Lord of the Truth
Chapter 1379: The Best-Friends Banquet

Chapter 1379: The Best-Friends Banquet

Planet Jura – The Beating Heart of the Empire

Beneath the gentle shimmer of floating lights that adorned every street, square, and rooftop, a single figure moved steadily through the masses.

The city was alive with joy, its people dancing between ribbons of color and bursts of laughter—but this man, old and hunched, cut against the tide like a shadow slipping through candlelight.

Wrapped in a voluminous cloak that swept behind him like the wings of a forgotten beast, the old man gently pushed past celebrants. The thick fabric concealed his slumped back, exaggerated like the hump of a desert camel, and his hood drooped forward, hiding his face entirely. He looked like a relic of a different age—unassuming, unimportant... unnoticed.

"Heh~"

Reaching the base of a broad stairway leading to the ceremonial platform—a stage reserved for announcements of national magnitude—the man paused. He scanned his surroundings. His breath was shallow.

No one seemed to pay him any mind.

Then, with unexpected urgency, he began his ascent—one step, then another, faster and faster, despite his age. Whatever he carried beneath that cloak was clearly massive; the way his back bowed with effort betrayed its weight.

But fate doesn’t always let secrets pass in silence.

"Hmm? Mama, look!"

A little girl, no older than five, tugged on her mother’s elegant gown and pointed upward with wide eyes full of innocent curiosity.

"The hunchy man is climbing the stairs!"

"Trouble..."

The old man’s eyes shot open, alarmed, as if a silent alarm had gone off. He gritted his teeth—and started leaping up the steps two, three at a time.

"What’s he doing?"

"Could that be... him?"

The crowd began to stir. Heads turned. Voices overlapped, each filled with suspicion or excitement, trying to outguess one another.

Then—HAH!

He reached the top.

In a sudden, dramatic movement, the man spun around and flung his cloak open. The heavy garment fluttered in the wind—and beneath it stood a hulking cannon, mounted to a complex frame strapped across his back. It was massive, polished, humming softly with energy.

"Are you ready?!"

A voice in the crowd cried out, "It’s him! It’s really him!!"

"HAH HAH! Fooled you again, didn’t I? Even after all these years!"

The old man cackled madly, then twisted and aimed the cannon skyward with both hands.

SWOOOOOOOSH

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!

The sky lit up as a massive bolt of flame burst forth, erupting into a cascade of shimmering lights that spread across the city dome like celestial fire.

"Let the festivities begin! HAHAHA!!"

"I can’t believe it’s already been 275 years since His Majesty was crowned Emperor!"

"Long live the Empire! Glory to the Eternal Throne!"

Across Jura’s capital—its towers, plazas, and orbital layers—millions erupted in unified celebration. Fireworks of every color streaked into the skies. Holograms and light-forms danced through the air. Those with lovers embraced, those with children lifted them toward the heavens, and those alone smiled quietly beneath the warm explosion of colors.

"We’ll catch you at the 300th anniversary, old man! Don’t you dare get cocky!"

A group of laughing children charged up the stairs, giving chase with the fire of determination in their tiny feet.

"Ahhh, my poor bones!"

The old man began hobbling around the stage in exaggerated fear. Of course, he was laughing the whole way.

It was the general, the researcher... Old Gu.

This tradition, this wild and unexpected start to the Grand festival, had its roots in chaos. Decades ago, it was born from the mad whims of a long-retired Prime Minister—his idea of a joke. But the people had loved it. Since then, every celebration would secretly assign a prominent figure—noble or minister—to emerge from the crowd and ignite the celebration. A symbolic gesture, meant to remind the people that even the highest stood among them.

...Elsewhere, in a high balcony overlooking the grand square, a pair of women stood quietly, observing the storm of colors.

"Two hundred and seventy-five years..."

Zara exhaled gently, her lips curling into a faint smile. Her voice was calm, yet distant. "You’d think that would feel more... significant."

Though she enjoyed watching Plane Jura transform into a glowing sea of joy, something inside her remained detached. Recently, she had come to understand the true weight of numbers—money, especially.

Before her father’s generous donation arrived, Almost everything going on in the Sky Oppening City had but come to a halt.

"Judging from what I’m seeing tonight, I can only imagine what this quarter-century celebration cost."

Emily, standing beside her in formal dress, gave a pained look and nearly teared up.

"My heart aches even more than yours, trust me... But unfortunately, this is all part of His Highness Caesar’s ’Empire of Tomorrow’ initiative—and the Prime Minister, Kristan, has personally enforced it."

