Lord of the Truth

A short while later — The Grand Library of the Stellar Academy

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Umm… is something going on here?" Shaddad finally broke the silence, glancing nervously from side to side. His eyes bounced between Robin and Voltar, both of whom were locked in an intense, wordless exchange.

Robin was staring at Voltar with eyes wide open—not in shock, but in keen, ravenous curiosity, like a researcher discovering a newly unearthed species. Meanwhile, Voltar, the living automaton, stared back at him with an expression that could only be described as pure, refined annoyance. His mechanical eyes glowed with restrained contempt.

"If this foolish human hadn't made a request that borders on delusional, we wouldn't be frozen here like statues," Voltar finally spoke, his voice sharp and metallic. He crossed his arms behind his back, straightening up with the posture of someone guarding the secrets of gods. "He wants entry to the Secret Archive. The Secret Archive, mind you! Who does he think he is—the founder of the Academy himself?!"

"Come on, Voltar," Shaddad said with an awkward smile, trying to mediate. "Don't be so harsh on the guy. Didn't the Headmistress grant him unrestricted access?"

"The access she granted was to the library only," Voltar snapped instantly. "The Secret Archive is a separate sanctum. I may be its warden, but even I don't dare touch what's stored within unless ordered to. That chamber contains the most sensitive and sacred records in our entire history. Chronicles etched by the hands of the Academy's former sovereigns. I would sacrifice this entire library, every book in it, before letting a single page of the Archive be touched casually."

Then, as if to drive the point home, Voltar stepped forward and tapped Robin directly on the forehead. "Even the vice head—the second most powerful figure in this institution—requires a written decree to enter that place."

"I'm not here to claim dominion over the Archive," Robin replied coolly, voice calm, though a glint of humor flickered in his eyes. He smiled slowly, eyes tracing Voltar's frame with admiration bordering on amusement, "I just want to read some of the documented insights about Soul Power—how to cultivate it, master it, and evolve it into the form of a Royal Soul Master. But if that's too much to ask, I don't mind. I'll simply stay here and... study you instead. After all, aren't you considered part of the Academy's assets? Technically, that would make you a walking, talking archive of your own. Hehehe~"

"...."

Voltar slowly turned toward Shaddad with an expression of absolute disbelief—as if silently screaming, Do you hear what he just said?! This is harassment!

But Shaddad merely shrugged, lifting his palms slightly as if to say don't drag me into this mess, and turned his eyes away.

"Tsk." Voltar rolled his glowing eyes and let out a breath through clenched steel jaws. "You won't even finish a single book in there, so why should I waste a sliver of my energy? Fine then. I genuinely hope your brain implodes from the pressure. Follow me, if you can handle what awaits."

WHOOSH!

In a heartbeat, the world around Robin dissolved.

The brilliant, blinding white of the Academy's library—the endless marble floors, the shelves that seemed to pierce the heavens, the corridors that twisted into infinity—all of it faded in an instant.

He was no longer in a library.

He was inside a chamber… but not just any chamber.

A dim, nearly claustrophobic room barely the size of a modest apartment. It was silent—painfully silent, the kind that seemed to echo in the ears.

There was only a single desk at its center, carved from a material Robin couldn't even identify. The air felt thick, dense, as if every breath he took was filtered through invisible weight.

And the walls? They weren't walls. They were books. Shelves upon shelves, bound together tightly, surrounding him like ancient watchers, pressing in from every direction.

"This… this is the Secret Archive?" Robin asked in a low voice, stepping cautiously forward, almost as if afraid the floor itself might collapse under his foot. Though the only other presence was Voltar, Robin felt like he was standing before a tribunal of gods.

"Every volume in this room," Voltar intoned reverently, "was penned by hand. Not printed. Not copied. Handwritten by emperors, by archons, by Sovereigns of Time and Space and Soul. Every page bears their contemplations. Every line is soaked with emotion and intention. Every word... is alive with legacy."

He lifted his chin high with metallic pride. "You seek understanding? Forget that. Just reading a few lines may drain every drop of spiritual energy you have. My advice? Leave this place. Return to the training halls. You'll find more comfort wrestling with students than with the will of these books."

Robin nearly laughed—nearly. The idea that a tin-plated automaton was giving him life advice would've made him burst out if the atmosphere wasn't so thick. But he smothered the laughter, pressed his lips tight, and nodded.

"Appreciate the warning," he said, his tone slightly amused. "Now tell me, where are the best volumes on Royal Soul Force?"

Voltar clicked his tongue. "The best? You aim high." He pointed toward one shadowy corner. "Those three books right there—that's where your answer lies."

Robin approached. The three books were positioned at ground level, tucked beneath an ominous tower of larger tomes stacked like a stone wall. Dozens of massive books rested atop them. Pulling even one would cause an inevitable avalanche.

He looked back over his shoulder, raising a brow. "You gonna help here? Or should I just shove in a stick to replace the gap after I pull one out?"

"You'll help yourself," Voltar said coldly. Then chuckled—harsh, hollow, mechanical. "There's a rule here. A law older than your lineage. A law that preserves the Archive and protects its contents: Anyone who takes a book must leave another of equal value in its place. No exceptions. No shortcuts.

The only person exempt is the Academy Head—they can take one book for every five they've read and internalized."

"And how the hell am I supposed to know the value of a book before even reading it?!" Robin growled.

"Simple," Voltar said. "Just take the book. The Archive will leave the space open. The tower won't fall. But once you finish it, you'll need to repay the wisdom. You must write a book that carries equal weight, depth, and impact. Then the Archive itself will judge. If your work is accepted, it becomes part of this place. If rejected…"

"…then what?" Robin narrowed his eyes.

"…then you are forbidden from reading another single word in this Archive until you bring compensation."

Voltar's voice darkened. "That's why I said—you'll be lucky to finish even one." He sneered. "Even the Grand Regent, that monstrous genius, has read only two and managed to write one in return. He still owes one more manuscript before he's allowed back in."

Robin whistled. "Fair. Sounds intense… but fair." He clapped his hands together with energy, cracking his knuckles. "Alright then! Time to pull the first one!"

"You think it's simple?" Voltar laughed—a long, metallic cackle echoing through the room. "Those three books were written by the Fourth Head of the Academy. A man who walked the path of the Royal Soul for over three million years. He didn't just master it. He defined it. He wrote those tomes as the closing chapter of his cosmic journey. They aren't just placed at the bottom of the wall because of convenience—they are the foundation stones of the Archive itself."

He smirked. "If I were you, I'd try one of the lighter volumes on top. Maybe… maybe after ten thousand years of study and effort, you'll manage to write a book that's half as worthy as those—"

BAM!

Robin didn't wait. He reached down and yanked one of the three cornerstone volumes from the bottom row without hesitation.

The moment he touched it, the weight—both physical and spiritual—slammed into him like a mountain falling from the sky.

The book was massive. Towering. Bound in black, engraved with symbols that shimmered with dormant power. It took both his hands to hold it, and even then it felt like he was carrying a child forged of iron.

But Robin didn't flinch. He didn't stagger.

He drew in a long, deep breath. His expression didn't show fear—only excitement. Anticipation. Hunger.

With slow, steady steps, he carried the book to the desk, laid it down gently, and opened the cover with reverence.

"Thanks for the guidance, Tin Can," he said softly, eyes gleaming as he began to read. "You may leave me now. I have work to do."