Lord of the Truth
Chapter 1392: Way out

Chapter 1392: Way out

"....."

Robin furrowed his brows—deeply, painfully—his expression tightening like a vice.

The old man’s sudden mention of the Ancient Belt struck him not as a curiosity, but as a wound torn open without warning.

His mind flinched back to that day—the way The All-Seeing had erupted with rage, voice raw and monstrous:

/I’m a Devil? What do you know about the Ancient Belt?!/

The memory flared in his skull like lightning, burning behind his eyes.

Robin’s fists clenched slowly, his knuckles whitening with restrained force.

A weight was pressing on him, immense and invisible—

the weight of meaning.

The weight of things half-understood but deeply feared.

Of truths spoken in riddles and warnings etched in fire.

Then—swallowing his pride like broken glass—Robin lowered his gaze.

Not out of shame.

Not out of weakness.

But because that was the posture of one who wished to learn.

"Please..." he said quietly.

"Teach me about the Ancient Belt."

The blind old man gave a few slow nods, as if pleased by the humility, as if this were some test and Robin had passed.

Then came a smile.

It was not mocking, nor was it kind.

It was... immovable. Absolute.

"I refuse," he said.

The words landed like stones.

"Your bones are still soft."

"..Is that a joke? bro, do you know me to joke around with me like this?!"

Robin’s voice flared, rising with heat and frustration.

"You told me you would be my teacher! You self-accepted me as your disciple!

Then teach me something! Something real! Something useful! Anything!"

But the old man didn’t flinch. His tone only grew colder.

"I still refuse."

His words were iron.

"You think the Ancient Belt is a place like any other? A new realm to explore, a deeper plane with stronger monsters, fancier titles, more polished techniques?"

He leaned forward slightly, as though preparing to deliver a blow not to Robin’s body, but to his spirit.

"It is not like that."

He paused—just for a heartbeat.

Then whispered:

"It’s... different."

The silence that followed was oppressive.

Even the wind seemed to still.

Robin felt the air around him tighten, as if the name alone had drawn the attention of something vast and terrible.

His skin crawled.

His breath caught in his chest.

"Different," the old man continued, "in a way you cannot begin to grasp.

Different enough that if the truth of it were revealed—fully and openly—it would collapse entire sects, crack empires, and drive some of the greatest cultivators to despair."

He stared into nothing, voice quieter now, more distant.

"Different enough... that you might lose your will to pursue power at all."

"...."

Robin’s heartbeat faltered.

There was no explosion of fear, no outburst.

Just a slow, sinking dread, like a man realizing too late that the floor beneath him is water.

Then came his reply—low, tired, sincere:

"Consider it lost already."

The old man gave a sharp exhale, then let out a dry, almost amused laugh.

"Heh heh... And now you’re the one being dramatic."

He shook his head, as if disappointed in Robin’s answer but not surprised.

"You think yourself brave for asking. Noble, even. But trust me: the Ancient Belt isn’t some forbidden text waiting to be unlocked.

It’s not meant to be known.

Only those who reach a specific threshold...

a very specific one...

can even begin to understand what it is."

He lifted a hand, pointing toward the sky as if gesturing to unreachable heights.

"Only the Sovereigns—those who have reached the seventh stages of mastery over a Law—have any true awareness of it.

Even then, they don’t talk.

Not to their sects.

Not to their disciples.

Not even to their own bloodline."

He gave a wry smile.

"Because the moment you reach that level... you don’t need to be told.

It simply happens.

The understanding enters you like thunder crashing into still water."

"..."

Robin’s eyes widened until the whites showed.

The realization dropped into him like a comet.

His second mission...

It wasn’t just about raising Nihari.

It wasn’t just about growing it into a galactic seed and defending it until he became a Behemoth.

It was... a stepping stone.

A preparation.

A path—cleverly disguised as duty—that was funneling him toward something else.

Something darker. Something older.

Was the reunion with The All-Seeing at that moment —

was it not a reward?

Not a graduation?

But a... transfer?

Would his next meeting be not with a mentor, but with a gatekeeper?

Was he being offered to the Ancient Belt?

His legs gave out.

Robin sank to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

He sat there, wordless, the sand beneath him cold and indifferent.

"Heh~"

The blind man exhaled, voice quiet now.

"And I’ve only spoken a few words.

Already, you collapse like a child struck by thunder.

What would happen if I actually told you the truth?"

He shook his head slowly.

"You’re still too soft.

Too fragile.

Mentally, emotionally, cosmically.

You’re a seedling trying to ask about storms."

"Please..." Robin murmured, hands gripping his temples.

"Just... shut up for a moment.

I’m trying to think."

"Oh?"

The old man tilted his head.

"And what is it you’re thinking about, golden eyes child?

