Lord of the Truth

"...Are you truly that bored?"

The moment the faint, ghost-like figure appeared, it was as if the entire café—and the world around it—had frozen in reverence. Every soul within the establishment immediately fell to their knees.

Even those simply passing by in the street. The Light Sword, ever vigilant and composed, also dropped to one knee, bowing his head in deep respect. A unified cry erupted from every mouth:

"We salute the Mother Spirit!"

"...Mother?" Robin raised an eyebrow, glanced around at the sudden display of submission, then burst into a low, mocking laugh. "You little troublemaker... don't you need a mother yourself?"

"Watch your words when addressing me," Juri replied coldly, her tone sharp as a blade. She lifted her chin slightly, her annoyance evident. "You're not my master, remember that. So what if they call me 'Mother'? These people were born on my soil. They breathe the very air I allow them to. They live by the nourishment my land provides."

"If I'm not your master," Robin retorted with growing irritation, "then stay out of my affairs. Shoo." He waved his hand in dismissal, his expression sour.

Robin had intended to cause a scene with the Light Sword. The appearance of the Light Sword had set his instincts on edge. He wanted to observe firsthand what really happened to citizens who were under suspicion—whether the calm on the surface was genuine, or whether it masked the boiling tension of an oppressed population. But of course, Juri had arrived at the worst possible time and ruined everything.

Juri dipped her head slightly, her voice now quieter but more pressing:

"Go to the headquarters, things are falling apart there. Ask your questions there, where answers actually exist. Stop playing with these pitiful souls. Things are already spiraling out of control for you. I kept your location secret out of courtesy—until you chose to reveal it yourself. Now that you have, don't waste another second. Move. Now."

"Things are falling apart at HQ?" Robin's eyes narrowed, concern creeping into his tone. "What's going on? Is it rebellion? Insurrection?" Was this it—the beginning of the collapse? Had the empire finally grown too vast to sustain itself?

"I don't have all the details," Juri answered sharply. "Now come. Don't waste precious time." She descended swiftly and began physically pushing Robin off his seat.

"Tsk... Good thing I never refined you," Robin muttered bitterly, grabbing his cup for one final sip. "You're even more annoying than Neri!" But before he could finish, Juri summoned a gust of wind that lifted him clean off the ground, carrying him like a leaf. His expression twisted in frustration. "Damn it... Fine, I'm leaving!!"

In that instant, a golden light flickered from his shoulder, space split open like a seam in reality, and Robin vanished without a trace. Juri followed suit, disappearing into the same rift.

"........"

Drop — A dead silence followed. Everyone remaining in the café, out in the street, and even the Light Sword himself remained frozen in place, still on their knees. Sweat trickled down their backs in heavy drops. Their faces were pale, like corpses recently awakened.

"...He called me brother..."

"Shhhh!!" someone hissed, terrified.

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The Imperial Capital — Inner Zone

BZZZT! With a sharp crackle, Robin materialized again—this time in front of a monumental building, its size dwarfing the structures around it. Surrounding it were dozens of subsidiary buildings, each more ornate and majestic than the last. The architecture exuded wealth, power, and a meticulous eye for grandeur.

The floor beneath him was made of polished marble so pristine it reflected the sky above. Ornamental fountains burst in arcs of vibrant colors, casting rainbow-like patterns across the manicured courtyards. Small but exquisite gardens, perfectly trimmed and arranged with painstaking care, lined the walkways in artistic harmony. It was a scene worthy of a divine palace.

And yet—no one paused to admire any of it.

Running Clamor — The area bustled with chaotic energy. People raced back and forth in all directions, some clutching bundles of documents, others speaking frantically into sound rings. Their movements were hurried, almost desperate. Despite the perfection of the environment, it felt as if Robin had just walked into a nest of hornets—or a hive of bees that never, ever slept.

He observed the deep black circles under their eyes, the tension etched into their faces, the grim determination driving their steps.

"...I feel tired just watching them," Robin muttered to himself, overwhelmed by the sheer urgency around him.

Then, taking a deep breath, he released his soul sense—sweeping it across the entire district like a veil. A moment passed... his eyes opened again, now sharper, more focused.

And with that—he took a step forward.

----------------

Inside the Main Headquarters Building —

CRAAACK!

