Lord of the Truth

Tttttt

A fissure ripped open in space, jagged and violent. From within that gash crawled Robin, his entire body smothered in layers upon layers of stealth-enhancing techniques. Every breath, every heartbeat, every flicker of energy was suppressed, for he prayed that not a single soul—or specter—would notice him.

He had no certainty about where the Shepherdess intended to go, yet his instincts clawed at him like talons. This place was wrong. Too quiet, too heavy. If there was a root to the planet's blight, if there was a wound at the heart of Specter Valley, it would be here.

Slithering low, Robin descended the slope and inched forward across jagged stone, pressing himself against the ground until he reached the rim of a cliff. Slowly, carefully, he raised his head just high enough to glimpse beyond.

The sight struck him like a hammer. His face twisted from grim focus into raw disbelief.

"My… Oh my…" he whispered.

Craaaackle—Rumble

Above him, the sky was not still. It was turning. Grinding. Churning.

The heavens of that place rotated like a monstrous whirlpool, not of clouds or storms but of pure malignancy. Dark currents of energy spun in endless spirals, a vortex of suffocating negativity. This was no weather phenomenon—this was a storm of corruption, as if the planet itself bled despair.

Its density was staggering; Robin instinctively compared it to the malignant cloud that had once threatened to erupt from his own body, and the similarity made his heart pound harder.

Those clouds—no, that seething maelstrom of poison—were blacker than night and tinged with sickly hues of violet and gray, their forms curling like clawed hands scratching at the firmament. Every ripple radiated a chill that sank into bone and soul alike. Whatever purpose this vortex served, it was bound to the planet's curse, to the very reason Specter Valley existed in such ruin.

"Oooooooh~//"

The cry jolted Robin's attention downward. His hands flew to his face, clamping over his nose so tightly his knuckles whitened. His chest heaved in revolt as the stench invaded anyway—so vile, so acrid that it felt as though it would peel the skin from his throat and lungs. His eyes bulged until it seemed they might burst from his skull.

At the base of the swirling vortex lay a structure—an altar.

It rose like an accursed monument: a colossal stone spire carved in a conical shape, towering no less than a hundred meters. Yet its oppressive aura made it feel even taller, as if it scraped the underbelly of the vortex itself. Just gazing at it sent a suffocating weight pressing down on Robin's chest, as though invisible chains bound his lungs.

And then he saw what unfolded upon it.

A figure stood at the altar's peak. His skin was a lifeless gray, like volcanic ash hardened after eruption. Long braids dangled past his shoulders, framing a face dominated by grotesquely wide eyes—eyes that consumed half his visage, lifeless yet weary, bored, as though trapped in a cycle too ancient to end. In his hand dangled a knife, its edge dulled not by time, but by the sheer crust of dried blood encrusting it.

Before him, a victim knelt, trembling uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. His cries were raw, desperate, the sound of a soul clawing against inevitability, as though he saw his entire life flicker and fade before him.

The executioner did not flinch. Did not hesitate.

Sliiiiiish

The blade carved across the man's throat in a single motion.

Blood gushed, spraying across the stone, running along grooves that seemed deliberately etched into the altar's surface. With mechanical apathy, the executioner dragged the twitching body aside and hurled it from the spire.

The victim spasmed mid-fall, his blood raining down like crimson threads. When he struck the ground below with a wet thud, his convulsions ceased instantly. His corpse lay twisted among thousands of others, indistinguishable from the mountain of the dead.

"…?!" Robin's eyes widened further as comprehension dawned. The earth itself was corpses. What he had taken for diseased soil was nothing more than a carpet of death.

The plain stretched for hundreds of meters in every direction, slick and sodden. The ground bled constantly, oozing with rot, stinking of rancid iron and decay. It was no mere surface layer—no, the corpses went deeper. Much deeper.

How far did it extend beneath the earth? Hundreds of meters? Kilometers? How many millions had been sacrificed here to pile this grotesque foundation of flesh? No mortal mind could calculate it.

The true height of the altar was now unknowable, for its base did not rest on ground—it rested on corpses upon corpses, an endless pit of cadavers supporting its rise.

