Lord of the Truth

Chapter 1555: Disrespect

After an entire day—

Stillness

”.....”

The vast throne hall was silent, save for the faint hum of its living ceiling. Robin leaned back in his chair, head tilted upward, his golden eyes fixed on the grand dome above. The ceiling was not made of stone, nor glass, nor any earthly material—it was alive, an ever-shifting canvas where entire wars played out, beginning and ending in mere instants.

Legendary beasts clashed with claws and fangs, ancient titans hurled mountains as weapons, and celestial maidens danced in spirals of divine light. It was a vision of eternity condensed into a stage above his head.

Yet Robin saw none of it. His eyes were open, his gaze unwavering, yet the images failed to reach his mind. He didn’t allow them to. He closed the gate of perception, refusing to let the splendor distract him. His thoughts were elsewhere, consumed by something far more urgent, far more personal.

At the conclusion of his meeting with Hedrick a week earlier, he had received something—a relic, a token, no, a key. Not a metaphorical key, but the very literal means to break chains older than empires. The key to freeing Jabba.

From the moment he held it in his hand, his heart had been burning, smoldering with impatience. It was as though every heartbeat urged him: Return. Return to the Young Belt. Use it. Set him free. Even his detour—the six-day trek to the Specter Valley planet—had been nothing more than a distraction, an excuse to gather spirit energy, to amuse himself with temporary strength while awaiting the true moment. Without that key, he would never have returned at all.

New orders? New techniques? Planetary weapons? All of that could have been passed on to the Shadow Swords without issue. His instructions to Sakar and Amon regarding Verilion? That, too, could have been entrusted to a shadow messenger or even scrawled in a sealed letter.

No—none of that mattered. The only reason, the single spark that pulled him back, was this: to use the key on Jaba and bring him back. The anticipation inside him was unbearable. His very soul screamed to rush headlong to Nihari, to tear through mountains, and to drag Jabba from his slumber.

Yet when he stood before the gate that should have taken him to Nihari... he stopped. He hesitated. He told his guards to set the coordinates for Jura instead. And when he arrived there, the hesitation only grew heavier, more suffocating. He found himself wasting time in side meetings, drifting into unnecessary conversations, anything to delay the inevitable.

Because how was he supposed to face him?

Jabba was his disciple, yes, but their bond was severed. He had once fought against him, and then redeemed himself with the ultimate sacrifice. Theirs was not the simple bond of master and pupil anymore; it was fractured, tangled, awkward beyond measure.

What should Robin do once he stripped away the eternal stillness from him? Should he act cold, detached, telling him to go his own way? After all, Jaba had been the one to shatter the bond. The break remained.

Or should he act with anger, striking him, scolding him for daring to throw his life away? Or perhaps... perhaps he should break the wall entirely, pull him into an embrace, and whisper the words he himself longed to hear: Welcome back home.

Bam. Robin slapped his forehead with his palm, disgusted with his own imagination. The very thought of playing out such scenarios made his skin crawl, made goosebumps rise across his arms. He loathed the idea of displaying such vulnerability.

Maybe... maybe he should give the key to Zara and let her be the one to face Jabba. Perhaps she would handle it better, with less awkwardness, with less hesitation.

Knock.

The booming echo of fists upon the colossal gate snapped him back to the present. Malik’s voice filtered through the barrier, steady and respectful: ”Your Majesty, His Highness Theo requests permission to enter.”

”Hmm?” Robin blinked, momentarily pulled from his spiraling thoughts. He hesitated for only a heartbeat before calling out, ”Enter!”

Creeeak. The monumental throne gate stirred, opening with slow weight. From the shadows beyond, a figure emerged. Step by step, he crossed the threshold—armor black as night covering him from head to toe, each plate gleaming faintly under the ethereal light of the hall. A dark cloak trailed behind him, swaying like liquid shadow with every movement.

As he came closer, his features became clear. A young man’s face—serene, calm, composed. His eyes, however, were another matter. Two pools of darkness, so deep they swallowed light, so black that the white sclera was barely visible at all. There was no mistaking him.

It was Theo.

