Lord of the Truth

An hour later—

Bam! Bam! Whoosh!

"We need to get out of here!!"

The cry tore through the chaos like a desperate flare. In that moment, at that cursed patch of land, a deadly and lopsided struggle was unfolding—one that could barely be called a "battle." A vast herd of specters, no fewer than three hundred by a quick count, surged forward like a living storm, their incorporeal forms flickering with malice. Facing them was a ragtag force of about fifty individuals, a mixed company of different races and physiques, some seasoned, some far too young to be here.

This wasn't the orderly clash of two equal sides; it was raw survival. One group drove forward with relentless hunger, while the other scrambled, stumbled, and fought only to cling to life for one more moment.

"Die again!!" one young man roared, his voice cracking with strain as he hurled a leather talisman toward a lunging specter. The parchment struck its target and instantly burst into a lattice of strange, twisting seals. The moment the markings flared to life, the specter convulsed—its form unraveling into a stream of ghostly energy before crystallizing into a shard of emerald that clattered to the ground.

It was an anti-specter talisman—powerful, yes—but their dwindling supply was obvious. The brief victories were rare; most of the fighters weren't even trying to retaliate anymore, only dodging and retreating as the tide closed in around them.

"Everyone, follow me!!" a young man bellowed, his command cutting through the noise as he bolted toward a narrow path between the rocks.

"Wait!!"

He whipped around mid-run, shouting over the pounding of feet, "Primud! Rangakh! Guard our backs!!"

If any Imperial Guards had been present, they would have recognized him instantly—this was the same brazen youth who had once dared raise his voice to His Majesty himself.

"Yes, your highness!" came the sharp reply.

The two oldest and most imposing figures in the group stopped in unison, turned to face the oncoming tide, and stepped deliberately into the very center of the specter herd. Then, with no attempt to restrain themselves, they detonated their auras.

"Shhaaaah—!!" The wave of spiritual might slammed outward like a shock front, hurling the nearest specters back as though struck by an invisible wall. These two were no ordinary escorts—they were both firmly within the World Cataclysm Realm, their mere presence capable of bending the tide of lesser foes.

Five grueling minutes later—

"Huff… huff… no, no, no… coming here without proper preparation was a huge mistake!" one of the younger men gasped, doubling over and slapping a hand to his sweat-slicked forehead as they finally stumbled into a patch of relative safety. "Kazarin, you've really done it this time, man!!"

"Relax, everyone," Kazarin replied, lifting both hands in a mock gesture of surrender, the faintest smirk playing at his lips. "There's no way that con artist of an instructor is far from here. We find him, do what we came for, and slip away before anyone notices."

"…I still think this is a terrible idea. He's still an instructor," one of the youths muttered under his breath, scanning everyone with anxious eyes.

Just an hour earlier, their so-called friend had contacted them in a rush, urging them to come with all speed—and to bring their personal guards. They had obeyed, only to discover, upon arrival, his real plan: to track an academy instructor into the Valley of Specters… and kill him there.

Half the group had balked immediately. "He's an instructor," they'd argued. "Touch him, and the academy will crush us without hesitation."

But Kazarin's counter had been delivered with the casual confidence of someone who thought three steps ahead: We'll leave the academy for a commercial planet. From there, we jump to another commercial world. Then, from that one, we buy tickets straight to the Valley. The academy will never link us to the incident—if they even find his body in the first place.

When they'd pressed him about how they were supposed to survive the swarms of specters, Kazarin had claimed he was stocked with more than enough talismans to handle them. But the moment they had set foot on the planet, they'd been hounded without pause, the truth becoming painfully clear: he didn't have even a fraction of what was needed.

Sensing their growing doubt, Kazarin had stepped forward, eyes gleaming with a predatory light. "It's because he's an instructor that you should be tempted. Even if he's a fraud and a failure, aren't you even a little curious what's inside his spatial ring?"

He'd moved among them, placing reassuring hands on their shoulders, leaning in so his gaze met theirs. "Don't worry—he's weak. Pitifully weak. The only reason he ever dared push us around was because we were too intimidated by the title of 'instructor' to lift a hand in defense."

