Lord of the Truth

"Are you still rambling about me giving up the Law of Truth?" Robin furrowed his brows slightly, his tone laced with a hint of disbelief. "Why don't you just find yourself a bright young man to teach, someone eager and fresh? Master laws don't require any affinity. With your level of power, you're bound to come across someone clever enough eventually."

The old man let out a deep, exhausted sigh.

"…I've been searching for 1.2 million years," he said solemnly. "I've sent countless copies of myself across an unthinkable number of planets, in every single sector. Each one bore a different test... all centered on the concept of balance. I wanted to see if the idea of balance even existed in their minds—or if it had to be taught from nothing. And yet, every trial ended in disappointment—each one unique in its failure."

He pointed toward the island's heart.

"Don't get me wrong—it's not that my expectations were impossibly high. Quite the opposite. In fact, this island… is full of them."

"Full of what?!" Robin turned sharply, looking behind him, senses on edge.

"Full of the remnants of Fate's Children... the ones I once chose and brought here, handpicked, with hopes of passing on my legacy. I've lost count of them. All of them failed. All of them died here on this very island." The blind elder's voice grew heavy with old sorrow. "You'd think intelligence, talent, luck—or even good karma—would be enough to comprehend a master law. But that's not the case. You need something deeper... a natural inclination toward the law. You must love it. And only then, will the law love you in return... and accept you."

"Problem solved, I don't love balance," Robin said, raising an eyebrow, almost mockingly.

What nonsense was this old man spouting? Love? Did he love spacetime and creation then!?

"You're drawn to the law—you just don't realize it," the old man countered, stepping forward. "The moment you laid eyes on the test involving dark power and dark energy, you spoke of it instantly. It stirred something in your thoughts—it dominates your subconscious, and you're too blind to see it."

"That's only because I'm a seeker of Truth," Robin replied, stepping back cautiously. "Naturally, I'm curious about all powerful forces."

The elder took another step forward, his tone intensifying.

"And that curiosity is enough! Just that spark alone... is more than I found in millions. It's enough to grant you a chance. A chance to succeed where they all failed."

Robin stepped back again, this time with a calm, polite smile.

"Unfortunately, my path lies elsewhere. I'm devoted to the pursuit of Truth... but I appreciate your offer."

The old man froze. His face twisted slightly with annoyance, as if struggling to suppress growing frustration.

"Truth... I already told you—it's worthless at its start, and destructive at its end. Why won't you just let it go? I could grant you the full depth of my understanding of Balance, my entire legacy. Don't be swayed by Morpheus's riches or Interas's tyranny—my legacy eclipses them all. My name alone could shake empires. It could carry you."

"Heh~ Look, old man," Robin said with a soft chuckle, eyes firm. "Your offer is tempting—very tempting, in fact. But there are many reasons I have to decline." He took another step back.

"First—I'm bound by missions I simply cannot abandon. I don't care what that person you mentioned did or didn't do. I'm not him. I cannot walk away from my path."

He took yet another step back, his tone growing more resolute.

"Second—I haven't found what I'm looking for yet. My journey with Truth... is still far from over."

"...Could it be," the old man said slowly, his voice darkening, "that you know what awaits at the end of the path of Truth? Is that why you're so desperately clinging to it?"

His face clouded with shadow, a simmering rage bubbling just beneath the surface.

"Maybe," Robin replied with a calm smile. "I don't know what kind of Truth you've encountered... why don't you tell me first?"

He folded his hands behind his back, standing his ground now, avoiding another step back for fear of provoking the old man further.

"You have said it just a moment... without even realizing." The old man looked down toward the earth, as if recalling ancient memories.

"When you described why you started this journey—why you walked this path in the first place—you said... 'Truth is everything.' And you were right. You were absolutely right."

"I know I'm right," Robin replied. His tone sharpened. "But what are you getting at?"

"Let me paint you a picture—a metaphor I cherish," the old man lifted his chin slightly, eyes staring through the veil of time.

"Imagine, for a moment, someone preparing materials to build a house. Those raw materials? That's Primal Chaos. The tools used to shape and prepare them? Creation. The four foundation you lay for the building? That's Balance. The walls and the roof? That's Spacetime. The ordered steps followed from start to finish? That's Causality. And fact that the building a house and not, say, a sack of potatoes? That's Identity."