"Next!" the executioner called, flicking the blood-caked knife high into the air like a toy before catching it again. His voice was dull, casual, almost cheerful in its cruelty. "Let's finish today's quota quickly… then we can all go enjoy a good meal!"

"Coming!"

At that moment, a small flying vessel screeched through the swirling sky and descended onto the narrow platform that jutted from the spire. Its frame rattled as it settled, the sound grating against the air like broken chains.

From it stepped a man in rough garb, dragging behind him twenty captives roped together in a long line. Their hands and feet were bound cruelly, and their faces were smothered with heavy cloths that sealed both eyes and mouths—denying them the mercy of sight, and robbing them of even the ability to scream.

"Where have you been, man?!" The gray-skinned butcher snarled, his grotesque knife flashing as he stormed forward. With one quick stroke, he severed the rope and seized the first victim, yanking him forward so hard his knees slammed against the stone.

Forcing the prisoner to kneel, the butcher ripped the gag away, revealing a pale, sweat-soaked face twisted in terror. He shot a glance back at his companion, irritation dripping from his voice. "Do I really need to finish an entire batch before you bring me the next? At this pace, we'll never empty the pens today!"

"Are you brain-dead? Can't you hear those blasts shaking the valley?" The vessel's handler smacked his own forehead in exasperation, then pointed westward. His hand trembled faintly. "Something is happening out there, bigger than us!"

"Aah… aahhh…" The newly unveiled victim's eyes darted in every direction, bloodshot and wild. His entire body convulsed with terror, shoulders jerking as if invisible hands dragged him toward death itself. His legs gave out, and he almost collapsed forward in surrender.

But the executioner's grip was merciless. He seized the man by the collar, jerked him upright, and with a swift slash, cut his throat wide. Blood sprayed in an arc across the altar stones, feeding the ancient grooves carved to channel it downward. Without a shred of care, the butcher hurled the body aside. It landed with a wet smack, spilling like a bag of crimson water at the base of the spire.

The air grew thicker. The stench of iron and rot swelled, mixing with the distant tremors of muffled explosions echoing across the valley. Each rumble shook the prisoners' trembling knees, as if the earth itself joined their terror.

The butcher turned, tearing another strip of rope free. His hand gripped the next captive—a young girl, scarcely fifteen years old, small enough that her feet barely touched the stone when he dragged her forward. Her knees buckled, and she whimpered faintly through the gag before he ripped it away.

Her lips quivered, eyes wet and pleading. For a heartbeat, her gaze seemed to search for a savior in the swirling dark above.

The butcher sneered. "This isn't our problem, man. Let the guards worry about their battles. Our job is simple—finish the quota for today, and then we leeeave."

"Kyaaaaaaaaaaaa—k-kghhh!!"

SLAAAASH

Her scream fractured into silence as her head was cleaved free, tumbling down the steps of the altar. The small body crumpled like a broken doll. Her blood joined the rivers running across the stones.

"…!!!!" Robin's fists clenched with such force his nails cut into his palms. The veins in his face and neck bulged and throbbed, as though they might burst at any second. His vision burned red, his heart hammering with wrath.

(Don't you dare act! Those two are peak World Cataclysms!!) Neri's warning pierced into his mind, urgent and sharp. (And don't forget—you do NOT want to provoke the Syndicate!)

"Neri… what are they doing?! What is this madness?!" Robin's voice trembled with fury and disbelief. His face burned crimson, muscles quivering. "Why are two peak World Cataclysm cultivators slaughtering mortals?!"

Robin was no saint. His hands were soaked in blood—he had slain thousands personally, commanded the deaths of millions, and by his campaigns, indirectly caused the fall of tens of billions. And yet… there were laws, boundaries, that even he had refused to cross. Above all, to spare the powerless—the mortals, the unarmed, those who had no part in war. That rule had always been reflected in the orders he gave to his generals—Caesar, Sakaar, and Aro.

To butcher mortals and prisoners of war was the second greatest crime in existence, surpassed only by the annihilation of an entire planet. And yet, that very crime was unfolding before his eyes, carried out by men strong enough to be revered as paragons of destruction.

(…You are now gazing upon the very origin of Specter Valley.)