Lord of the Truth

Inside the academic building—

"…" Robin slowly opened his eyes, his gaze hollow like a man who got nothing to offer, nothing to lose, and without uttering a single word, he remained seated in place, motionless, as if time itself had paused around him.

There was no joy on his face from finally discovering the key to lifting the curse that had loomed over him for so long. His expression remained blank, and his eyes were lost—drifting, disconnected from the present—as if his soul were still trapped within the depths of the Soul Society. But that wasn't the case. No, something far worse was happening… because, at that very moment, his hands were trembling uncontrollably.

That battle…

He had held himself together in front of Hedrick with all the restraint he could muster. He forced himself to seem calm, in control, a commander above fear or doubt—he refused to appear like some inexperienced amateur. Yet deep inside, that confrontation had shaken him—cut through him—right to the marrow of his bones.

Not because he lacked the power to face it—no, not at all. He understood all too well how to win in Verillion's war specifically. In fact, once he sent out his forces, it was unlikely that any large-scale battles like the one he had just witnessed would ever erupt again. He had control. He had strategy. On paper, everything should've been fine.

But he couldn't stop his mind from imagining—what if that had been Nihari?

He had pictured it clearly… the disasters of the world raining down, the awakened connection states and the high-level guardians clashing with apocalyptic force on its surface after ascension. He had imagined the millennial empires descending like vultures, conquering Orphan's Blood, Jura, and Greenland to establish their war bases, launching assaults from sacred grounds.

He had seen, in his mind, a preview of the hell that was coming.

Within just 600 years, that war would begin. A war that, if Nihari lost, would leave him with no retreat, no second chance, no do-over. He would be dragged helplessly into his long-promised eternal damnation. There would be no mercy, no delay—only the abyss.

And what had he done to prepare for that hell? Nothing.

His internal energy was still capped at level 31… his soul force hadn't surpassed 810… and his physical strength remained stagnant at level 40.

His followers—though powerful enough to decimate any conventional ground force—were no match for the true pillars of power that ruled the cosmic stage. The human families who had joined the Cradle Empire barely included a few weak world-level disasters, and even then, they were second-rate. The slaves under his command were hardly stronger, mere tools, limited and frail. Neither group could be trusted in the face of what was coming.

He had only 600 years left until he triggered a miniature cosmic war in a mid-sector and he had prepared nothing, forged nothing worth relying on!

Well… not nothing.

There was one thing.

Hedrick's promise.

The unexpected vow of protection. A shield offered from beyond calculation, beyond his schemes. A gift he had never asked for, nor planned to receive. A divine stroke of fortune from a path he hadn't even considered.

Until now, Robin had taken his time. He had moved with care, precision—step by step, never rushing. He believed patience would win out. But after seeing that battle… after truly feeling its weight… no. That mindset wouldn't work anymore. He had let things drag on for far too long.

He had to go to Specter Valley Planet. Not tomorrow. Not later. Today.

"Ugh…"

Robin tried to rise from the bed, but his body gave out and slumped back. He had forgotten—less than half a day had passed since his collapse. His body was still in shock, reeling from the aftermath.

"…"

His teeth clenched tight, grinding against each other. A wave of helplessness—sharp and unforgiving—washed over him. He could feel the clock ticking, the zero hour approaching with every heartbeat, while he remained seated, doing nothing. His heart raced, and a silent panic crept into his chest.

Should he return to the Soul Society and attempt to fulfill the Truth Chamber's demands, hoping that would restore his strength? …No. His mind was too scattered, his focus shattered. He wouldn't be able to concentrate—he knew it.

With effort, Robin threw the blanket aside, his limbs heavy, uncooperative. He began to shift his leg toward the edge of the bed, dragging it like dead weight to reach the floor. "Ugh… damn everything!"

Whoosh

Suddenly, a small soul gate opened beside him, emitting a stream of radiant golden-white soul force. The energy swirled around him with calm authority. It crafted a wheelchair out of thin air, its design both graceful and functional. Then, a portion of the soul force gently wrapped around Robin, lifting him from the bed like a warm tide, and lowered him carefully into the seat.

With a brief glance, Robin turned toward the door that led to the staircase down to the lecture hall. Then, slowly, he turned his gaze to the opposite side—toward the balcony that overlooked the street below.

