Lord of the Truth

"....."

"....."

It was as if every sound in the world had been stolen away in that instant—snatched clean from existence—leaving behind only a profound, ringing silence. It was as though every light in creation had turned its focus onto two figures alone: the lone specter standing high upon the jagged mountain peak… and Robin himself.

This specter was no ordinary apparition. It was a bizarre, intimidating colossus—its height nearing seven full meters—its shoulders so impossibly broad that the span between them approached three entire meters! Its face was a bare, bleached skull, devoid of flesh, yet it was draped in a voluminous robe that swayed with an unseen wind, its hood pulled low to shroud the rest of its towering frame. In one bony grip, it clutched an enormous femur, a weapon of bone that seemed carved from some ancient giant's remains.

And though the creature lacked eyes, the way it focused on Robin was enough to send a biting chill crawling up his spine. That unseen gaze carried weight—it was primal hunger given form—making Robin understand with brutal clarity what the specter desired. It wanted him. It wanted its meal.

But Robin… he did not flinch. He did not recoil. He let the battle raging to his left and right fade into background noise, as if it were nothing more than a distant storm. He slowly turned his chair toward the looming figure, his focus sharpening until the rest of the world ceased to matter. His gaze did not hold fear, nor even the faintest shadow of dread. Instead, his eyes burned with something far more dangerous—an appetite even fiercer than the specter's own!!

This towering specter held no less than three hundred thousand soul units within it—an absurd, staggering amount. It was, without a doubt, the most sumptuous, irresistible prize in the entire battlefield.

Robin had spent nearly six long decades poring over the second volume of the Soul Atlas. Page after page had been crammed with elaborate, often tedious expositions about the elusive "silver" and its countless characteristics. But buried at the end—hidden like a gem among pebbles—was the real treasure: a method to compress raw soul force into the purer, rarer soul essence.

According to the tome, the one and only path to obtaining purple soul force was to gather one million free soul units made entirely from refined soul essence. The instant a Soul Master accomplished this—successfully amassing a million fully polished essence units—they could transmute them into purple soul force, ascending immediately into the rank of One-Star Purple Soul Master.

From there, the journey became a matter of repetition. Every additional million essence units compressed would forge another star, each one magnifying the Royal Soul Master's strength: greater mastery in soulcasting, greater endurance in prolonged combat, and access to the highest tiers of mystical soul arts and ancient spills.

Thus, when it was said that Barok was a Two-Star Royal Soul Master, it meant he had achieved the herculean feat of compressing a million essence units—twice over. As for the legendary author of the Soul Atlas? A previous headmaster of the Dawn Light Stellar Academy, He was nothing less than a Seven-Star Royal Soul Master!

Of course, this path was anything but easy. Depending on the density and purity of the soul units absorbed, a Soul Master might require as many as ten ordinary soul units merely to form a single essence unit.

The challenge was colossal. One would first need to construct a soul domain vast enough to contain an entire million units at once. Only then could they gather the full million ordinary soul units, refine them painstakingly into one hundred thousand essence units, and repeat that grueling process many times until, at last, they had the full million essence units secured within their soul domain.

And what exactly was a "free soul unit"? It referred to any portion of soul force not bound into the architecture of the domain—the Structure, the walls, the soul creatures roaming within. These structural investments didn't count toward the total for star advancement. In fact, the domain's skeletal Structure didn't even need to be made from essence to ascend in rank—it could remain woven from ordinary soul force long after the first star was gained.

Still, the benefits of essence reinforcement were undeniable. The greater the percentage of soul essence integrated into the domain skeleton, the sturdier and more enduring it became—expanding its capacity for stars, bolstering its resistance, and ultimately shaping the Royal Soul Master's entire future potential.

Even having just ten percent of the domain's structure forged from essence would grant the capacity to sustain three stars instead of a single one.

When Robin had read that revelation all those years ago, the urge to leap up and invent a brand-new victory dance nearly overcame him. But his body had been too weary, his mind too drained… even lifting the corners of his lips into a smile had felt like a battle of its own.