"…Do you really think Her Highness Althera would appoint a weak instructor, Kazarin?" one of the students finally said, shaking his head. "Honestly… I'm starting to think going back is the smartest choice we've got."

"Yes, too weak!" Kazarin declared with absolute certainty, slapping the young man's shoulder hard enough to make him sway a little. He released him and moved to another friend, gripping his shoulder as if to drive the point home. "I've seen him with my own eyes—trailing behind Instructor Shaddad everywhere like some loyal little pup. I'm telling you, he's nothing more than a disciple… maybe dabbling in body research too. In fact, that would explain the flaw in his body, the one that left him crippled and stuck in that chair!"

Straightening up, Kazarin's voice swelled until it carried over the whole group. His tone was a mix of challenge and righteous grievance. "What now? Do you want me to bow down, to grovel at your feet and beg for your help in taking my revenge? Have you all forgotten? Have I not helped every single one of you before? Did I not pay your academy fees when you were broke? Did I not arrange for you to meet the lovers you brag about? Did I not kill those who dared stand in your way? And now—now you have a weak prey in front of you and a prize that could change our fortunes—are you seriously telling me you'll abandon me and turn back?"

"..."

The students' eyes flicked to each other, hesitation hanging thick in the air. Then, slowly, a few sighs slipped out, and one by one, they nodded.

"We're with you."

"We won't leave until you leave."

Gulp.

The guards all began to sweat in unison. Every instinct they had was screaming to retreat immediately, to put as much distance as possible between themselves and this cursed place. But as long as their young masters stood firm, their duty bound them to remain, no matter the danger.

"That's the spirit!" Kazarin's grin widened, and he clapped his hands together with a sharp crack, the sound echoing in the tense air. He raised one finger dramatically, as though sealing an oath. "I promise you, once we cut him down and take his ring, we will—"

Whoooosh!

The words died in his mouth.

No, not just in his mouth—in the mouths of everyone present.

In that single instant, something swept through their midst. A cold shiver surged over them like a flood, the kind of primal dread that made every muscle lock and every hair on their bodies stand rigid. It was the instinctive terror of prey feeling the predator's shadow pass over them.

A specter had drifted right through the center of their formation. Its speed was so great that no one got more than a fleeting impression of its form—yet even that brief glimpse was enough to burn the image into their minds. It stood at least seven meters tall, its outline towering and oppressive, and its aura…

Its aura was dreadful. Overwhelming. Crushing. The kind of spiritual might that suffocated the air itself. Stronger—undeniably stronger—than Primud and Rangakh combined, their two guards in the World Cataclysm realm who were considered titans by any measure.

"What… what just happened?" someone whispered, their voice trembling.

"Thank the heavens it left… thank the heavens it left…" another murmured, almost in prayer.

Kazarin opened his mouth again, ready to calm them—to brag, even—that the reason the specter had left so abruptly was because of him. That the rare, priceless talisman he carried had driven it away. "Hmph, I—"

Whoooosh!

He froze mid-word. Another blur tore through their formation, this one like a bolt of lightning threaded in white and gold. It moved with a speed matching the specter's, maybe even faster, the afterimage shimmering in their vision for a heartbeat before vanishing into the distance.

"…Was that… a wheelchair?"

"I saw it too…"

"Why in the stars is a wheelchair moving that fast?!"

"It's him. Definitely him!" Kazarin's voice sharpened like a hunter catching the scent of prey. He jabbed a finger toward the trail the blur had left and leapt forward without hesitation.

"Kazarin, what are you doing?! Are you really going after that specter?!" one of the students shouted from the rear, his legs feeling like they were sinking into the ground, frozen by fear.

"Yes!!" Kazarin's reply was half shout, half laugh, his stride never faltering as he pursued the vanishing streak. "What if those two aren't running from us at all, but from something even worse behind us? Would you rather stand here waiting to find out? Move!! You're slowing me down!"

"…" The students exchanged baffled, uneasy looks. It was obvious to anyone with half a brain that Kazarin was just inventing any excuse to give chase—but curse him, he made it sound so convincing that doubt began to crumble.

"Wait for us!"

Whoosh! Whoosh!

In moments, they were all moving again, their footsteps pounding the ground as they charged after Kazarin, following the fading glimmer of white and gold into the depths of the specter-infested wilderness.