Lord of the Truth

"…Hmm? When did my room become a public street?"

A thunderous voice cut through the air, interrupting Robin mid-sentence with an edge sharp enough to split stone.

"…?!"

Robin sprang to his feet as the sound registered, his mind spinning.

All this time, he had assumed he was standing in Althera's personal office!

Althera, in contrast, remained composed, not a flicker of surprise in her expression.

"Barok, where have you been?" she asked plainly, though there was a subtle undertone of concern in her voice.

"You rarely emerge from your chamber."

"Your Majesty," the man replied with a courteous dip of his head, his tone laced with sarcasm, "your visits to this humble servant are just as infrequent."

He stepped forward with calm, deliberate strides, and as he entered the full glow of the candlelight, his features were laid bare.

"In truth," he continued, voice even and measured, "I've been exploring the Ghost Valley.

I was hoping to stumble upon something that could ignite even the slightest flicker of growth in my soul.

As you know, I've been trapped in stagnation for far too long—"

He stood roughly the same height as Robin, but his presence felt heavier, thicker—like standing before a mountain in human form.

His skin was a deep obsidian black, threaded with glowing blue strands that shimmered across his face, neck, and the backs of his hands.

His eyes were pools of dark sapphire, bottomless and calm, while his hair was braided into a single thick plait that draped behind his back like a rope of woven midnight.

His features were sharp, angular, each line cut with deliberate force, and the way he looked at Robin—

like a predator sizing up an intruder—spoke of silent, tightly-leashed fury.

Althera nodded solemnly.

"Pushing one's power further inside the boundaries of the Purple Soul Domain is no easy task," she said,

"But even so, don't you think wandering through the Ghost Valley might interfere with the path you've chosen?

It's a realm of unpredictable madness. Even for someone of your experience, it's a reckless risk."

"Risk?" Barok scoffed, waving her concern away with a flick of his hand.

"Risk is a word for fools and the fearful.

I can enter and exit the Ghost Valley whenever I please, however I wish."

He tilted his chin toward Robin, eyes narrowing.

"More importantly… who's this? You know I hate strangers in my space, Your Majesty."

"Robin Burton," Althera answered, her tone direct and unwavering.

"The Cosmic Elder himself gave orders. He's to be assisted in his ascension to the rank of Royal Soul Master.

That's why we're here.

You'll help him."

"…The Cosmic Elder?"

Barok's face hardened further, brows furrowing like storm clouds gathering at sea.

He stepped forward, his boots making soft, deliberate thuds against the polished stone floor.

"So… you want to become a Royal Soul Master?"

"I do," Robin replied seriously, meeting his gaze without hesitation.

The Soul—a force unlike any other in the known cosmos.

It was the only power that didn't demand planetary evolution when its wielder ascended.

It didn't force worlds into new belts or realms.

The Law of Soul was endless, formless, without ceiling or walls—a dream wrapped in smoke.

It couldn't be categorized or understood like Fire, or Time, or Death.

That was precisely why even if Robin became a Royal Soul Master today,

Nihari, Jura, and Greenland would remain untouched, unupgraded—still bound to the Young Belt.

And that was perfect.

If he could reach that stage before his empire's rise,

He would wield strength equivalent to someone in the Nexus State—perhaps more.

It would be a weapon to defend the empire, even against threats that would otherwise flatten it.

"Oh, you're serious."

Barok nodded slowly, as if suddenly understanding.

He leaned slightly forward, sarcasm dripping from his voice like venom.

"Tell me, would you like a third testicle while you're at it?

Perhaps I should go fetch the Sacred Beast Ra himself to keep your bed warm?

No, no—maybe I'll summon Helen Destra, the fairest beauty in 1000 sectors,

have her tuck you in at night and whisper lullabies into your ear.

Would that be enough for you, my liege?"

"….."

Robin's expression darkened, his brows tightening into a deep scowl.

"Barok," Althera said sharply, her voice like a whip, "show some respect. These are direct orders from the Cosmic Elder."

"Ooooh, direct orders," Barok echoed mockingly.

"Did he also command that we crown him a Guardian while we're at it?

Why stop there? Let's just anoint him a Behemoth, give him a palace in every belt, and engrave his name in the sky.

Your Majesty, is this some kind of farce?

Does the Cosmic Elder really think we're some sort of cosmic wish-fulfillment agency now?"

