Lord of the Truth

Whistle~ Whistle~

Ascending the staircase slowly, one step at a time, Robin let out a soft, almost melancholic whistle, crafting a subtle melody that drifted through the silence of the hall. His eyes, however, were distant and unfocused—lost somewhere between thoughts. In that moment, he didn't know whether to feel joy or sadness... or perhaps something in between.

When he truly thought about it, today marked a strange milestone in his long, chaotic life: it was the first time he had ever earned money by using his own abilities—willingly. Two hundred years ago, when he dealt with the Bradley family, he did so under pressure—forced by the need to survive, to seek protection from threats he couldn't face alone. He worked with them not out of choice, but out of desperation.

But now?

This time was different. He received a mission. He accepted it. He completed it. He got paid. No intimidation, no ulterior motives, no manipulation. Just honest, straightforward work... and it paid well, too.

Yet somehow, despite that, someone else ended up receiving the credit.

"Heh~" Robin sighed and gave his head a slow shake. "No matter. It's only temporary. One day, Robin... when I finally hold real power in my hands, I'll make sure the world knows—without a shred of doubt—that Robin Burton was the one who—"

He cut himself off mid-sentence as his gaze caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. "Huh?"

"Kiieeeh!" Pitso flinched backward in alarm, stumbling until his back slammed against the wall.

"Hey! Why the hell are you still here?!" Robin took a few swift steps forward, grabbing the boy by the hair. His voice turned sharp, cold, threatening. "Did you come to settle the score? You betting that I won't bash your head into the floor right here and now?! You wanna test that?!"

"Kiieeh!! Back from where?! I didn't leave! I never left! You—you never told me to leave!" the boy yelped, raising both hands in panic, his voice cracking with fear.

"…?" Robin's expression twisted into something between confusion and irritation. He furrowed his brow, trying to remember what exactly he'd said after unchaining the boy. "…Well I guess I didn't give a direct order… but I definitely implied it. I even left you alone, you should have been another planet by now! What, do I need to spell out every single thing for you now? What are you, some kind of wind-up toy?!"

With a snort of frustration, he shoved the boy away and turned his back on him, pacing to the edge of the room where his bed lay. Sitting down with a heavy motion, he looked over his shoulder at the pathetic figure slumped against the floor.

"You know," Robin said, his voice now carrying a colder, more reflective tone, "for someone labeled a World Cataclysm, you're mentally weaker than a starving cub. I've lived through torment after torment, year after damn year, and I never broke down like you. Even my son... even he endured hell itself—real, unrelenting hell—since the age of ten. And all it did was awaken a monstrous thirst for blood inside him. He grew up to slaughter over a hundred million souls. Actually... I think it's two hundred million by now. I'm not saying he was right—but I understand."

He raised a hand and pointed directly at Pitso, his voice sharpening again.

"And you? You collapsed mentally just because I made you stand for a few days? What the hell were you even doing all your life?! Was your father tucking you in a display cabinet with the rest of his trophies, feeding you breakfast with a golden spoon, whispering sweet lullabies into your ear every night?!"

Pitso lowered his head, tears silently pooling in his eyes. His voice trembled, "…Yes. I wasn't allowed to leave the family's domain until I officially became a World Cataclysm."

"...…" Robin blinked. Then slowly raised a hand and smacked his own forehead with an audible sigh.

He hadn't expected that. He was trying to shame the kid into growing a spine—but instead, he'd hit a nerve.

"Just go, alright?" he muttered, waving his hand with utter disinterest. "There's your direct order: leave."

He shifted on the bed, finally settling into a more comfortable position. From the depths of his ring, he summoned a large, blank board. Closing his eyes for a long moment, he let out a slow, deep breath that carried with it the weight of exhaustion—and then, with precise movements, began to draw a large arc.

During his three intense days within the Chamber of Truth, Robin had sifted through an overwhelming number of requests—dozens, maybe even more. Every detail of those tasks still lingered fresh in his mind, perfectly preserved, as if the pages themselves were hovering before his eyes. From them all, he chose what he believed was the simplest task. He submitted it first—just to see how things would unfold. To see if that long-awaited agreement with the Soul Society could truly begin.

