Lord of the Truth

<7 Billion Energy Pearls.>

The entire coliseum reeled.

Gasps and murmurs erupted like sparks across dry tinder.

"Seven billion?! What kind of price is that?!"

"The bid just doubled in a single move! Who does that?!"

"That much wealth… It's equal to the combined fortune of a standard millennial empire! And for a technique that can't even be passed on? This is absurd!"

"You're wrong," a deeper, older voice responded, calm yet firm, "Lord Hedric isn't just buying a martial art. He's buying survival. He's buying the ability to rise again when death comes calling."

Someone else sneered, his tone laced with disbelief.

"So what? Has the universe lost its mind? Are there no more healing methods left in existence?!"

Another scoffed, shaking his head like one would at a naïve child.

"You clearly don't understand. This is not your average recovery technique used in some temple between fights. This is a martial art that activates in combat. It's a technique that affects even Nexus States, that can seal wounds for hours and heal them on the spot—all while the user is still locked in battle. Show me another that combines the Fundamental Major Law of Life and the Fundamental Major Law of Time. Go ahead, I'll wait."

Even though the plaza was filled with legends, sovereigns, and planetary emperors who had long ruled over worlds… their minds, for a brief moment, shattered under the weight of the number they'd just heard.

Logic faltered.

Even the sharpest among them found themselves caught adrift in the tide of astronomical value.

Normally, when any one of them sustained serious injuries in battle, they would do what was sensible—retreat, regroup, and seek a healer. Someone aligned with the Path of Life, or perhaps Purity, Restoration, Body, or other gentle domains to mend their flesh and soul.

But what if retreat wasn't an option?

What if you were the last line of defense?

What if your world was burning and you had no time to run?

In that moment... Breath of the Ages wouldn't just be valuable. It would be divine. A weaponized miracle. A curse for your enemies.

Yet still—if you handed these planetary emperors 7 billion energy pearls right now, would they buy the martial art?

Unlikely.

Most of them would instead acquire entire planetary systems, forge legacies, or construct citadels that could stand the test of time.

Elinor dropped into her seat with a dull thud, her expression pale, her knees finally betraying her composure.

"Seven billion…" she muttered, the number tasting foreign on her tongue. She turned her head with visible strain.

"Renara… tell me, is there any chance that the seller is our little friend?"

There was a pause.

"From what I remember, he's a Martial Emperor now. That means he's already attained the fourth stage of the Law of Truth…"

Renara remained silent for a moment, her gaze fixed on Cloud #100.

Then she exhaled slowly, defeated.

"I… I don't know. But I'd say the chances are high."

She didn't even try to justify the claim. There was no point anymore. The evidence was too staggering.

"I can't even imagine where his limits are now. It's like trying to guess the depth of a black hole."

Another pause, filled with tension and awe.

Then Elinor leaned back, whispering as if she couldn't believe her own voice.

"…He's wealthy. Truly wealthy now. With this bid alone, he's recovered every pearl he spent on the Planetary Displacement Gear… and even made a profit of one and a half billion."

She shook her head in disbelief.

"One and a half billion…" she repeated under her breath, "That's five times more than what we managed to gather from the Nine Paths Empire… even after pooling all our private fortunes."

Renara's hand, resting on the arm of her chair, visibly trembled.

She said nothing. What could she say?

Her mind reeled.

Back on his coronation day, when Robin had confidently proclaimed he was ready to be her supreme lord… had he already known what kind of monstrous power and wealth would one day fall into his hands?

Lord Morval's voice rang across the auction chamber like a clarion bell:

"Seven billion energy pearls from Lord Hedric! Is there anyone willing to bid higher?"

His eyes moved slowly over the scattered noble clouds.

He saw hesitation. Tight jaws. Furrowed brows. White knuckles.

Every sovereign, bar the undying Lord Dearth, wanted this technique. The hunger was clear in their eyes. But desire was not the same as madness.

And only a madman would bid higher now.

Then, Lord Morval smiled.

A faint, knowing smile.

"…Very well." He raised a hand slowly.

"With less than ten seconds remaining, allow me to enter the stage—not as auctioneer, but as a representative of the Soul Society."

His voice boomed, filled with pride and finality.

"We, the Soul Society, shall purchase Breath of the Ages for… 7.5 billion energy pearls."

Crack.

The sound was raw and violent.