The Ancient Belt is still far from your reach."

Then he paused, and his smile took on a darker shape.

"...Or perhaps... you’re thinking of quitting?"

"...I can’t."

Robin’s voice was low—neither defiant nor defeated, just... weary.

"You can’t?"

The old man frowned.

"It’s not like others haven’t done it.

There’s one, you know.

Living a quiet life now.

Retired. At peace."

He turned slightly, as if to gauge Robin’s reaction.

"I only dared bring you here today... because of him."

"...!!!"

Robin’s head shot upward, almost violently.

His neck cracked.

His mouth opened—words rising in a torrent—

—but he stopped himself.

"...What’s with that reaction?"

The blind old man’s brow twitched ever so slightly.

Robin’s face had become pale—drained of color, of calm. His breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, like he was trying to hold back a scream lodged in the back of his throat.

"Do you know who I’m talking about, or don’t you?"

The old man studied him for a moment longer, then let out a breath.

"Whatever. His name’s Sevar—one of his candidates.

A long, long time ago... Sevar cheated the system.

He found a loophole.

Slipped through the cracks and vanished.

Retired from the game in silence.

No flames, no war, no legendary death.

He just... stopped.

No one’s seen him in public since.

Everything he does now?

It’s in the dark—behind curtains, beneath layers of silence."

"...How do you know he was a candidate?"

Robin’s voice cracked under pressure.

"How do you know what happened to him? How could anyone know...?"

He bit down—hard—on his tongue.

He was dangerously close to saying something forbidden, something that might trigger that thing’s awareness.

Even a mention of the mission risked being overheard.

But inside, his heart was raging.

Sevar...

That was his first mission.

"Sevar made a loud entrance, and he burned fast," the old man explained with a cold sharpness.

"He quickly gained fame across the Middle Belt.

They called him the Golden Shears.

Why?

Because that being—he—never tells his candidates what the golden tint actually means.

They only realize it after it’s too late.

By the time they notice the sheen in their energy, a dozen factions have already started hunting them."

Robin swallowed hard, the sound loud in his throat.

"But Sevar..."

The old man continued, eyes still staring into nothingness.

"...he settled his debts. He apologized to enemies.

He withdrew—just like that.

Those who tried to hunt him as a candidate of doom?

They couldn’t find a trace.

No one ever declared him dead.

And let’s be honest... killing him would be next to impossible."

Then came the dagger:

"Because by the time he disappeared, Sevar had reached the sixth stage of the Master Law of Causality."

Robin stopped breathing.

"Do you even understand what that means?"

The old man leaned in just slightly, voice dropping.

"A sixth-stage user of a master law isn’t someone you challenge.

They aren’t even someone you approach unless you want to die.

The only one capable of making him walk away... is the same being who chose him."

"...So we pieced it together."

"A terrifyingly powerful candidate.

No mass destruction. No blood-soaked legacy.

Just a quiet departure.

Why?

Fear.

Fear of something.

And we still see his fingerprints everywhere.

That being... he’s alive.

He’s watching.

His invisible hand still plays with threads behind the curtain."

"......."

Robin’s pupils began to dilate.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

As if his brain couldn’t keep up with the implications all at once.

Even the blind man felt a ripple of discomfort from Robin’s silence.

"...What? What is it?"

"The sixth stage..." Robin whispered.

"Did you just say he reached... the sixth stage... of Causality?"

A bitter laugh clawed its way up Robin’s throat.

Then a smile bloomed—wide, unnatural.

It split across his face like a wound forced open.

He pointed at the old man several times, each jab of his finger sharp with disbelief.

"Again.

Again you joke with me, old man.

You stand there with that stone face and mock me."

"I’m not joking."

The old man’s tone didn’t shift.

"At the moment of his withdrawal, he had already crossed into the sixth stage of the Master Law of Causality.

Before that? He fought multiple Behemoths while still in the fifth stage.

And when he finally broke through...

He didn’t return to slaughter them.

He didn’t care. He made peace and left just like that."

"....."

Robin’s eyes lowered.

He stared into the sand like it held answers the stars could not give him.

Then—slowly—he began to nod.

Again.

And again.

And again.

"I see... Of course he had the sixth stage.

Why wouldn’t he?

Oh, how stupid of me to ever think otherwise."

Then came a laugh.

Not from the chest.

Not from joy.

But from somewhere broken.

"Heh... heh heh heh..."

Robin’s eyes widened, unblinking.

He looked like a statue on the verge of cracking.

Then, in a strangely polite voice, he spoke:

"Excuse me... just a moment."

He got up, turned.

He walked to the palm tree—the one he had leaned on earlier.

He placed both hands gently around it.

And then—

BAM

He slammed his forehead into the trunk.

BAM

Again.

BAM

And again.