”You’re asking permission to enter now?” Robin’s laughter rolled through the vast throne hall, echoing against the marble pillars and gilded walls. He leaned slightly forward on his throne, watching his adopted son approach with a glint of mischief in his golden eyes. ”Tell me then—who’s going to leap out from beneath the seats to surprise me from now on, if even you are suddenly so proper?”

Theo’s footsteps were steady, each one softened by the deep crimson carpet stretching from the throne to the gate. His posture was upright, formal, yet there was a warmth hidden in his tone as he replied, ”Even if the one seated upon the throne is my father, as long as Your Majesty wears the crown, formality must be preserved.” He stopped at a deliberate distance and lowered himself into a respectful bow, his cloak shifting with the motion. ”I greet His Majesty.”

Creeeeak. The towering door behind him groaned as it began to swing shut. The faint beam of gentle daylight that had slipped through its crack dwindled steadily, until the throne hall once again bathed in the solemn glow of its own luminous crystal lamps.

Just as the doors were about to seal completely, another voice rang out from beyond the threshold: ”Your Majesty, may I also enter? My time is short—I have urgent matters to attend to afterward.”

Robin raised one brow ever so slightly, his gaze drifting toward the dark silhouette wedging itself against the massive door. The shadow resolved itself into a familiar figure. Aru.

Robin opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, another sharper voice cut in: ”His Majesty is currently engaged in audience with the Shadow Swords’ Highness Theo. Go occupy yourself in the streets until His Majesty summons you.” The tone was blunt, dismissive. It was Wade.

”That’s far too insolent.” Standing beside Aro, a horned girl stepped forward, her curved double horns gleaming faintly under the light spilling through the half-closed door. Hands planted firmly on her waist, she hissed, ”Even if you’re a captain of the imperial guard, you have no right to speak in such a manner to a supreme general.”

”My duty is His Majesty’s safety, as well as the order of his audiences,” Wade snapped back, his frown visible even through the narrowing gap of the door. His voice carried the unwavering edge of authority. ”Not every stray figure wandering these halls gets to barge in. Not on my watch.” He inclined his head toward another girl standing near Aro, his tone laced with mockery. ”Why don’t you explain how things work here, you slow one?”

A new voice joined the fray, cool yet clearly irritated. ”His Majesty himself issued an urgent summons for the Third Supreme General. I was present when the message arrived.” Even Robin, within the hall, recognized it instantly.

It was Latanya.

And the tone—bitten, sharp—made it clear she did not appreciate Wade’s insult of calling her slow.

”Enough.” Malik’s voice finally broke through the rising tension. He stepped forward, staff clasped tightly in both hands, then raised his palms in a gesture of peace. With a slight bow toward the throne, he spoke with his calm, measured timbre: ”Let His Majesty decide the importance of the matter. Your Majesty, shall they enter, or shall they wait?”

Robin chuckled quietly to himself. Malik’s grip on his wooden staff was no idle gesture—he was ready to drive Aru and Flora back by force if Robin so commanded. The thought was amusing.

But force would hardly be needed. Robin knew Aro well. If he commanded Aro to wait a year, he would wait. If he demanded a century, Aro would not complain. After all, Aro was only a caretaker, a placeholder ruling his empire by proxy. The true empire—the heart, the will, the power—belonged to Robin. Aro’s urgency stemmed only from fear, from worry that something might endanger what was Robin’s by right.

The three imperial guards outside might be powerful warriors, veterans in destruction and hunting, but compared to true personal guardians? They still had much to learn.

”Enter,” Robin said at last, raising his hand in a sweeping gesture. His tone carried both command and ease, authority wrapped in casual grace. ”All of you.” Then he lowered his hands onto the carved arms of his throne, settling into his seat like a king ready to dictate destiny itself. ”We have the fate of the entire Mid Sector 99 to discuss today.”

The weight of his words filled the hall like thunder, silencing every whisper beyond the door.

And with that declaration, a genuine smile returned to Robin’s face—bright, relaxed, almost joyful. For him, it was always the same: speaking of stellar fields, of deciding the rise and fall of empires, of determining the destiny of countless living beings—that was easy. That was comfortable.

Far easier than dwelling on personal matters. Far easier than learning how to untangle his emotions, or how to express them aloud.