Lord of the Truth

"The Fourth Supreme General?" Morgana smiled in surprise, her lips curling upward as if the very idea amused her.

"Yes," Robin replied with a calm grin, "it's a small system I devised to give my followers freedom while maintaining unity." He leaned back slightly as he began to explain, "Each Supreme General functions independently. They are supplied equally with fleets, treasures, and equipment, and they are granted starting planets from which to raise armies. After that, they have the freedom to expand, to conquer, to invade any territory they wish without having to report back for approval."

Then Robin tapped his chest with a finger and pointed at himself, his expression firm, "I'm the only one who can issue orders to the Supreme Generals. And even then, my orders are usually broad directives—urging them to accelerate a conquest, or instructing them to target a specific location of importance. I don't involve myself in every detail of their management. That freedom is what makes them truly powerful." He waved his hand loosely, almost theatrically, before smiling again. "So, tell me, what do you think of such a system?"

"Hmmm…" Morgana tapped her chin thoughtfully, her gaze shifting toward the side as if weighing the word itself. "My opinion is… that the title 'Supreme General' is far too long. It doesn't roll off the tongue. Why not call them Marshals instead? That's what they are, you know?"

"….." Robin's smile froze on his face, and for a moment his amusement vanished.

Every time he read reports about Caesar or Aro in the Soul Society, he saw the word Marshal attached to their names. It was obvious now that his supposedly unique structure wasn't as original as he had liked to think. A tiny frustration tugged at him.

"Join me, and then you can choose whatever titles you want," Robin finally replied, brushing aside the sting. "We won't waste time disagreeing over something so minor." He waved dismissively. "So—do you accept?"

"Accept what, exactly?" Morgana's chuckle rose into a full laugh, rich with mockery. "That I become a Marshal? That I lead armies across the stars, negotiate with rulers, establish policies, and play politics?" She jabbed a finger at herself twice, incredulity written on her pale features. "Me?!"

"….." Robin looked down, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish expression. He knew very well what she was hinting at.

Morgana had lived her entire existence drifting among specters, without allies, without companions, without anyone to trust. Perhaps this very conversation they were sharing was the longest one she had engaged in for thousands of years. She was a formidable warrior without doubt, capable of seizing planets with her own hands, but the idea of her commanding vast armies, engaging in politics with planetary nobles and weaving complex policies—such a path seemed impossibly distant for her.

At that moment, Morgana's voice broke the silence: "Why don't you just say what you really want? Stop circling around it."

"And what is it exactly that I want?" Robin lifted his head again, his brows drawing together slightly. His voice carried a sharper edge.

"My ability to control specters," Morgana spread her arms wide, her voice dripping with irony. Then she made a mocking gesture with her slender fingers. "My so-called inherited techniques that allow me to guide those shadowy armies." She turned her head away, her expression hard. "You wouldn't be the first to try and take it from me."

"What technique?" Robin tilted his head, his golden gaze never leaving her. "I know you don't actually have one. What you possess is something far rarer—an extraordinary soul trait, something that has never appeared before in all the known records."

"...?!" Morgana's eyes widened, her composure slipping for a brief instant. "How did you know something like that?"

Never once had she spoken about her trait to anyone. Even those who had captured her and tortured her endlessly in their search for the forbidden techniques she supposedly possessed—she had given them nothing. They had screamed, threatened, and bled under her resistance. She had killed many of them before escaping again and again into the shadows, as was her nature.

"I saw it," Robin said simply, with a faint smile, tapping his temple. "I saw many things that day."

He leaned forward, his tone thoughtful. "Was it during your time in the vault? Did your soul domain gradually warp and mutate until it birthed a trait attuned to the specters?" He shrugged lightly. "Even then, what you've managed is remarkable. Having the trait alone doesn't mean you can control it completely. At first, perhaps, it merely dulled the harm of the specters upon you. But you… you turned it into something else. You found a way to harness it. You created a technique to use the trait deliberately, to bend specters to your will."

"And what else?" A dangerous, hostile light gleamed in Morgana's dark eyes.

"That is precisely why I admire you," Robin said firmly, his voice echoing slightly in the chamber. "Not because of the trait itself, but because you crafted a technique to command it while running for your life, while suffering the endless torment of their touch. What kind of resolve, what kind of unyielding determination, what kind of brilliance does that take? Astonishing."

He began to clap slowly, then faster, his eyes shining. "No, it's not only that. Those enchantments you implant into the specters, strengthening them beyond their natural limits—that's your creation too, isn't it? Of course it is. No one else has ever dared to take this path!"