The grand double doors creaked open with a sharp echo that drew a few glances, revealing a spacious central hall buzzing with relentless motion and muffled voices. The air was dense with the weight of urgency and the quiet hum of magical arrays etched into the walls, pulsing with soft, golden light. Into this scene stormed a young man, his breathing uneven from the sprint, clutching a tightly wound scroll sealed with a crest of high authority — unmistakably urgent.

"Lady Emily!" he called out without hesitation, his voice slicing through the clamor like a blade. "Planet R-37 is under siege! The resistance fighters have destroyed the central military base — the entire weapons stockpile has been damaged in the explosion!"

Behind her imposing desk of dark crystal and alloyed steel, Emily didn't flinch. Even as the messenger approached at full speed, she was already in motion — her pen gliding rapidly over a blank scroll, her expression calm but eyes gleaming with sharp calculation.

"Deploy the newly formed 117th Vanguard Battalion. Send them with the complete output from Military Factory 300 — all weapons and equipment produced over the past four months." She pressed her seal onto the parchment with a heavy thud, then flicked the scroll toward the messenger with expert precision. He caught it midair, pivoted without a word, and darted back out, vanishing down one of the long marble corridors.

No sooner had he left than another group within the chamber — a cluster of policy advisors and military strategists — finally reached a conclusion to a heated discussion that had been building in murmurs for the last several minutes. One of them, an elder statesman with graying temples and a worn sash denoting budget oversight, stepped forward and presented a compiled report.

"Lady Emily," he began gravely, "our analysis shows that approving General Martin's recent request for more backup will severely damage the imperial treasury. Preliminary cost-benefit estimates indicate that the planet in question does not offer sufficient strategic value to justify further investment. If the conflict escalates further, it may be more prudent to abandon the outpost altogether."

Emily's gaze remained fixed on the document in her hand, unflinching. "Send one thousand Light Swords and five hundred Shadow Swords as final reinforcements. Make it clear to General Martin that this will be the last support he receives. He must either secure the planet or withdraw." Without breaking pace, she drafted the necessary orders and handed them off with chilling composure.

But the demands did not stop. Another group — this time financial auditors and resource managers — stepped forward, their expressions taut.

"Lady, we must bring attention to the Third Army's expenditures. They have soared dramatically in recent cycles, and without a steady flow of planetary harvests, we cannot afford to initiate further recruitment waves. Our reserves are being stretched dangerously thin."

Emily straightened slightly, her voice firm as steel. "Prepare for me a comprehensive audit. I want numbers. Headcounts, salaries, supply routes, and any outstanding recruitment proposals — along with detailed justifications for each."

She leaned forward, planting both hands on the massive desk, then sighed deeply as she pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to massage away the rising tide of stress pounding at her skull.

Then she raised her voice, cutting through the room:

"Celine, the research on the array factories — is it complete? Has production returned to acceptable levels, or are delays still present?"

From the crowd, a young woman stepped forward. She looked exhausted, like everyone else, but determined. "The delays have been resolved, Lady Emily. The issue no longer exists. In fact, production is accelerating again thanks to direct intervention from the Crown Prince."

Emily's eyes opened fully now. Despite her fatigue, a flicker of curiosity pierced through her stoicism. "The Crown Prince? What action did he take exactly?"

Celine paused, gathering her thoughts. "Roughly three weeks ago, a catastrophic event occurred at one of the central manufacturing facilities. There was an explosion during the testing of a new offensive array. Since then, workers have been quietly protesting — demanding better safety measures and improved working conditions. Too afraid to stage an outright strike, they instead slowed their productivity to a crawl."

"And what did the Prince do to stop it?" Emily asked, her voice lower, more intent.

"I... don't know the full details, Lady Emily. While our investigative team was still gathering data per your request, we were suddenly intercepted by several Shadow Swords. They told us to stand down — that the Crown Prince had taken over the matter personally. That very evening, the slowdown ended, and by morning, production was back to full capacity. It was... almost unnatural how quickly it was resolved."

Before Emily could offer a response, the room was interrupted by a loud, amused voice echoing from near the entrance.

"Heh heh... A leaf really doesn't fall far from the tree!"

A ripple of surprise passed through the hall. Emily leaned slightly, her vision blocked by the remaining crowd. Her staff quickly stepped aside, creating a clear path rather than risk being scolded — or worse, accused of disrespect.

Standing confidently in the doorway, arms crossed with a casual grin, was a young man sporting a short, neatly trimmed beard and closely cropped hair. His presence exuded both familiarity and authority, the air itself seeming to acknowledge him.

Emily blinked in surprise.

"...Your Majesty?"