Lord of the Truth

"CRUCH THEM."

"Understood!"

The four mighty generals slammed their fists against their gleaming blue armor, a sharp, echoing clang that reverberated across the mountain's peak. Then, without hesitation, they launched themselves into the battlefield.

These were no ordinary commanders—each one carried within him a lineage enhanced to its utmost limits, blood refined over generations to create living weapons.

Each one of them was a planetary threat in his own right. Alone, they could wage war against an entire world. Together—they were calamity made manifest.

Crik Crik Crik

From behind General Aro, monstrous shadows emerged—towering silhouettes that surged forward like a storm. Moments later, the thunder of artillery joined the scene, shaking the very air. The sky above filled with the presence of the legendary Third Blue Army Fleets, finally entering the battlefield in full force.

These fleets weren't just warships—they were floating fortresses, symbols of unstoppable power. And at their heart, the five motherships loomed like ancient titans. Around them buzzed swarms of armored Dracos, dragon-like creatures engineered for aerial dominance. Each Draco bore a rider—figures with disproportionately large eyes that consumed half their faces, eerie and haunting, like they could pierce through illusions and stare directly into your soul.

These riders wielded specialized throwing spears, ancient in design but modern in deadliness—crafted by the elite craftsmen of the War Gear Hall in Sky Opening City. These weren't simple weapons. They were more akin to devastating relics—massive bolts covered in layers upon layers of intricate rune inscriptions.

These spears, known as the "Runic Lances", represented the pinnacle of magical weaponry. Designed to carry vast arrays of enchantments, they weren't just powerful—they were terrifyingly effective. Even against high-level enemies such as martial emperors, or those clad in epic-grade full-body armor, these weapons were made to make an impact.

With rune types ranging from explosive to piercing, freezing to toxic—each lance was a death sentence, and if one were to hit directly, it would claim a life without mercy.

Whoosh Whoosh

The sky trembled as hundreds of these lances were unleashed, streaking down like divine lightning toward the ground troops—who still stood frozen in awe and confusion!

And under this overwhelming aerial bombardment—this perfect storm of destruction—attention drifted from the key target: the instant teleportation gates.

That… was the plan.

Within minutes, twenty thousand Rune Knights had emerged from the gates before they vanished behind them. All of them rode Terras, smart warbeasts bred for battlefield dominance. Every one of them was armored from head to toe in blue-and-black ceremonial combat suits. Every one of them bore the discipline of a thousand battles. And all of them moved as one, like an unstoppable tide summoned to fulfill a single command: annihilate the enemy.

WOOSH!

The four generals descended like war lords from the sky, landing with thunderous force before the newly-arrived battalion. Each general stood proudly at the head of five thousand elite warriors—five thousand martial empror-level warrior. Then, in unison, they raised their arms and bellowed:

"Advance!"

CLANG! CLANG!

Under the massive, iron-clad hooves of the Terras, the ground trembled—and thus began the true ground battle.

Still on the mountain, a figure in a shimmering cloak stood watching—Flora, her eyes sharp and contemplative. She observed, for a few brief moments, the distant silhouettes of the Three World Cataclysms on their side.

Then she turned toward her husband and gripped his arm gently.

"Dear... one year to conquer this entire planet? Don't you think that's pushing them too hard?"

Flora's faith in their military strength was absolute. Even though they had left behind the formidable General Sevron and the Three Sorceresses back in the Young Belt to defend their key planetary holdings—and even though that meant they left behind nearly thirty percent of their total forces—what they brought here was more than enough to flatten any resistance beneath the weight of a world cataclysm.

…Or so she thought.

They'd been watching for over an hour now. Watching how the other side moved.

This would not be an easy conquest. Not at all.

"...I used to beg HQ to let me join Caesar's campaign," Aro spoke softly, eyes never leaving the battlefield.

"To claim a piece of the glory he was harvesting out there, while we were left behind in the Young Belt, practically idle. But they denied me. I was stunned when the Shadow Swords revealed His Majesty's intent to begin expanding in Sector 99 too."

He raised his head, the pallor of his face finally easing.

"I asked myself: Why not ascend within one sector first? Why scatter ourselves between fronts? But I never found an answer."

Flora tilted her head slightly, puzzled.

"So… what does that mean?"

Aro smiled faintly, the glint of comprehension in his eyes.

"It means His Majesty is planning something massive. Something world-shaking."

He turned to her, voice filled with resolution.

"And so… when the moment of reckoning comes, 660 years from now, we must have become massive as well!"

Then his gaze returned to the battlefield.

"Our mission is to conquer seven planets? That's a good start… but it's not enough. We must do in this Mid-Sector what we did in the Young Belt—and beyond!"

------------------------------

Inside the Stellar Dawn light Academy — Student War Arena Stands

Clamor Clamor

Amid the vibrant chaos of the arena, a man sat calmly—appearing to be in his early thirties. Beside him, a woman leaned back in her seat, graceful and still, seemingly in her late twenties.

Both of them had strikingly deep green eyes and long, flowing green hair that shimmered like jelly. If anyone dared to touch it, it might ripple like water.

