Lord of the Truth

A spell or enchantment is a specialized technique cast upon an object, place, or living being with the purpose of either activation, empowerment, or enhancement. For instance, a spell might be used to keep a waterwheel turning eternally, irrigating a field for a thousand consecutive years without pause. Another might be used to amplify the defensive capabilities of a shield, making it resistant to fire for an entire century. These are but simple examples...

On the other hand, a curse is something entirely different — it is a malevolent force, hurled with the intent to corrupt, to harm, to doom. A Curse of Eternal Stillness that freezes the soul in place forever. A Curse of Pain and Decay, like the one that struck Roben from within the Soul Tomes. Or perhaps a city-wide curse — one that repels all good karma, attracts relentless misfortune, and dooms the city to a slow, inevitable ruin until it crumbles into dust.

Both spells and curses are terrifying in their own right. To encounter someone truly adept in the dark art of curses is to confront a living nightmare, a being who can bend unseen forces to their will with devastating consequences. And if you find yourself opposing an empire that shelters a Grandmaster of Spells... then you're not merely fighting an army — you are standing against a force that borders on invincibility.

Despite their fearsome abilities, spellcasters and curse-weavers are not typically categorized under their own independent path of cultivation. They still draw upon heavenly laws, soul force, or the elemental forces of the world — thus they are seen as operating within existing frameworks, not creating an entirely new one.

Yet... regardless of their classification, a skilled enchanter or curse-weaver commands undeniable reverence and fear wherever they go. Casting a technique — whether based on laws or soul— is already an arduous task. But to conjure one complex enough to endure the corrosion of centuries, one that reactivates itself endlessly with precise timing... that is something few can dream of achieving.

In almost every case, a true practitioner of this craft was once the disciple of another — a master who, in turn, had a master of their own, and so on. Most of the renowned names in this obscure lineage can be traced back through generations of knowledge... back to one man. The man who laid the foundation for all modern spellwork and cursing arts. A being whose name is uttered with both reverence and dread…

The Tyrant of Curses — Darvion.

Any curse or spell that has gained legendary status is invariably the work of a master from an ancient lineage. These creations were sometimes sold, traded, or gifted... but always with the approval, directly or indirectly, of the one who began it all: the Archfiend of Hexes, Darvion.

As for the rest? The amateurs? They are little more than pretenders — individuals who dabble with forces far beyond their comprehension. They try to invent spells and curses from nothing, without roots, without guidance. The result is almost always the same: feeble incantations that barely function or become the laughingstock of true practitioners.

Robin chuckled quietly as he heard Voltar's dismissive words.

"Oh really? My curse is worthless, is it? Then what was it my book was speaking of last time?"

Voltar frowned his eyebrows a little, thinking, "I don't know. It must have been so unremarkable and utterly pointless that I didn't bother remembering a word of it. I honestly don't understand what the Archive even saw in it."

He waved lazily with one hand, then extended the other forward.

"Is this the book you want stored in the Archive? Hand it over already."

'With absolute pleasure.'

Robin gently closed the book once again, let out a slow breath, then reclined back and began massaging his temples, his eyes drifting shut.

'Tsk~'

Voltair stepped forward, snatched the book, and opened it. His eyes scanned the title page:

"The Simplified Encyclopedia of Blood Research, Volume One—"

The moment he finished reading the title and tried to begin the first word of the opening passage… he froze.

He could not continue.

Suddenly, his whole demeanor shifted. His posture tensed unnaturally. His synthetic hair stiffened, standing on end. His eyes bulged wide open, unblinking. His complexion turned pale, like someone who had just glimpsed something unspeakably horrific. His lips began trembling, moving without sound, as if he were trying to scream but had forgotten how. His entire being was consumed by one overwhelming emotion: sheer terror~

BAM!

Without a second thought, Voltair snapped the book shut and flung it violently toward the wall. He clutched his chest with both hands, breathing in sharp, desperate gasps.

'H-Hah... Haah... What was that?! Why... why am I afraid?! What did I just feel?!'

But even before he could fully collect himself, a new horror unfolded before his eyes.

From the wall where the book had struck, sounds began to echo out… grinding, shifting…

The Archive was accepting the book. The wall was parting, creating a space for it — making room among the ancient tomes, as if recognizing the book's right to stand among them.

'Incredible...' Robin's voice dripped with mockery. 'Your reactions are far too human. Tell me, is there a human soul buried somewhere inside you?'

He laughed freely as Voltar stood there, stunned and shaking.

Then Robin gave him a playful wink.

'Anyway, keep the place nice and warm for me… until next time.'

*WHOOSH*

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

In the corridors of the Academy—

"Hmmm~ hmm hmm hmm~~" Roben hummed softly as he strolled along, his voice light and carefree.

"..."

Every time a student or professor caught sight of him, they froze in place, their eyes wide with disbelief, watching him in silence until he vanished around a corner.

His clothes were soaked in layers of dried and fresh blood. His eyes and face had barely regained a sliver of vitality, though the pain still lingered visibly across his expression. Overall, he looked like someone who had just walked out of a life-or-death battle... and yet, for some inexplicable reason, he was smiling — humming and composing little tunes as he walked!

Why? Because within that second book he'd acquired… lay a delightful surprise. A very delightful surprise!

As it turned out, the method of advancing from the Silver Weapon Soul Force to the power of the Royal Purple Soul Force was through—

"Hmm?"

Robin suddenly halted mid-step. The strained smile he had maintained through the pain vanished in an instant, replaced by a heavy silence and a flicker of cold fury.

The door to his private academic building was wide open.

"Those little brats…"

He cracked his neck to the right, then the left, and began striding toward the building. Inwardly, he tried to calm himself, maybe Shaddad had opened it to move something... But that hope was quickly shattered.

There were seven students inside the building at that very moment.

Three were in the open training yard beneath the lecture hall, engaged in an all-out group battle, while the other four were scattered around, conducting their own experiments using their laws in various corners of the stands.

"Excuse me... what in the actual hell are you all doing in here?" Robin asked with eerie calm.

"Ah!!"

All seven students froze in place. Even those sitting jumped to their feet as if jolted by lightning — their hearts jumping as much as their bodies.

"P-Professor! We can explain—"

*KATCHA*

"It seems my words from last time weren't taken seriously," Robin muttered darkly. He pulled out a long, black whip wrapped in several metallic rings and cracked it against the ground with a sharp snap.

"No matter. This time... I'll engrave them into your bones. Step forward, one by one."

"Engrave?! What are you talking about? What are you trying to engrave?!"

One of the students — Fanir — stumbled backward in panic and screamed toward the upstairs suite,

"Professor Shaddad! Help!"

*BAM*

The balcony window burst open, and Shaddad leaned half his body out, rage flashing across his face.

"What the hell do you want, you little bast—?!"

But before he could finish the insult, something in the corner of his eye made him pause.

Someone was standing firmly in the building's main entrance. His eyes went wide.

"Big brother!!"

"Shaddad," Roben said quietly, his voice dangerously low as he pointed his whip toward the seven students, "What are they doing in here? And more importantly... what are you doing in my suite?"

*BAM*

Shaddad leapt out the window and landed with a soft thud. All signs of anger instantly vanished from his face.

"Ha ha, you forgot?" he said with a nervous chuckle. "You told them that whoever advance in ranks could return. These seven actually succeeded."

Then, without waiting for a response, he clapped his hands and bolted toward one of the side rooms.

"I'll start preparing your fourth bath right away!!"