Lord of the Truth

At the present moment—

"Haaah~"

Wade's mouth stretched open in a long, guttural exhale, and a roiling tide of shadow burst free.

Black smoke gushed from his lips, his nose, even his ears, so thick it was as though an entire burning metropolis had been trapped inside his chest and was now being vomited into the air. The miasma writhed and coiled like a living storm, and every pulse carried with it the stench of decay.

His eyes glowed pitch black at first, two chunks of coal alight with corruption. Yet slowly—painfully slowly—a glimmer of something else appeared. A pinprick of white. It widened, spread like a flame crawling across dry wood, until it became a steady gleam of pure radiance, pressing outward against the darkness.

Minute by minute, that pale glow spread until finally, his natural brown pupils returned, swimming within whites bloodshot and veined with red. The threads of crimson screamed of exhaustion—exhaustion deeper than sleeplessness, the exhaustion of someone tormented for months on end, stretched past the breaking point.

"Haaah…"

After nearly an hour of this harrowing purge, the torrent of black fog subsided. No more corruption seeped from the boy's face. All that was left etched into Wade's features was the hollow mask of weariness: the haunted look of a man who had not known rest for seasons, the gaze of one who had been bound and scourged in nightmare for far too long.

"Gently now… gently."

Robin at last drew his hands back, lifting them carefully from Wade's crown and his clammy forehead. With deliberate care, he eased the boy down, lowering him to lie flat on his back in the center of the tent.

And there, beside him, lay Malak.

The man's body was stretched outside the triple-layered array, his eyes clamped shut, his face twisted and contorted with pain. Even in sleep he grimaced, sweat streaking down his jaw. Yet the stains that had run down his skin—those ink-black lines, those cursed tears—were gone. The corruption had been drawn out.

For before Wade, Robin went to Malak first. He had probed his soul domain and found it on the verge of collapse, a tear already forming in the very walls of his soul. If Robin had not acted when he did, Malak would have shattered completely. So Robin had begun with him.

Poff

Exhaustion broke him. Robin staggered back two steps, his legs threatening to give way, and finally allowed his body to crumple into a seated position against the cavern wall. His back pressed against the cold stone, one elbow propped limply against a raised knee, his palm dragging down across his sweat-soaked forehead.

What he had just done was not simple healing. He had invoked arts from the Major Fundamental Law of Purity, techniques that targeted corruption at its root. He had lashed out at the taint gnawing at Wade and Malak on all three fronts: the stains in their soul domains, the poison spreading through their blood and clogging their veins, and the karmic filth that had latched onto their very auras.

Through hour after hour, Robin had dragged it all out of them. He had scoured them clean.

But he had gone further still. He had pushed his own soul force into their domains, like stitching torn cloth with threads of fire. He had sealed holes where the fabric of their essence had ripped. He had forced open fissures and pressed them closed until they bound. The great gashes had been sealed, the worst of the fractures mended.

Of course, much had been lost that could not be restored. Their soul domains had been stripped bare. The archives of their soul creatures—the imprints, the bonds—were gone. The mists and lakes where their soul companions once dwelled were gone. Their domains still crawled with a spider's web of cracks and microfractures, silent reminders of the devastation.

That would be for later. Scars to be borne, wounds to be carried. But the fact that there would be a later—that they still lived to bear those burdens—

That itself was a miracle.

Robin sat slouched, rubbing the bridge of his nose between two fingers. His movements were lethargic, his breath heavy. His mind felt drowned, his body hollow. Hours of channeling purity had drained him dry, left him trembling.

"Khhhhhkkk!!!"

Without warning, his entire body seized. A violent spasm gripped him, snapping his shoulders forward. He wrapped his arms around himself, clutching as if to hold his frame together. The veins in his neck bulged, quivering like cords ready to snap.

His face twisted hideously, lips trembling, eyelids twitching with erratic spasms. His body shook as though it sought to rebel against him, his flesh remembering torment his mind begged to forget.

Even healed, even whole, his body remembered.

Robin had endured torture before. But nothing—nothing—compared to the torment he had suffered this day.

The Purgatory Flame… What a cursed invention!

And yet, in the quietest corner of his mind, another thought stirred. A cruel practicality. Perhaps this pain, this horror, this fire that had nearly undone him… perhaps more soldiers should be made to wield it. Perhaps this terror was a weapon worth multiplying.