"Haha! They're starting with the Clown Assembly again—just like every year."

"That comedic segment has become tradition at every Student War this decade. A certified classic!"

"Ugh, I just hope for a miracle. I placed a bet on them this time…"

"Hahaha—who even bets on the Clown Assembly students?! They either get stretchered out or forfeit every time!"

"But betting on their opponents is pointless too! Everyone bets on them—the payout's miserable. C'mon, you dream of instant riches—don't betray me now!!"

"..."

The man and the woman began glancing around nervously.

Beads of gel-like sweat trickled down their foreheads, their faces now a perfect portrait of unease and dread.

Their expressions?

Let's just say… they had a very bad feeling about this.

"Husband… our daughter... she's in that Clown Assembly, isn't she?"

The woman's voice cracked like fine porcelain under pressure. Her eyes glistened with tears threatening to fall, her fingers trembling in her lap. There was something utterly soul-crushing in her tone—a mixture of heartbreak, helplessness, and disbelief.

The man beside her didn't flinch. His face didn't show shock—no, the wounds there were older, deeper, already scarred. Instead, he just looked… defeated. Embarrassed, perhaps.

"…I told you not to come," he said softly, unable to meet her eyes.

"We're paying twenty thousand pearls a year for her education. That's two million every century. By the time she graduates—after a full millennium—we'll have spent twenty million pearls…"

Her voice was rising now, filled with anguish.

"And after all that, our daughter is branded with nicknames? With mockery?!"

She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, drawing blood—anything to stop herself from breaking down. Anything to hold in the storm inside.

For an empire like theirs, twenty million pearls over a thousand years was no minor loss.

It was a back-breaking, bone-crushing sacrifice.

They were not a wealthy, thriving nation—they were a dynasty teetering on the edge of ruin. A fallen house with once-proud beastly blood now diluted and fading. An empire on the verge of being forgotten, surrounded by predators watching and waiting for the last crack to form.

"Our daughter… she's not lazy," the father finally said, voice low but filled with quiet fire.

"I've watched her fights. Many of them. She's trained in the close-quarters combat forms we specifically sent her here to learn. She studies with devotion—even though her only instructor is some phantom named Robin Burton, a man no one has seen, a man who gives no public lectures."

His jaw tensed, muscles in his face twitching as he forced a pained smile to his lips.

"Yet she still follows him. She clings to his shadow, just for the chance to participate in the Student War."

He turned to look at his wife, eyes rimmed with guilt.

"She's not the one who failed. It's us. It's our bloodline that let her down."

His hand trembled as he brought it to his face.

"But… at least she's brilliant in alchemy. She excels there. The academy has even said she helped develop multiple advanced pills."

He let out a hollow laugh, one meant to comfort—but it cracked midway and died in his throat.

"Ha ha… ha… but chemistry won't save an empire, will it?"

Because no matter how brilliant she was in the lab, she couldn't defend a collapsing dynasty with potions alone.

No brew could stop an invading army. No pill could repel the hands that reached for their homeland.

"It doesn't matter anymore," the woman said with sudden resolve, blinking away her tears. Her voice trembled with desperation—but beneath that, a fierce maternal will blazed.

"Our girl must find a true teacher. A real one. I'll pay for it myself, out of my own savings if I must."

She struck her knee with her palm, as if to push her determination deeper into her bones.

"How much does it cost to hire a reputable instructor here?"

The man exhaled slowly, the burden of reality weighing heavily on his shoulders.

"…The cheapest personal instructor with even a whisper of a reputation costs thirty-five thousand pearls per year."

"…"

She didn't answer right away. Her face seemed to blank out completely—then harden.

For several long, painful moments, they sat in silence. Around them, the stadium echoed with excitement, but it all felt distant. Cold. Insulting.

Then, in a voice almost too low to hear, she whispered:

"N-no matter… we'll manage. It's a necessary investment."

She turned her gaze forward, where the arena was being prepared.

"Our daughter must forge her own path. She has to grow strong enough to carry the burden we placed on her shoulders. We can't afford to let her face it alone."

Her hand gripped the bench beneath her, knuckles white.

"We'll find her a teacher… someone powerful… offer them a planet if we have to. Anything."

("First match of the day! Merina, student of Instructor Robin Burton, versus Valand, student of Instructor Barok.")

"Hah! There goes your bet."

"She's the weakest one in the entire Clown Assembly, and she's going up against someone predicted to rank in the top thousand students across the entire academy!"

"Uuugh…"

Gulp.

Both parents swallowed thickly, their hearts pounding in their ears.

All the noise around them—the laughter, the cheers, the buzzing of names and numbers—faded.

Their eyes locked on the stage, where a single figure stepped out with quiet grace.

Their daughter. Merina.

She didn't look back.

She didn't wave.

She just walked forward, calmly, with purpose.

("Prepare yourselves...")

The referee floated down into the arena center, standing like a judge before two souls about to clash. He waited until both combatants stood in their proper places—one confident and grinning, the other silent and unreadable.

Then—he raised his hand, the crowd holding its breath.

And with a mighty sweep of his arm, he shot skyward and cried:

("Begin!")