Thanks to the forbidden demonic soul-filling technique and thanks to the monumental ocean of souls he had harvested through the Soul Net across many battlefields he had personally commanded… Robin's soul domain was unlike any other. Every single piece of it, from its deepest foundational lattice to the outermost soul ramparts, was forged entirely from pure, refined soul essence.

He had already achieved a staggering ninety-five percent purity long ago—a feat most Soul Masters would consider unattainable perfection.

Yet Robin was not content. He could feel it in the quiet moments of meditation, in the way the power hummed unevenly through his domain—that remaining five percent was weaker, softer than the rest. And that was unacceptable. So he conceived a method, one that no book recorded, no master had taught him—a process to surgically replace that last fragment of imperfection without tearing the entire structure apart.

It was no quick repair. With painstaking precision and patience that stretched beyond the endurance of most beings, Robin worked at it over the span of centuries ensuring the domain would not collapse upon him during the transformation. And finally, after generations of toil, the impossible was reality: a Structure with a soul essence purity of one hundred percent.

A soul domain structure forged entirely from essence… what could such a thing achieve? How far could its master ascend? How many stars could it bear before the limits of mortal comprehension shattered? Even the legendary second Head of the Stellar Academy, whose treatises shaped the ambitions of countless Royal Soul Masters, had never dared to speak of a structure like this in his Soul Atlas!

And now—without even realizing it until this moment—Robin had fulfilled what could only be described as a hidden side quest of fate itself: "Acquire the Perfect Domain Structure." The next step was clear. He had to expand that Structure's capacity until it could house a full million units—each and every one of them forged from essence—to preserve that flawless 100% ratio.

Only then would he begin the second phase: flooding the domain with one million free soul essence units, untouched by the structural bindings of the domain, so they could be compressed into his first soul star.

The clock was already ticking. Six days—that was all he had to gather the needed essence. When he calculated the numbers, the target was daunting: 1.19 million units of pure essence. But Robin was not one to be intimidated by tall mountains or deep oceans.

And now, before him, stood a most tempting opportunity—a perfect opening strike for his campaign. The specter that had emerged, ancient beyond reckoning, carried within it a wealth of three hundred thousand units. Enough to turn the tide of his gathering effort in a single blow.

"...."

The air between them grew taut, almost trembling. Robin's gaze, sharp and unblinking, locked onto the towering specter. His mouth curved into a wide smile—a predator's smile—and his eyes shone with a hunger so potent it felt almost tangible.

The specter froze. Its eerie murmurs, its low whispers, fell silent all at once. For a heartbeat, it stood utterly still, unsure whether it was facing prey… or something far worse.

Creak

Robin's hands pressed to the wheels of his chair, and he rolled forward—slowly, deliberately, like a hunter closing in, careful not to startle the quarry before the trap was sprung.

"…?!"

The reaction was instant. The specter stepped back. An instinct buried deep within its being told it to keep its distance.

This was wrong. All wrong. It had come here lured by the sounds of battle, intending to make sport of the cripple, to frighten him, then consume him as an appetizer before moving on to the other three. But something was inverted here. Why did it feel as though it had been marked… as though it was the prey?

"Hmm?"

Robin's brows rose slightly, his voice laced with mild amusement. "It seems you possess a sharper awareness… nothing like the squawking chickens behind me."

He halted, letting the silence stretch so as not to push the specter into flight, and then he spoke—his voice carried on the cold wind like an unshakable promise:

"I only wish to speak with you, truly, about the Valley of Specters and stuff—will you come to me, or shall I come to you?"

Whoosh

The specter spun on its heel and bolted, fleeing into the opposite direction with startling speed.

"Come back here!!"

Screeech

The wheels of Robin's chair shrieked against the ground, sparks scattering like tiny comets. And then he was gone, launching forward as a blinding thread of light—cutting across the battlefield in relentless pursuit of his prize.