Lord of the Truth

A Few Hours Later—

Robin crouched low to the ground, fingers brushing over the smooth surface of a flat stone half-buried in the sand. He picked it up, weighed it in his hand for a second as if he found the ideal gem he was looking for, but suddenly he flicked it across the glassy sea with a calculated flick of his wrist.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

The stone skipped three, maybe four times—little explosions of ripples trailing behind—before it vanished into the silver horizon.

He didn't even watch it go. His body bent again, his hand reaching for another. Mind elsewhere. Soul elsewhere.

His eyes, normally sharp and calculating, were now blurred with a haze of silent dread.

[For the first time since the dawn of history, I will intervene in a mission directly and risk disrupting all the threads of fate and risk exposing what I am doing. I will then have to hide for an unknown number of years until this incident is forgotten and buried in the folds of time before I do anything else... a number of years that I may not have.]

[A number of years that I may not have.]

[...A number of years that I may not have...]

[...I may not have...]

The words echoed in his mind, low and poisonous, the last words whispered by the All-Seeing—their tone haunting, final, almost… sorrowful.

He hadn't cared then. Had brushed it off like a passing wind.

But years later, the memory had returned like a ghost. And now, it clung to him like wet cloth.

The All-Seeing...

An immortal being. A timeless architect who had moved pieces across galaxies for tens of millions of years.

Someone like that saying he "might not have time" left?

That wasn't just strange. That was terrifying.

What could possibly limit such a creature?

Was he dying? Injured? Cursed?

But no—Robin had seen what that being could do, even with just a fragment of himself. What he'd done to Helen had shattered every assumption of power Robin once held. There was no weakness there. No frailty.

No… something else was coming.

Something vast enough to pull the curtain on even beings like The All-Seeing god.

And he'd known it. He'd seen it. He was preparing for it.

That was why he came back to Robin. Why he didn't search for another candidate.

Not because Robin was perfect.

But because there was no longer time.

And now—this blind old man had said something just as chilling:

That in 2.2 million years, something would happen.

Something so vast, so terrible, it might reduce the entire universe to a lifeless husk.

Coincidence?

Robin didn't believe in coincidences anymore.

He remembered The All-Seeing's reaction when he'd called him a devil. The fury. The fear behind the anger.

And he'd mentioned the Ancient Belt... said even he didn't know what was happening there.

Could it be the key?

Could whatever was hiding in the Ancient Belt be the seed of this coming cataclysm?

Robin sank down onto the sand, slow and heavy. He stared at the grains beneath him—shimmering under the dying sunlight—as if searching for answers hidden in their infinite patterns.

Could the The All-Seeing be connected to what's coming?

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Was he the cause?

Was he the solution?

Were the wars he was orchestrating meant to destroy the universe's defenses… or prepare it for something worse?

Was he a demon?

…Or was he a desperate guardian trying to hold back something even darker?

Robin exhaled sharply and raised his hands to his head, fingers clawing into his scalp as if he could tear the confusion out.

It hurt. The not knowing.

Then, a brittle voice floated in from behind him—dry, raspy, yet somehow still lighthearted.

"Hey, kid. What's got you all twisted up? I told you—you're heading out of here soon."

Robin didn't turn around.

"It's nothing," he mumbled. "Just... something old."

He wanted to tell him.

About The All-Seeing. About the visions. About the ancient fear breathing down his neck.

He wanted to hear the old man's thoughts. Maybe get some clarity. A piece of the puzzle he was missing.

But he couldn't. if The All-Seeing didn't like it, if he consider it talking about him, then he is doomed.

And besides, what could the old man even do?

Right now, he could barely hold himself together, let alone take action.

Suddenly, he stood and turned around.

"Hey! Where's your friend, anyway? You said he'd come with a reward. I'm starting to think you made him up."

The old man sat with difficulty a short distance away, half-buried in shadow, the tide licking at the sand behind him.

He smiled faintly. "Patience. You'll like your reward. Trust me."

Robin narrowed his eyes at him, squinting as if trying to read something behind the old man's expression.

Then his lips curled into a crooked smile. "Tell you what. Keep your damn reward. Just put me under your protection for a few thousand years. That'd be more useful."

The old man didn't answer at first. He pretended to look down, slowly, tracing the outline of his withered frame.

Then, with a soft exhale, he raised his head again and met Robin's gaze.

"I thought I was the blind one."

His voice was quiet. Almost a whisper.

His body looked worse than ever.

Skin stretched thin over jutting bones.

One arm gone. One leg missing.

His presence once radiated like a star—now it was barely a flicker.

He was a man waiting to die.

"…Do you want me to heal you?" Robin asked suddenly, voice low, genuine.

Unlike Sevar and Athena, this person may be the only hope for facing the coming danger... but it doesn't look like he'll live to see that day. He may not even live to see tomorrow.

"No need to exhaust yourself," the old man murmured with a tired shake of his head.

"Direct transactions made through the Master Law of Balance cannot be reversed. Once Balance itself takes something—my limbs, my life force—it becomes law. Set in stone. Do you honestly believe that a law from the Fundamental Path of Life, or even the Path of Living Bodies, could undo what Balance decreed?"

He paused, breathing slowly, as if every word cost him years.

"Perhaps, a long time ago, I would've tried calling on someone who wielded the Master Law of Creation. But no such wielder has appeared in what feels like eternity… and I don't believe one will emerge in the scraps of time I have left. My fate is sealed. The matter is closed."

"......"

Robin glanced back toward the sea, the golden light of dusk brushing across his face.

Should he say it?

Should he tell him?

No.

The old man might look fragile and worn now, like a candle in its final flickers…

But he was still the same being who had nearly ripped the Law of Truth from his soul—

The same man who had smiled while the patterns of Robin's existence were rewritten against his will.

And as for the Law of Creation?

The old man didn't even realize Robin wielded Spacetime.

Back when he'd tried to escape from the old man, Robin had only used the Major Heavenly Law of Space.

Who knew what this ancient entity would do if he realized Robin was host to Three Master Laws?

And besides... Robin was only level eleven.

Even attempting to activate the Law of Creation to restore someone else's limbs would cost him dearly.

It would crush his own foundations, probably before the fingers of the new limb had even taken shape.

BZZZT—

A sharp ripple surged through the air.

The space around the portal shimmered and trembled as someone stepped through.

Robin's instincts fired.

He immediately stood, sharp eyes locked on the glowing portal as tension rippled through his body.

From the light emerged a woman.

Pale. Almost translucently white, like snow that had never touched the ground.

Her features were haunting—a delicate balance between human beauty and something... avian.

Her eyes were wide and unblinking, like those of a silent predator perched in the dark. An owl.

She moved forward—no sound, no aura, not even the whisper of air.

She floated. Or at least, that's what it looked like. Her steps made no prints, no sound, no ripple in the world around her.

One hand hung at her side, the fingers spread out like a dagger made of flesh, prepared to strike at any moment.

The other hand held a short sword, still sheathed, but glowing faintly with sealed power.

Everything about her presence screamed contrast—grace and danger, beauty and death.

A silent storm dressed in elegance.

Robin didn't move.

He could tell instantly—she wasn't someone to cross.

But to his relief, those wide, owl-like eyes didn't even glance in his direction.

They were locked—intensely, respectfully—on the old man.

She glided the final steps forward and halted beside him.

Then she bowed.

Her voice, when it came, was soft as falling snow.

"Cosmic Elder."