High above, thousands of flying camera drones hovered like metallic fireflies. They recorded every joyous detail and streamed it in real-time to hundreds of planets. Even the distant Class-R worlds were equipped with colossal display screens—broadcasting the grandeur of the True Beginning Empire, showing its citizens what awaited them... should they choose obedience.

Then Emily furrowed her brow, as if a forgotten thread had returned to her mind.

"...By the way, have you seen the Prime Minister today?"

Zara gave a noncommittal shrug.

Emily turned her head back toward the festivities, anxiety knitting into her expression.

"...Just what is he up to this time?"

--------

Meanwhile, Among the Mountains of Jura—

Crackle... Crackle...

Under the pale glow of a waning moon, an old man gently dropped a bundle of firewood into the modest campfire before him. Sparks danced upward like fading memories as the flames began to stir once more.

His eyes were sharp, wide, and filled with unspoken thoughts. Strands of white snaked through his black hair, and a thick beard veiled his neck like the mane of an aging lion.

Had Robin been there, he would have recognized the man immediately.

Kristan Burton.

He sat in silence, watching the flames twist and tremble in the night breeze. Minutes passed, and the fire finally began to hum with warmth, spreading its heat like a soft whisper. At that moment, Kristan clapped his hands once.

"Well... the fire’s ready. Now tell me—who was supposed to bring the meat?"

"I did."

The voice was deep—deep enough to make the mountain itself shiver.

"I picked something... worth remembering."

BAAAM!

A colossal object plummeted from the sky and smashed into the rocky ground beside the fire, unleashing a tremor that rattled the stones and sent nearby birds fleeing.

Kristan blinked slowly, then turned his gaze upward.

What he saw was no ordinary catch.

A gigantic ancient tree trunk, gnarled and dark, had fallen from the heavens, its surface glowing faintly with the mark of time, tied to it by its own intestines was a monstrous scaled bull.

Kristan looked back at the fire, then at the tree trunk... and sighed in sheer despair.

"...You snuffed out the flame."

"No matter."

That same earth-born voice rumbled once again. A massive blue wyvern head descended from the darkness above, its eyes burning like twin stars of twilight.

With one deep inhale—and a mighty WHOOOOF—it unleashed a stream of purgatory fire, setting the trunk ablaze once more in haunting blue.

"I brought the appetizers," came another voice—this one firm, but kind.

Emerging from the flickering light was a majestic white fox, large enough to stand eye-to-eye with the giant wyvern.

In its jaws, he carried a linen cloth filled with frozen cubes of bone and meat, perfectly cut and glistening like jewels.

Kristan stared at him, unimpressed.

"Really? And what exactly am I supposed to do with that? Lick the bones like some spirit-fox savage? I’m a human, dammit!"

He stood up, pointing accusingly at Devos, the white fox.

"That’s it. Quarter of your meal—gone for failing to take this seriously."

Devos drooped his ears, clearly sad. He looked at the ground, tail curling inward like a scolded pup.

Kristan exhaled and turned toward a fourth figure.

"Alright... and you. What did you bring?"

Coiled near a boulder was a titanic serpent, its body sleek and obsidian.

Upon each of its five horns rested a different hat—one for each century of life. The serpent tilted its head curiously.

"Hsss... Was I supposed to bring something?"

"YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!"

Kerstan erupted, both hands yanking at his own hair.

"We’ve been planning this Best-Friends Banquet for ten damn years! And you forgot the bread and salt?!"

"We don’t have salt on the Rock of Venom," the serpent—Durgher—hissed defensively.

"And I can’t bake. I’m a snake. What do you want me to do—knead dough with my tail?!"

*SHHHWOOOOM!*

A sudden explosion of blue flame shot upward.

Crixus’s voice—low, serious—returned:

"Uh... we might need help here..."

Kristan spun around.

"What now?!"

The fire had surged out of control.

The massive bull was disintegrating. Its flesh and scales were peeling away—not burning, but being purified.

"NOOO! STOP! PUT IT OUT!!"

Kristan leapt forward, frantic.

"On it!"

Durghar and Devos both reacted instantly. The serpent exhaled a chilling black mist, and Devos unleashed a breath of icy wind—both aimed at the burning creature.

"...Ahh..."

Kerstan’s eyes shimmered. Tears welled up.

The top half of the bull had already been consumed by the Law of Corrosion, while its lower body had been frozen into glass by the Law of Frost.

A feast meant for joy... now a ruined relic.