Lord of the Truth

A few seconds ago—

Squii~ Squii~

On a gently swaying rocking bed set beneath the soft, golden rays of the twin suns, Latania released a long, indulgent sigh, filled with comfort. "Hmm~"

She was dressed in her usual relaxed yet commanding fashion—military-style pants that flared loosely at the bottom, tucked into her heavy-duty combat boots, one leg elegantly crossed over the other. From the waist up, she wore a sleeveless, lightweight robe that hugged her form just enough to highlight the defined feminine musculature beneath her sun-kissed skin. Her arms were bent behind her head in complete leisure, fingers laced together with the ease of someone utterly unconcerned with the world.

A faint, smug smile lingered on her lips. Over her eyes lay two slices of some refreshing, greenish vegetable—clearly chosen for their hydrating properties. A fine layer of vivid blue paste covered her face, exuding a refined, floral scent. Her short, well-kept hair was tucked neatly under a thin, cap-like wrap designed specifically to protect the follicles from sun damage and dryness. Every part of her appearance screamed luxury disguised under practicality.

Whoosh Whoosh

To her left and right, two attendants stood, each holding ornate hand fans, gently wafting air toward Latania in a rhythm as steady and deliberate as a ritual. The pace was perfect—not hurried, not sluggish. Though the Academy's atmosphere was always idyllic and climate-controlled, the presence of fan bearers was more symbolic than functional—perhaps an indulgent display, or perhaps just one of her whims.

A little further away, three individuals knelt on the tiled floor, diligently crushing high-energy fruits and vegetables in large stone bowls. They were preparing the vibrant blue skincare paste by hand, their sleeves rolled up, faces focused, as if this act was a sacred duty. The paste, known for its energizing effect on the skin, was a rare luxury even within the Academy's elite circles.

On the opposite side of the patio area, a group of attendants was busy with another manual task: preparing an enormous amount of meat. Sharp blades sliced through thick cuts with precision, while others were heating up strange, unevenly-shaped charcoal pieces that emitted a fragrant smoke. Several more individuals nearby were telling jokes and performing playful stunts, providing entertainment—juggling, dancing, even mock-fighting—creating a vibrant yet oddly tense atmosphere.

"I'm hungry. Bring the meat," Latania declared out of nowhere, her tone calm yet imperious, as if her voice alone could command the winds.

Almost instantly, one of the young men kneeling by the food station shot up in alarm and replied, "Just a moment, my Queen! The food will be ready in only a few seconds!"

"What?!"

Latania jerked upright in one swift motion, her muscles flexing subtly beneath her robe. She ripped off the green slices from her eyes and glared directly at the speaker, her expression twisting into something fierce. "Are you telling me you're planning to ruin my diet?"

"Ahh!!"

"Mercy, please, Queen!!"

The food preparers fell into panic, scrambling backward on the ground in disarray, not daring to lift their heads or meet her gaze. It was as though they were staring into the abyss—into the wrath of a beast long thought extinct.

Each one of them was no ordinary servant. These were elite guards, trained killers, or scions of noble families. Some were even privately contracted protectors assigned to keep Academy students safe during missions outside the institution. Their presence here was sanctioned by the Empire itself; their capabilities were beyond question.

And yet, here...

Here they were, paralyzed in fear at the feet of one girl.

Latania stepped off the rocking bed with calm authority. She picked up one of the vegetable slices she had just flung away and took a spiteful bite out of it. Ptuh! She spat it out immediately with exaggerated disgust, then pointed toward the cooks. "I was so starving I resorted to eating this revolting thing. All of you—are to be punished!"

"...."

The fan-bearers, the paste-makers, and the rest of her gathered entourage all froze mid-motion, then gulped audibly in unison.

...This was the Queen's way. Ever since she had arrived—with her two mysterious companions—she had been causing chaos on a daily basis, creating problems over the smallest inconveniences just so she could pick fights.

Day after day, hour after hour, she had assaulted and disfigured nearly every guard in her vicinity. She didn't spare anyone—male, female, tall or short. In fact, she often encouraged them to band together and fight her as a group, just for fun.

And when the fights ended, she didn't walk away in arrogance. No—she'd take the time to point out each fighter's weakness, tell them exactly why they lost, and give them personalized advice on how to avoid her attacks next time.

Without question, everyone had grown stronger because of her. They came to respect her, to revere her, even to admire her ferocity and discipline. Many began to look forward to facing her in combat again.

But admiration has limits. And patience... even more so.