Curiosity burned bright in Robin's eyes, his voice brimming with excitement. "Let me guess—were you already close to ascending as a Royal Soul Master when that incident happened? I can't imagine any other explanation for how far you've taken this!"

"...." Morgana turned her face away, lips pressed tight, refusing to give him even a single word. But the silence itself spoke volumes.

"It's fine," Robin finally said, raising both hands in a show of surrender, his voice carrying a calm but deliberate tone. "I'll stop bringing up the past. Let's put it behind us. What matters now… is the future."

"The future?" Morgana let out a strained smile, one that barely curved her lips but revealed the weight pressing inside her. "What future are you talking about? Stop weaving scenarios around me. None of them will ever come to pass. I won't walk any of the paths you imagine for me."

"Is that," Robin's eyes sharpened, his tone lowering into something almost accusing, "because you're about to die?"

"...?!" Morgana froze in place, then jerked her head toward him, her black eyes opening wide in disbelief, as though he had just torn open a secret she had never spoken aloud. "What… what did you just say?"

"I told you before…" Robin's expression didn't falter; his smile was quiet, steady, but heavy with certainty. "I saw many things that day. More than I should have, perhaps." He paused, studying her face, then added softly, "But you feel your body better than anyone. Your own judgment might be even sharper than mine. Tell me, how much time do you think you have left? Ten thousand years? Five thousand? …Perhaps only a single millennium?"

Robin had seen the truth long ago, back when he first watched her from atop the mountain, her aura exposed before his great eye. And he had confirmed it once more in the aftermath of the brutal battle with Arkalon. There was no doubt left in his heart—Morgana was already walking the line of death. She was not living; she was lingering.

The soul trait that allowed her to command specters had not saved her as one might think. It had merely slowed the inevitable. The corrosion that plagued her spirit domain had been reduced, yes, but not halted. The rot was still there, working slowly, insidiously, devouring her essence piece by piece. Each infected region of her soul was like a drowned island, already past the point of recovery. She was, in every sense, the perfect embodiment of the saying: even the greatest swimmer will eventually drown.

Though large parts of her soul domain remained untainted, that single spreading blot of decay was enough to kill her. It was already a miracle that she had survived this long. Every moment she breathed, every heartbeat she stole from fate, was nothing short of defiance against nature. Yet miracles do not last forever. It was only a matter of time before that festering rot pierced through the last of her defenses and consumed her utterly.

And of course, this very corruption was the invisible wall that kept her chained. It was why she could not ascend further—why she remained barred from stepping into the realm of a Two-Star Royal Soul Master or higher. For if she dared to force another star into her soul domain, her domain would shatter instantly. Her life would end in a violent collapse.

"A thousand years?" Morgana's lips curled again, but this time her smile was thin, mocking, bitter. "Less. Far less." Her gaze locked on Robin's, her dark irises glinting faintly. "That great golden eye of yours showed you all this? Hmph. Impressive, I'll admit that."

"…So that's why you came to attack a planet you already knew was claimed by the Syndicate?" Robin tilted his chin, his voice probing. "Even though you understood from the beginning that your chances of success were little more than a gamble?"

"To die for the cause," Morgana answered with a shrug, her pale shoulders rising and falling, "is better than sitting in silence and waiting for the inevitable end to swallow me." Her expression dimmed, her pallor deepening, and for a moment, her lips trembled. "I didn't think that I would… well… heh~" Her laugh was weak, breaking like glass.

"There isn't a single living being who truly doesn't fear death," Robin murmured, his voice gentler now, as if trying to lift the weight pressing down on her chest. "Not one. Even specters, even the so-called undead, when the certainty of death looms close, they fight, they claw, they struggle desperately to escape. Your fear doesn't shame you—it proves something simple and profound." He leaned closer. "It proves that you are still… alive."

"Not for long," Morgana replied, her tone quiet but resolute. She smiled faintly, that same broken but strangely serene smile, and looked into Robin's eyes once more. "So then… since you already know the truth, since you've already peered through my mask, why are we even having this conversation?" She shook her head, strands of her dark hair falling loosely across her face. "I owe you, I'll grant that much, but I cannot give you what you want. I don't have it in me to surrender what you're asking for. What I can offer is a decent handful of soul emeralds. If you want them, take them. They're yours."

Robin's eyes glimmered faintly, his smile returning in a calm, unwavering line.

"…And what if I told you," he said slowly, each word weighted, "that I can fix you?"