"You don't have to mock me like some glorified clown, you braid-headed brute," Robin finally snapped, his voice laced with royal pride.

"I didn't come here begging you to make me a Royal Soul Master. I don't even know who the fuck you are."

"…?"

Barok paused mid-breath, then slowly turned to face him head-on.

His stare changed—no longer taunting, but sharp and razor-thin.

"Unlike daydreamers like you," he said coldly, "I am already a Royal Soul Master.

Something I earned with my own sweat,

not something handed to me through connections or old men whispering favors.

Something you'll never achieve, dreamer."

"Her Majesty brought you here so I could teach you,

but I despise people like you.

And if you think you can stay here under the shield of the Cosmic Elder's orders…"

He turned away with a sneer and added,

"Then be my guest.

Stay as long as you like—

but while you're at it,

go prepare my hot drink. I like it steaming."

"Make your own damn drink."

Robin's tone carried no fear—only a calm, dangerous confidence.

A smirk crept across his lips as he turned away, his cloak brushing the floor behind him.

Then, with a respectful nod toward the seated woman, he added,

"Your Majesty… let's leave, if you would."

"Hehh~"

Althera sighed again, this time with more weight.

She slowly pushed herself up from the chair with a grace befitting her title,

and in the blink of an eye—whoosh—both she and Robin vanished, the very air behind them tearing slightly from the force of their departure.

"Tch~"

Barok clicked his tongue in disgust, the room now silent save for the faint hum of soul force left in their wake.

"So now even these insect-born dreamers think they can waltz in and ask to become Royal Soul Masters…"

He threw off his dark cloak with a flick of the wrist, letting it fall lazily onto the throne-like chair Althera had occupied just moments earlier.

"Feels like stupidity thickens the longer I stay in this damned academy…"

Whoooosh—

Robin's feet struck solid ground again, but the moment they did, his body staggered.

He clenched his eyes shut, reeled slightly, and shook his head violently as if trying to clear the pressure out of his skull.

Then he grabbed it with both hands, gritting his teeth.

That wasn't spatial law.

It wasn't even enhanced flight or divine acceleration.

Althera had torn a path open through space itself—

A brutal, unstable passage held together just tightly enough to prevent his body from being shredded apart.

Anything less than her strength, and Robin would've likely lost limbs—or worse.

"Apologies for the rough ride," Althera's voice came from behind him, still calm but clearly weary.

"Barok always does whatever suits his fancy. It's exhausting."

"…Heh."

Robin groaned once more, then slowly turned toward her.

"From how you talk, someone might think he's your rival or something.

But from what I've seen… if you wanted, you could slice him open and bury the remains wherever you pleased."

"This has little to do with strength," Althera replied, her voice soft, like a quiet current beneath the surface.

"Barok is the contracted Royal Soul Master of the Academy.

He's the one who crafts our soul-based weapons, the protective talismans, cursed seals, ethereal inscriptions…

Every technique or artifact related to soulcraft that's ever been issued under the Academy's name has likely passed through his hands."

She paused, eyes narrowing with faint reflection.

"Because of that, he's given respect… autonomy… and yes, an absurdly massive salary.

One that would make the rulers of entire planetary alliances envious."

"Autonomy?" Robin's voice hardened.

"Enough to dismiss direct orders from you?

Enough to brush off a command from the Cosmic Elder himself?!"

Althera didn't reply for a moment.

She just stared ahead, her expression unreadable.

"…Forget it," Robin muttered, turning away.

"All I want is access to the secret archive and the library.

I never asked for anyone to teach me.

No one is qualified to be my teacher anyway."

Beneath the surface of his words, a storm still raged.

Robin's pride—wounded and raw—boiled within him like molten ore.

He hadn't expected reverence, but that… that insult from Barok still burned.

And yet… another thought crept in.

A quiet question that refused to go away.

Do Royal Soul Masters really hold this much sway?

Even a Monarch couldn't command one freely?

And more than that…

A contracted Soul Master?

Had this star-class academy—this sprawling institution of ancient might—not produced even one Royal Soul Master from within its own ranks?

…So this is the reality, Robin thought grimly, his eyes narrowing.

This path… will not be easy.

He clenched his fist tight—so tight his knuckles turned pale—

not from fear,

but from resolve.