Lord of the Truth

"Compress!!"

Robin's thunderous roar echoed across the entire soul domain, shaking its very foundation. That domain, which had expanded to a size of one million units, now stood as vast as a small kingdom to those who resided within it.

In that instant, every soul creature inside the domain froze in place. One by one, they turned their attention toward Robin, their gazes heavy with both awe and dread. But their focus did not last long… for the pressure suddenly intensified, and waves of soul force erupted in one direction, striking with such ferocity that the soul creatures trembled. Fear washed over them, forcing them to retreat in panic, scattering toward the distant shelters hidden behind Hovenheim.

Only ten soul creatures refused to flee. They stood their ground like immovable monuments, watching the unfolding spectacle with eyes unclouded by fear or hesitation. As for Pythor—he was not among them.

Whoosh!

Crack—crack!

From the empty half of the domain, one of the countless raging tornadoes began to drift toward Robin. Its movements were slow at first, but the closer it came, the wilder and more violent it grew. It roared like a beast refusing to be tamed.

At that moment, Robin's will pressed down upon the tornado, forcing it to shrink in size. Yet the storm fought back with savage intensity, resisting with every twist of its spiraling body. It was like pressing down on a balloon from one side—only to watch the other side swell larger and fiercer.

"Ghhk…//" Robin clenched his teeth so hard it felt like they might shatter.

He had known this would not be easy. He had delayed it many times, postponing the inevitable. But now, there was no turning back. What he faced was like a newborn child attempting to drag a lion out of its den, then demanding that the beast transform into a harmless cat. The absurdity of it only fueled the danger.

"You must endure!" Neri's voice rang out from behind, her tone sharp and commanding. "I can sense the units within the tornado colliding and merging already! The number of units inside has dropped from one million to nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand—and it's still decreasing!"

"...."

Robin threw a quick, fiery glance over his shoulder, the kind that demanded silence. To him, Neri's words were salt on a fresh wound—speaking was easy for someone watching safely from the sidelines!

According to the Atlas of Souls, Volume Two, this stage was nothing but brute compression—forcing the soul units together with overwhelming might. No refined techniques, no shortcuts. And yet, that same book recorded that this step was the boundary between a Silver Soul and a Royal Purple Soul. It was the final wall that kept the number of royal soul masters so low across the entire cosmos.

Gathering one million essence units inside a single soul domain was undeniably a monumental task. But it was not impossible for a Centennial Planetary Empires or the great cosmic powers. They could purchase enough emeralds, buy entry passes into specter farms, and invest heavily just to produce a single Royal Soul Master. Such an achievement would repay the cost a hundredfold.

But even if ten candidates from the same sector all succeeded in amassing the required units, only one among them would ever manage to complete the compression.

Why? Because what Robin attempted now was not just gathering—it was annihilation and rebirth. He was destroying the units, shattering them down, and forcing them to fuse with their neighbors. It was the same terrifying principle as Jabba's destruction of energy particles—the very process that had once unleashed enough power to forge the molten seas of Nihari!

What was different here? This time, the process unfolded within the soul domain, a space bound to its master's soul. That gave Robin greater control—he could suppress explosions and command the reborn energy to rejoin into one unified whole. But how many cycles of destruction and fusion could one person endure before his soul cracked under the strain?

For a Great Soul Master, collapse meant more than simple failure. It meant a catastrophic implosion within his domain. And though the domain's size—spanning one million units—usually ensured survival, the backlash was brutal. Cracks would tear through the soul domain, leaking the hard-earned essence. At best, half of the units would escape. At worst, all of them would be lost, and the Great Soul Master would be left broken, forced into a healing journey that could take centuries, even millennia, before he could attempt the climb again.

Most Great Soul Masters required five, sometimes six attempts before successfully compressing their very first star!

Nine hundred and ninety thousand…

Nine hundred and seventy-two thousand…

Crack—crack—crack!

"Damn it!" Robin ground his teeth so hard that his jaw ached, his hands trembling as if they might snap from the strain. Sweat beaded across his forehead, streaming down his cheeks, evaporating under the heat of the spiritual pressure.

He had managed to isolate the tornado completely, locking every last essence unit within its furious spiral and sealing any chance of escape. But this triumph came at a cost—the pressure pressing back on him doubled, then tripled, as though the storm itself were screaming to break free.

Robin's voice tore from his throat, raw and commanding: "Hey, Arkalon! How long do you intend to simply stand there and watch?!"

Step

From among the ten soul creatures, one finally moved. With a single step, space folded, and he materialized at Robin's side, radiating a presence both steady and intimidating. "How may I assist you, Owner?"

This was Arkalon— a soul creature whose very form looked too real be a soul creature. He appeared as a man in his forties, his skin smooth, his long hair falling like a river of night, his body sculpted with iron-like muscle. In his hand gleamed a heavy scepter, runes faintly glowing along its shaft. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but his eyes carried the depth of ages. His bearing was that of one who had lived and died with purpose.

This was the specter Robin used the Divine Decree of Truth to eliminate, the one who almost got him killed in specter valley.

Robin glanced sideways, words sharp with intent. "I've seen enough of your memories to know. You spent your entire life forging miraculous soul techniques. That devotion, that brilliance, was what led others to fear you—and in the end, to kill you. Among all you created, there was one technique… a method meant to aid in fusing royal stars. You even sold it once, to a client, for ten thousand Pearls."

Arkalon inclined his head slightly. "Exactly so, Owner. It was one of the auxiliary methods I devised in my quieter moments. I never tested it, nor did I dare release it officially within the Soul Society."

"I've skimmed its outline," Robin admitted, voice low but pressing, "but much of it is incomplete. Perhaps parts were lost when you fell, transforming first into a specter, then into a soul creature. That is why I want you to enact it now. You still hold many memories of your past life. Your original soul still carries your passion, your clarity, your genius. If you begin to execute the technique, perhaps your mind will awaken the fragments that were forgotten. Perhaps you will recover what was lost."

Robin's words struck with the weight of command, but also with the edge of trust.

Arkalon bowed slightly, eyes gleaming. "I will honor that faith, owner. Today, I will repay you in my own way—for freeing me from the pitiful fate of a wandering specter."

Straightening, he lifted his scepter, the air itself rippling with its movement. Then he began to draw, sketching glowing arcs and spirals in midair, his motions precise yet strangely hesitant, as if he were reconstructing a half-forgotten language. Symbols burst into existence, hovered for moments, then dissolved into the storm's energy.

Every ten minutes or so, Arkalon would pause, brows furrowed in deep thought. His expression turned puzzled, almost pained, as he struggled to recall what came next. He would then stoop, carve runes into the ground with the butt of his scepter, stare at them intently, wipe them away, and resume his weaving.

"..." Robin's eyes flickered, a mix of surprise and respect. He hadn't expected such stability, such relentless determination from Arkalon. The formation was slowly, but undeniably, taking shape.

After nearly an hour had passed—

Eight hundred and eighty thousand essence units…

"Khkk…" Robin's teeth ground together, his jaw locked in defiance. The pressure was unbearable, his entire body trembling, but his gaze kept darting to Arkalon every few seconds—just to confirm he was still working—before snapping back to the furious tornado.

Yet once the count of units fell below nine hundred thousand, even that brief luxury vanished. He no longer dared to look away. The storm demanded everything—his eyes, his will, his very soul.

Could he compress it alone? Perhaps. But such a task would stretch across days, even a week. And every moment dragged him closer to collapse.

Then came Arkalon's voice, steady and certain, carrying a quiet power that cut through the roaring chaos:

"Owner… we can begin the experiment now."