Lord Hedric had clenched his fists so hard the reinforced metal armrests under his palms fractured.

Eyes turned. Jaws dropped.

"What?!"

The reaction echoed like thunder.

Gasps. Shock. Disbelief.

The Soul Society… had entered the bidding.

Only Robin recovered from the shock quickly. A soft smile played across his lips as he gave a slight nod.

Though the Soul Society already possessed a full copy of the martial art and could wield it however they pleased, their act of bidding was a gesture—a quiet message of goodwill toward Robin. They were showing respect for his choice, his privacy… and perhaps even his future.

Robin nodded again, inwardly impressed.

"With this kind of business acumen," he thought, "no wonder the Soul Society still holds its exceptional position to this day."

Just then, the atmosphere was shattered by the same thunderous voice that had stirred the arena moments before.

"Lord Morval!"

Everyone turned.

It was him again—Drathan, the son of Interas The tyrant .

His voice boomed with righteous fury,

"What are you doing interfering in the auction?! Do you intend to ignite this bidding war further by using the name of the Spirit Society? Are you trying to deceive those ignorant of the history behind such martial arts? This is not the conduct we've come to expect from your faction!"

Lord Morval's brows furrowed immediately. His voice was sharp, composed, and threatening in its clarity:

"Lord Drathan, what exactly are you suggesting? Speak plainly and loudly before everyone, or I will be forced to defend the integrity of the Soul Society under its own laws."

But Drathan wasn't done. His eyes were wide, burning with conviction, his voice cutting like a blade through the fog of tension.

"Hmph. That martial art—it's one of the creations of the Great Lord of Truth, Azramid, isn't it? Only he was known for fusing flashy laws into such elaborate martial arts. And we all know what happens to those who dare use his legacy… without his direct permission!"

A collective gasp echoed through the chamber.

"A martial art created by Azramid?!"

"That explains it…"

"Wait—does that mean the Spirit Society is dealing in cursed techniques now?"

"…They wouldn't… would they?"

Even Lord Hedric, still stiff from his earlier bid, narrowed his eyes sharply, turning to stare daggers at Lord Morval.

The kind of stare that didn't question. It accused.

And if this accusation turned out to be true…!!!

The name Azramid wasn't one tossed around lightly.

He was one of the Five Great Chosen of Truth—legendary figures whose legacies spanned millions upon millions of years across the middle planetary belt. Each of them contributed awe-inspiring things to civilization… but each was also infamous in their own way.

Azramid's personality, in particular, was that of a bitter old man—the type who hated seeing children playing in front of his house.

He loathed people who used his creations to chase their dreams… without paying the price he deemed fair.

Why should someone else succeed off his blood and sweat?

Why should a man buy one of his arrays for a single pearl… and then sell it for two, turning a profit on his genius?

Early in his life, Azramid became obsessed with exclusivity. Every technique, every tool, every array—he sold only to individuals under strict contracts.

One buyer. One user.

He never sold to the public.

And if anything he made escaped his control?

He hired mercenaries.

To track it down. To destroy it.

To kill whoever dared use it.

But as with all things of value…

eventually, his creations were leaked.

And no matter how hard he tried, Azramid couldn't stop the inevitable: underground circulation, pirated copies, imitators.

Most inventors accept this reality. They make their initial profit, then move on to invent something new.

But not Azramid.

He was the type to burn the world before letting someone else enjoy his work for free.

To him, no one deserved his legacy—unless he allowed it, and at a price he deemed worthy.

And those prices?

They were never reasonable.

It's no surprise that, by the end of his life, people said he had gone mad.

He began crafting martial techniques, embedded arrays, and enchanted scripts filled with traps—designed not just for protection, but to lure unauthorized users and kill them the moment they activated the art.

The tragedy?

Even his legitimate customers suffered. Many died, others went mad after triggering one of his hidden snares.

But that didn't stop him.

On the contrary, he escalated.

He established entire "Legacy Zones" across the middle belt—massive vaults of his work scattered across the stars.

To date, five such zones have been discovered.

Each one filled with priceless artifacts.

And every single one rigged with traps.

Even the treasures inside—energy pearls, talismans, relics—were booby-trapped.

Azramid may have been the most flamboyant of the Lords of Truth, known for his glittering arrays and over-the-top constructs…

But he was also the eternal symbol of bitterness and greed.

A genius consumed by the fear of being robbed.

A master whose greatest enemy… was sharing.