"Khhkkk!!"

Another spasm. His body writhed, twisting unnaturally, forcing him to slam a palm into his own face to stop himself from screaming. He shook his head violently, then raised both trembling hands before his eyes, staring at them with loathing.

"Damn it… it feels like I'm trapped in someone else's body entirely!"

Another wave threatened to seize him, but before it could take him, Robin clenched his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. He chose to let go.

Inside Robin's soul domain—

"…Hehh~"

Robin exhaled deeply, the sound half a sigh of relief and half a weary chuckle. His steps echoed faintly as he moved forward, every pace sinking into the strange silence that now ruled his inner world.

The suffocating veil of darkness was gone—utterly gone. The oppressive corruption that had nearly swallowed him whole the last time he dared to step into his own soul had vanished, erased by fire and pain. Not a single blemish of black remained.

But what replaced it was no victory.

The entire domain felt thinner, stripped bare, lighter—as though a great weight had been carved away, but at the cost of its very substance.

The meadows and rolling fields that once sprawled across his soul were gone. The tall trees and winding rivers, the small creatures and crawling insects—all of it had vanished. No flutter of wings, no splash of water, no hum of life remained. What had once been a vibrant reflection of his essence now lay hollow and white, a blank and endless expanse, empty as the first day he had entered it years ago.

Every fragile soul-beast—every flower, every rabbit, every fish—wiped out.

The multitudes of beings that had lived here—humans, Dorgrien, beasts of every kind—the bustling soul-city that had once thrived inside this space—all reduced to nothing. Not even shadows of their voices lingered.

Only silence.

"…"

Robin's eyes shifted. To one side, Pythor stood, surrounded by a pitiful handful of survivors. Barely a hundred soul creatures remained where once there had been legions.

The moment they saw him, they bowed low, as always. Yet this time their postures were not filled with joy. Instead, their forms trembled. Their gazes carried sorrow. Some even glared at him, their childlike faces twisting with accusation.

Robin lowered his head.

These creatures were bound to him utterly, tied to his essence, yet they still carried sparks of thought, emotions faint but real. They were like infants who could cry at their father for frightening them, then rush back to cling to his leg moments later. He knew their anger was fleeting. He knew it would fade.

And yet… the fact that he had made them suffer this horror at all… the fact that his guardians, his "children," had been dragged through flames of terror… It was a wound to his pride.

"…Owner."

"Uncle's here!!"

Two familiar voices broke through his thoughts. Robin lifted his head just in time to see Neri and Evergreen approaching, their figures carrying both familiarity and rebuke.

He sighed faintly, shoulders sagging. "Did the fire burn you? Either of you?"

"No." Neri's voice was even, her eyes as icy and unreadable as ever. "That terrifying flame only consumed the domain's outer shell. It never touched the heart. What burned were the negative energies, the specters that panicked and tried to flee. They were the ones who suffered, It was like they were inside an oven trying to to get out. We however… felt nothing."

Hearing this, Robin nodded, but the relief was faint, weak. "Good… good…"

THUD!

Suddenly Evergreen's foot smashed into his shin. "Good?! That was the worst day of my entire life!"

"…" Robin stumbled, clutching his leg, hopping twice in pain. For an instant, he wanted to snap back, to unleash his authority, even to order Pythor to string her up by her ankles again as punishment. But he bit it back, forcing himself to steady his breath. "…Fine. Fine. You're right. You earned that one."

THUD!

A second blow struck his other shin. Neri, calm and cold, had stepped forward to kick him as well.

"Since she had a pass today," she said flatly, "I will use mine too."

"Even you?!" Robin winced, doubling over as he grabbed both legs.

"Do you even realize how close you came to dying, Owner?" Neri's voice cracked like a whip, her brows furrowing, her expression sharper than blades. "And for what? A reckless dream of quick strength? You chose to force yourself into the path of the Royal Soul Master, and in doing so you dragged all of us into your madness. You risked your life for a gamble."

"I know… I know…" Robin's voice lowered, almost swallowed by the vast white silence around them. He exhaled long and heavy, his shoulders sinking. "I paid the price myself. A price my body will remember for a long, long time."

His gaze lifted, eyes narrowing as he turned to stare into the distance—into some invisible horizon only he could see.

"…But at least," he murmured, his voice steady now, "my dream is no longer a dream."