Her master, the so-called Robin Burton, had been gone for far too long. He hadn't taken her outside even once—not for a mission, not for a stroll, not even for a breath of fresh air beyond the Academy walls. So she remained behind with the others for what felt like an eternity, for decades even—frustrated, restless, and practically vibrating with pent-up energy. The boredom clawed at her day and night, and with no outlet, no purpose, and no opponents worthy of her fists, she had no choice but to unleash her wrath on the only ones within reach: them.

Time passed. And as the beatings piled up and the bruises became permanent, everyone eventually accepted a simple truth—defeating her was utterly impossible. Even worse, most of them weren't ready to endure the swelling, fractures, and humiliation again. No one had the courage or will left to try.

Some of them retreated completely, locking themselves inside their quarters like prisoners of war, refusing to leave unless directly summoned by their imperial masters. There were those who hadn't stepped outside in years—literally years—wasting away in cramped dorms, terrified of even hearing her footsteps.

Others took a more desperate path—they surrendered. They lowered their heads and learned to live with her. They called her Queen, treated her like royalty, and catered to her every whim in hopes of avoiding a confrontation.

– "Come here. Make me a moisturizer."

= "Of course! Right away, my Queen!"

– "Come rub my feet."

= "I'll do it with my tongue if that pleases you!"

They obeyed her like trained servants, some even smiling as they did so, pretending they were happy about it. But even then… even with their complete compliance and ridiculous displays of submission, she still found excuses to snap, get angry, and beat the living daylight out of them all over again!

Then, without warning, a voice echoed from behind, sharp and curious:

"Hey! What's going on here?"

"Ah! Help us, prof--!!" The guards working near the fire pit turned quickly, their eyes lighting up with hope, praying someone had finally come to intervene. But the hope that sparkled in their eyes was immediately snuffed out the moment they saw who it was.

It was a man seated in a chair. His posture was utterly relaxed—one hand propped under his cheek, head tilted lazily. From the way he slouched, from the stillness of his body, it didn't look like he could move at all.

"...?!"

Latania narrowed her eyes as she stared at the newcomer, a slight crease forming on her brow.

There was something about him—something familiar.

A whisper inside her said: I've seen him before… but when? Where?

"Little brother! Go! You need to leave now!" the fan-bearers whispered frantically, gesturing for Robin to leave at once.

"Tsk."

Robin clicked his tongue in annoyance, completely ignoring their warnings. His gaze locked onto Latania's without hesitation.

"I don't care who you're guarding, or what rank you hold. I hate this kind of tyrannical nonsense. Just because you're a little stronger than the others doesn't mean you get to treat everyone like dirt!"

"Shhh! Save yourself!" the guards pleaded again. Some couldn't bear to look—they turned their heads away, unable to watch what was surely about to happen: a cripple being torn apart.

"Shut up!" Robin barked suddenly, startling everyone. "What kind of pathetic guards are you?! If you were my guards and I saw this display of cowardice, you all would be executed on the spot!"

He turned his eyes back to Latania, his tone hardening.

"Listen. I'm here looking for my personal guards. And you—yes, you—are going to help me find them. After that, you can go back to bullying these pitiful half-men!"

"Kiiih!!"

The other guards clenched their teeth and looked away, bracing themselves for the sound of bones breaking and someone being dragged across the dirt.

Robin hated this entire scene. The humiliation, the fear, the silence—it all grated against him.

Something deep inside him, primal and righteous, wanted to tear this woman down.

Even though she was suppressing her aura with expert-level precision... even though her raw power and the absolute fear she instilled in these elite guards suggested she was clearly connected to someone of terrifying influence…

Even so—

Robin knew that if she so much as said the wrong thing…

He would call upon Pythor. And that would be enough.

"...."

But—

To the shock of everyone watching…

Latania didn't strike.

She held back.

Her fingers twitched, her breathing slowed. She tilted her head slightly upward, eyebrows furrowed deeper now.

"I feel like I've seen you before…" she said slowly, thoughtfully. "I feel… like I don't want to crush you. Who are you? Have you been to the training yard before? Who are your guards?"

"I doubt it," Robin said, his voice rising with confident pride. "Anyone who sees me once never forgets me, woman. I am Professor Robin Bur—"

BAAAAAAM!

A thunderous sound tore through the air.

Every single guard snapped their heads toward the noise, instinctively, as if the sound had reached deep into their instincts and yanked their attention away.

But it wasn't the sound of shattered teeth.

Nor the familiar squelch of a nose dragging across polished wood.

No—

It was the sound of a knee crashing to the ground.

Followed by a loud, resounding voice:

"Latania, Commander of the Third Imperial Guard Division, salutes His Majesty!"

"...."

"......."

"......"

Silence swallowed the courtyard like a vacuum.

Not even the wind dared move.