"…"

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

Outside—

"Did you hear what happened today between Professor Barok and his students?" one girl whispered with amusement, placing her hand over her mouth as she began to giggle softly, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I swear, if even half the rumors are true, he's going to land himself in serious trouble."

"Mhm," the other girl murmured, nodding slowly, her expression more serious. She leaned her head against her hand, elbow resting on the table beside her. "They say he actually beat several students—badly. So badly that a few of them were left barely clinging to life, right on the edge between death and survival."

The first girl raised both hands dramatically, planting them on her hips with a scowl. "And what? His personal frustrations are supposed to justify that kind of violence? No way. I bet the students' families are already preparing formal complaints. This won't be swept under the rug—"

Whoooosh

"Ahh!"

Both girls jumped, startled by a sudden rushing sound above their heads. They instinctively ducked and looked up in alarm as a dark shadow swept over them.

Then, in the very next instant, a sharp thud echoed just a few meters away—something had landed.

They turned, wide-eyed. "Huh…?"

What they saw wasn't what they expected.

It was a young man, seated in a strange, futuristic-looking wheelchair unlike anything they'd seen before. The design shimmered with faint golden and white light—something powered by soul force, clearly—and he looked like someone completely out of place.

"....."

Robin didn't even glance at the girls' shocked expressions. His eyes were scanning the area carefully, darting around. He had no idea where anything was in this academy, aside from the path between the library and his private building. The rest of the grounds were a complete mystery to him.

So with a sudden motion, he turned sharply toward the girls, his chair reacting instantly to his will. Soul force surged beneath the wheels, propelling him forward in a blur until he stopped right beside them.

"Hello little ones," he said flatly, his voice calm but direct. "If I wanted to find the coordinates of a specific planet, where exactly would I go?"

The girl he was facing blinked, startled. For a second, she hesitated, confused by his strange appearance and the sudden question. Then she slowly lifted a hand and pointed. "U-uh… over there, that way. You can request that kind of thing from the Mission Hall… it's in that direction."

"Mission Hall?" Robin repeated under his breath as he turned to look. There didn't appear to be any building clearly marked from this distance—it looked like he would need to search around for a while. Still, he nodded. "Thanks."

And without another word, he surged forward, leaving behind only the fading echo of his chair's propulsion.

"...."

The girls stood still, staring after him in silence until he disappeared beyond view. Then one of them exhaled.

"What was that?"

"I have no idea. Maybe… maybe one of the servants? Or a personal guard of some kind?"

"If he's a servant, then he's a cripple who needs someone to serve him. And if he's a guard, then he's so weak he needs his own bodyguard." The girl shook her head with a laugh. "Seriously, what a strange guy."

They both laughed, their footsteps retreating from the spot as if it had become cursed ground—someplace where wheelchairs fell from the sky.

WHOOOOOSH

"Ahh!"

On a nearby road, students flinched in surprise as a sudden gust of powerful wind surged past them, shaking their clothes and hair before vanishing just as fast. A few instinctively ducked; others just turned in confusion.

But none of them could see what had just passed.

Only the strongest among them, those with heightened senses, managed to catch a fleeting glimpse—a streak of radiant white and gold, racing westward like a bolt of divine lightning.

No one knew what it was.

"..."

Robin ground his teeth together, jaw clenched tight with conflict.

Part of him—perhaps the more rational part—was screaming that what he was doing was insane. He was still recovering, barely even functional. His body was in no shape for action. He should be back in bed, resting, healing. Shaddad had made it very clear—he needed a full team just to survive what lay ahead.

And yet here he was, pushing forward recklessly in a soul-powered wheelchair.

Why?

Another part of him urged him onward—told him to hurry, to move faster. To hunt down a few specters quickly and secure them, then rest during their refinement. That way he wouldn't be wasting time.

"...Damn it!"

Robin clenched both fists in frustration. He was already speeding toward the Mission Hall, but the battle inside his mind wasn't over. His instincts clashed violently with reason, ambition at war with patience.

Fwoooosh

Then suddenly—"Hmm?"

Creeeaaaak

Robin forced the chair to stop abruptly, then slowly reversed, his sharp gaze fixed in a specific direction off to the side.

There, within view now, was a large compound surrounded by a perimeter wall.

Above the entrance hung a weathered but clear sign, the letters etched with authority: Guard Quarters.