproar from the crowd. Here es, the mob suggested—that the church receive a rapid, unscheduled renovation by fire! To the ground!

  "LEAVE! LEAVE! LEAVE!" They ted, their voices a harmonious blend of e.

  The dwellers of the church were enced, with the gentle subtlety of a sledgehammer, to pack their bags and explore the exg world of anywhere-but-here.

  “Evict yourselves, or be evicted!” they cried out.

  The air was thick with the perfume hteous indignation and the smoky essenpending arson, creating a festive atmosphere that really brought the neighborhood together.

  Ah, nothing says ‘unity’ quite like a good old-fashioned church burning, guided by the tender mercies of His Highness’ most gracious diplomacy.

  Yes.

  This was the pinnaedieval justice.

  But they didn't realize how much their as had invenienced a certain Mount Tai. This person was deep in thought, and their as disrupted that train of thought.

  Burn sighed. “ you shut up for a bit?”

  It was like a spell.

  Oh, the irony was delicious. One moment, the mob was a cacophony of curses and threats, the , an exquisite silence desded like a curtain at the end of a particurly tragic py.

  Their mouths were agape, a ical array of O’s and U’s, as if the cept of silence was an alien artifact they couldn’t quite prehend.

  It was as though an invisible hand—perhaps belonging to a particurly irked being—had reached down aly squeezed their throats shut. Not enough to harm, mind you, just enough to hush them into a stunned, breathless quiet.

  The knights, in their g armor, looked particurly foolish, like tin soldiers wound up for battle but suddenly bereft of their bravery.

  And the sed prince, oh the prince! His royal indignation at being silenced mid-pompoussy ortrait of thwarted arrogahat would have delighted the most ical of court painters.

  The force? Let's just say it had the subtle charm of a velvet glove with an iron fist inside. Absolutely terrifying.

  Still, it was nothing pared to what was ing.

  Previously cealed with his Force, deluding people of his presence, Burn emerged. Shedding his disguise, even a lot of the vampires got a chill from his entrance.

  Burn noticed that the knights, and even the sed prince himself, didn't possess much of the outsiders' teology.

  This indicated that they cked support from the imperial family or any signifit nobles, except perhaps the prince's maternal family, who might have grown tired of his antics.

  So he didn’t hold back.

  Tap!

  As he strode forward, each step a procmation of doom, the on folk did what any puny human would do in the fapending annihition—they colpsed backward in a rather unfttering dispy of bdder betrayal.

  No. Some even almost shit themselves. How the ground must have glistened with the sheen of fear itself!

  The ente was no less pathetic. The horses, those noble beasts of burden, transformed into skittish shadows of their former selves.

  NEIGH!

  WHEEZE!

  Their screams pierced the air, a symphony of high-pitched terror, as they danced backward in a clumsy ballet of panic. What a spectacle it was, a veritable circus with Burn as the ringmaster, anding dread arousers with mere footsteps.

  GASP!

  HA!

  PANT! PANT!

  A’s not fet the knights—the frozen statues of men! Their mouths agape, yet void of sound, as if someone had cruelly hit the mute button on their vocal cords.

  There they stood, a gallery of petrified souls before Burn’s presehe silence was so profound, one could almost hear the quiet whimper of their dignity, fleeing the se.

  As Burn approached the regal terpiece of this silent opera, the prince, mounted high upon his steed like a tin soldier on a toy horse, his fa?ade of bravery was as thin as the veneer on a cheap armoire.

  The steed, bless its equi, had apparently not signed up for this level of malice. With a frantic leap, worthy of the gra stages, it ued its royal burden.

  NEIGH! GRR!

  “AAAAAAAH!”

  THUD!!

  There y the prihe epitome of royal grace, sprawled in the dirt. His body writhing, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of his own mortality.

  As Burn closed in, each step a tolling bell of doom, the prince seemed to shrink smaller, a shriveling violet fronted by the golden white sun.

  Truly, if Burn was the god of death, then this pitiful se was his underworldly domain, a realm where pride came to whimper and bravery to wet itself.

  As the shadow of Burn loomed over the fallen prince, one could almost hear the faint echo of the underworld’s ughter, amused by the mortal py unfolding.

  “HO are you to DARE—!”

  SLAP!

  Burn’s palm nded successfully on the cheek of Prince Cletus.

  “Huh…?”

  The sp, as resounding as a judge's gavel, echoed through the courtyard, a sound so profound it could likely awaken the dead from their peaceful slumber.

  The impact was nothing short of seismiight say it had enough force to realign the very tis, or at least the dental figuration of our dear prince.

  As the prieeth wobbled precariously, like a drunkard on a tightrope, the flesh in his cheek gave up the ghost, rotting instantly as if touched by the dark hand of the Grim Reaper.

  Blood vessels, traumatized by subridled brutality, decided to clot in horror, f a small, morbid gregation at the site of impact.

  Oh, the knights and peasants alike bore wito this royal recalibration, their silence hanging heavy in the air—a dreadful, almost delicious silence.

  It was as if they were all collectively holding their breath, not daring to let even a single protest escape, lest they be in line for such a "noble" corre.

  "Ou DARE! OU DARE!" Despite losing half of his face, the prince felt no pain, adrenaline c through his veins. Uo flee, he stood his ground, screaming through his tears with a defiant, yet pompous air.

  And so,

  SLAP!!

  There you go, the sed sp—a symphony of disdain pyed out on the delicate vas of Prince Cletus' cheek.

  With a flourish less vigorous than its predecessor, it still mao resuscitate the pain from the initial assault, which had momentarily retreated into the shadows courtesy of the adrenaline.

  How thoughtful of Burn to orchestrate such a painful reminder.

  In that splendid interlude between pain and humiliation, Burn had, indeed, extended an olive branch disguised as a pause—perhaps a moment for refle or surrender.

  Yet, Prince Cletus, in his infinite wisdom and experience of beiually unopposed—save for the occasional scolding from his regal brother or the imperial disappoi from Daddy Dearest—failed to grasp this lifeline.

  You see, poor Cletus had never been taught the elegant dance of retreat. No, the steps he knew were those of forward march, the spoiled stomp, the royal tantrum.

  So, when faced with the novel sensation of a repeated sp, his shocked faculties were as unprepared as a cat in a bathtub.

  Thus, our Priood there, hellishly stinging cheek and all, the perfect portrait of bewildered aristocracy drenched in tears, blood and saliva.

  SLAP!!

  The third sp echoed sharply through the air.

  At that moment, a bizarre transformatio over the crowd. The mobs of peasants, who had been paralyzed by an indescribable fear, ed in tears.

  Watg the prince fall to the ground, humiliated aed, they did not shed tears of helplessness as one might expect. Instead, their faces, wet with tears…radiated joy.