He paused, then locked eyes with Robin with intense seriousness.

"What remains to complete the picture?"

Robin fell silent, his brows furrowed deeply, mind racing. PartofaserieshostedbyMyVirtualLibraryEmpire(MV&LEMP&YR).

"...I don't know," he finally said.

"Think," the old man pressed. "There are still two master laws left. Or are you suggesting that they serve no purpose?"

"I…"

Robin lifted his hand slowly—trembling—as though trying to cradle his own head before it exploded under the weight of the realization.

The old man's metaphor had made it clear: the house was a symbol… a simplified representation of the universe itself.

Robin had thought about this question many times before—over and over, chasing the answer through countless hours of contemplation.

He had asked himself: What exactly is Truth's role among the Eight Laws?

What is the function of the Eighth—if it even exists?

And every single time, he had come up short, unable to cross that final mental threshold.

"Wait..." he murmured, his eyes narrowing.

"In that particular example..."

His head slowly tilted upward as if pulled by an unseen force.

"There's one element that's still missing. Just one that I can think of..."

His brows tightened into a sharp knot.

"…Who used the tools to prepare the materials? Who moved those materials and started applying them to build the structure?"

The old man smiled faintly, as if pleased but still patient.

"Good. You're almost there. But the real question isn't who—because the 'One' you're thinking of, the Origin, is also the source of the other Eight Laws.

He forged all of them. He forged everything.

In your question, asking who is like asking who bought the materials, who built the tools, who breathed existence into existence itself. Without the One, there would be no metaphor to analyze.

There would be no universe, no laws, no us—no conversation."

He tapped his fingers in the air slowly as if conducting thoughts.

"Our conversation isn't about the Prime Mover—but about the laws, the forces, the tools used to bring form to the formless, things we can comprehend and perhaps control to a degree. The real question is:

What law governs the actions?

What law drives the movement, the use, the decision to build?"

Robin's eyes widened. His mind raced. His voice burst out before he could stop it.

"Consciousness?!" he exclaimed.

Because in this metaphor—this cosmic analogy—there had to be someone who moved, who acted, who chose to engage the tools, shape the chaos, and build the cosmos.

Someone aware.

Someone conscious.

"Very close," the old man nodded slowly. "Very, very close… but not quite."

"You can possess consciousness," he continued, "and yet choose to do nothing with it.

You may be aware, yet entirely unmotivated.

If you have no intention to build… then nothing happens. Nothing ever happens.

The materials will remain untouched.

The tools will gather dust in the void.

And the house—the universe—will never come into being."

Robin froze. A deep silence filled the space between them, then his breath caught in his throat.

"...So it's not consciousness itself," he muttered. "But rather, something that consciousness must do…"

And then his eyes widened again—this time even more violently.

As if a forgotten truth had just slammed into his soul.

"It's Will! The Will to act!"

The old man's face softened, as though witnessing a student finally utter the answer no one else could reach.

"...I've always called it Decision," he said gently, "but 'Will'... yes, that's just as fitting."

"The Eighth Master Law… that elusive, mysterious one we've all been trying to grasp... it's Will!?" Robin's body trembled, as though the weight of the concept was too much for his mortal frame to bear.

"Almost," the old man said with a slow exhale, voice now like an ancient wind.

"No one truly knows how to reach it… no one has ever wielded it, not even the oldest titans of the stars.

Every ancient power has speculated about it, just as we are now.

And each one gave it a different name.

Some called it Decision, others Resolve, Intention, Will, Permission, Command, Decree, Choice... and now you, you call it Will."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice a whisper wrapped in thunder:

"But in the end... the first being to grasp and master that law—will have the right to name it."

Robin remained silent, but his heart was racing. His mind, his soul, all of him was alive with fire.

"And now..." the old man slowly pointed his chin toward Robin, his voice growing colder, sharper, and far more intimate.

"Only one seat remains at the Master table.

One law left... untouched, unspoken...

Truth."

He paused—his blind eyes seemingly piercing through Robin's very being.

"So tell me, Robin…

What is the role of Truth—the law you hold onto so stubbornly, so desperately, as if your very existence depended on it?

What is the purpose of Truth... in this grand design?"