Witchbound Villain: Infinite Loop

Ahhh, we’ve finally come to this!

In a scene that could only be described as a tech enthusiast's worst nightmare, once again, the battlefield lay in ruins under a sky so red it seemed like the sun was having a sale on the atmosphere.

Among the wreckage, the latest in mech and tech warfare were now nothing more than oversized paperweights, scattered across the land like the world's most depressing yard sale.

Here and there, warriors and mages alike shared the ground, their final resting places marked not by heroic stances but by poses that suggested they were all part of a very lethargic flash 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—lay 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 laughter began as a low rumble, akin to a dormant volcano waking from a long slumber. His deep voice, usually reserved for commands and threats, found a new expression in the form of a chuckle that echoed off the desolate battlefield.

“Huhuh heh, hahaha…”

As the chuckles grew, they cascaded into a laugh so rich and unrestrained it bordered on the unhinged.

“Hahaha!”

Burn threw his head back, the remnants of his once mighty sword forgotten at his side, as his laughter 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 laughing at his capture of the woman; he was laughing at the cosmic joke that had become 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, someone took the liberty of ensuring she couldn't make a ‘quick exit’.

Or any exit, 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 lay on the ground, a stark figure against the charred battlefield. Her condition 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 conflict's brutal reality. Around her, the air hung heavy with the aftermath of battle, the scent of metal and magic intertwining with the earthy aroma of the disturbed land.

Burn approached, his expression a complex 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 necessity.

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

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

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

She had no intention of answering, no. Burn saw the sign that she was going to bite off her own tongue to commit suicide!

“I won’t let you!”

STAB!

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

“Now, die.”

***

BLINK!

Chirp…! Chirp chirp…

Rustle…

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

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

He had been thrust back into the past once again.

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

Questions spiraled in his mind as he lay there. The loop persisted, an enigma wrapped in the mundane beauty of a new day.

Why did the cycle decide to continue to ensnare him? What piece of the puzzle was he missing? The morning’s tranquility now mocked him with its normalcy, and he cursed.

“Fu—”

“Your Majesty…? Are you alright?”

“Shut up, Galahad.”

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

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

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

Galahad, initially baffled by Burn’s list of requests, was quick on his feet. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

In the end, Burn didn’t completely waste two to three years of his last loop. The moment he got 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 on the battlefield, but also emerged as the century's unsung genius in the arts.

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 command, 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 playing 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 labored over them, ensuring the curve was just right, a cruel mimicry of her smile that haunted him.

But let's not forget 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 anyone with a sense of aesthetics might question his metaphorical accuracy.

In the end, as Burn leaned back to admire 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?”