As he made his way toward the destination, Robin had been utterly convinced—beyond all shadow of a doubt—that they would reject any kind of personal arrangement. He wasn't just guessing; it was a cold certainty. After all, how could that titanic cosmic entity, the Soul Society—a vast construct that served millions upon billions of civilizations and an uncountable number of living beings—even pause to consider the plea of a single soul?

So it was only natural to assume they would dismiss his request without a second glance.

And yet, against every logical expectation, every precedent, every law of probability, they approved it. they would hide the fact that he is completing those missions!

Even now, as he sat processing the moment, Robin didn't know what the true reason was. Was the society simply merciful by nature, handing out exceptions as a form of divine grace?

Or… was it because of who he was? A wielder of one of the Master Laws—a status so rare that his very presence demanded respect. Or perhaps the administrators were already aware that he had advanced to the fourth stage of the Law of Truth?

He would never know for sure.

But ultimately, none of that mattered anymore.

The past was set. The decision had been made. All that remained now was the work ahead of him—a mountain of tasks, each more delicate and dangerous than the last. And—

Crack.

A sharp sound echoed through the stillness of the chamber.

"Hmm?" Robin's senses flared instantly. He turned his head with surgical precision, eyes narrowing toward the source of the disturbance. There, in the shadows near the edge of the room, he spotted him—Pitso, the boy, wobbling awkwardly as he tried to walk across the room, favoring one side like a wounded animal.

"...Why the hell are you still here?!" Robin's voice thundered, his tone as sharp as a blade drawn under moonlight.

"M-me?!" Bitso stammered. His entire frame stiffened as if he had been struck by lightning. His breath caught in his throat. "I-I didn't know where I was supposed to go…"

Robin fell silent, observing him in silence. The boy's eyes were wide with fear, his hands trembling at his sides. His knees barely held him upright.

A sigh slipped past Robin's lips as he lifted a hand and massaged his forehead slowly.

It was clear now—whatever had happened to the boy, it had cracked something inside him. His pride, maybe. His perception of safety. His ability to stand tall.

Robin had never been good with children—or adolescents, or anyone emotionally fragile, for that matter. If he had known the boy was this mentally soft, he probably wouldn't have tormented him for a full week straight. But the damage was done.

He let out a slow, annoyed breath and waved a hand toward the hallway without even sparing the boy another glance.

"Go rest in one of the other rooms," he muttered. "You're free to eat, drink, lie down, do whatever. I don't care. Just—no noise. No interruptions. Got it? Stay here for a few days, get your shit together, then leave."

"Th-thank you," Pitso said quietly. He bowed deeply, a full and respectful bend at the waist. He took two steps back, then turned on his heels and nearly bolted out of the room. But just before disappearing entirely, he hesitated—paused—and slowly turned to look back, his voice weak, uncertain.

"…Are you really going to let me stay here? Just like that? Aren't you worried I'll call my father… or the rest of my family? ...You wouldn't change you mind in the middle of the night and kicked me out?"

Robin scoffed without turning his head.

"If you summon your father, I'll kill him. If you all of bring those thirteen so-called prefect affinity from your family, I'll kill all of them too. If you summon your entire bloodline—I'll massacre every last one of them, one by one, and stack their corpses into a monument for my demons to feast upon," he said flatly, his tone devoid of emotion. "Now go. Sleep, cry, scream, or call for help—I truly don't care. Just let me work."

Afraid of his father? What a joke.

If Pitso did call for him, Robin imagined the man would be more likely to apologize for raising such a fool of a son than take action against him.

At Robin's current level of power, unless a Nexus State Being comes, no one can kill him!

Even someone like Darmik, A peak World Cataclysm, wouldn't be able to end his life. Cause problems? Sure. But kill him? Not in a thousand years.

"KIIIEEEH!!" Pitso didn't even manage a reply. His body moved on instinct, pure terror guiding his feet. One blink later, he was gone.

Robin let out a deep breath and stretched his arms, pushing the memory of the boy from his mind like smoke in the wind. The silence returned.

He turned his gaze back to the floating array in front of him—the glowing project list, filled with endless requests.

"Next task," he murmured, eyes narrowing.

'Request: Repair of an ancient defense array scroll designed to protect an entire city. Estimated pay: one million, one hundred and fifteen thousand energy pearls.'