Lord of the Truth

Chapter 2159 Power Tax-1

Mid Sector 99 - Planet Zragan

In what appeared to be a small hall, a place closer to a sealed chamber than a reception room, there were only two people present-no third.

The silence inside was thick, almost tangible, pressing against the walls as though even sound itself had been ordered to remain still. The faint glow reflecting off the crystalline surfaces of the chamber gave everything a cold, distant feel, as if this place existed outside the passage of time.

The first was a man seated with composure upon a luxurious chair. His posture was straight, unmoving, exuding an authority that did not need to announce itself. His skin shimmered between white and blue, gleaming and radiant as if it were a fragment of an ancient ice masterpiece forged millions of years ago, something untouched by decay or time. Above his head rested a small crown of the same substance, as though it were not an accessory, but a natural extension of his being, grown rather than worn.

His face was smooth, flawless to an almost unnatural degree, his features suggesting a man who had not yet passed his thirties. Yet the atmosphere surrounding him told a very different story. It carried a weight that no youthful face could justify, a pressure that hinted at centuries... perhaps far more.

It spoke of age far beyond appearance... and of power far greater than what the eye could perceive.

Standing before him was the second man, his hands placed respectfully before his abdomen, his posture disciplined yet relaxed in a way that only someone confident in his own strength could afford.

His skin was dark, his eyes a sharp, piercing yellow, their pupils elongated like those of a starving predator watching its prey. There was something unsettling in the way he stood-calm, yet coiled, as though he could strike at any moment if needed.

It was Ranther.

A strange smile spread across his face as he finally spoke, breaking the stillness with a voice that carried both politeness and subtle provocation, ”May I know the reason for summoning me today, Lord Glathion?”

Glathion, Emperor of the Vast Ice Wing, did not respond immediately. For a brief moment, he simply looked at Ranther, his gaze heavy, assessing, as if measuring not the words spoken, but the intent behind them.

Then he spoke in a calm, weighty tone, ”Is that truly a question, Ranther?”

A faint smile appeared on his lips, cold and restrained. ”Donʼt you think this has gone on long enough?” ”Are you asking whether the war against a Behemothʼs galaxy has dragged on?” Rantherʼs strange smile widened, his tone light, almost amused. ”Has conflict against Behemoths become this boring to you, Lord Glathion?” ”Boring?” Glathion echoed, his expression shifting just enough to mirror Rantherʼs, though without the warmth of humor. ”It seems youʼve inherited your masterʼs taste for foolish humor.” ”Iʼm not sure how you expect me to respond, Lord Glathion,” Ranther shook his head slightly, though the smile did not leave his face. ”How can you even describe a war against a Behemoth as ʼtoo long? What, would you have us march in and take the head of Zargol the Sorcerer just to satisfy you?”

He tilted his head slightly, voice lowering. ”Thatʼs not how this works.”

Bang!

The sound echoed sharply through the chamber as Glathion struck the armrest of his chair, the impact sending a faint ripple through the surrounding air, as though even space reacted to his displeasure. ”And what about fulfilling what you promised?” he demanded, his voice rising, though still controlled. ”What about protecting my planets?! Wasnʼt that your masterʼs promise when he came and pleaded with me to make that despicable move against the Sorcerer Behemoth?”

His gaze hardened. ”Look at them now... focusing their attacks on my worlds as if they were the only targets that mattered.” ”First of all,” Ranther raised a finger calmly, interrupting without hesitation, ”please stop referring to Marshal Aro as my master”

His tone remained polite, but the firmness behind it was unmistakable. ”You and I are wing lords of equal standing. If he is my master, then he is yours as well.” ”...?!”

The reaction from Glathion was immediate, his brows tightening, though he did not interrupt. ”Second,” Ranther continued, his expression turning slightly more serious, ”the Marshal did not beg you to join us. I wonʼt say he threatened you either... though that would be closer to the truth.”

A faint pause. ”Letʼs call it what it was-a mutually beneficial agreement.”

He gestured lightly with his hand. ”And you were the one who took all the resources that came from Zargol. The Marshal didnʼt take any, and neither did we. All of it was yours.”

His brows furrowed just a little. ”So I find it rather strange that you would summon me just to complain about the war... as if you were an outsider to it.” ”Ranther!!” Glathionʼs voice rose, sharper this time, the restraint in it cracking slightly. ”Are you trying to be clever? Werenʼt you there ten years ago when he promised me he had a plan to stop the Sorcererʼs rampage and protect my holdings if I agreed to that filthy maneuver?” ”And hasnʼt he done exactly that?” Ranther replied without hesitation, his tone steady. ”Right now, heʼs fighting at the heart of the enemyʼs lair on behalf of everyone.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, the amusement fading into something colder. ”He asked for nothing more than a handful of Nexus States from each wing... and even then, most gave less than what they could afford.”

Ranther let out a quiet breath. ”Yet he still went alone.”

A brief pause followed, heavier than before. ”Accompanied only by a full unit of soul masters from the Burton family... fighting on the very front lines, where even Behemoths hesitate to tread.”

He glanced at Glathion directly now, the smile gone. ”The Marshal may be cunning, shameless, and unfit to be called a friend...”

His voice sharpened slightly. ”But he is not a coward, and he is certainly not a liar when it comes to agreements.” ”Oh my joy, heʼs fighting!!” Glathion said coldly, his voice carrying a bitter edge as he turned his gaze away, as if even looking at Ranther would further irritate him. ”Iʼve already lost seventeen planets, and fifteen fleets have been destroyed in ambushes set by those ten bastards!”

His tone was not one of mere complaint... it was frustration compressed over time, forced down until it began to leak through his words. ”Seventeen planets... and fifteen fleets...” Ranther repeated slowly, baring his teeth in a faint, almost mocking smile, as if weighing those numbers in his mind and finding them lacking. ”Lord Glathion, why donʼt we speak honestly?”

He took a small step forward, posture still relaxed. ”What do you really want? What is it thatʼs pressing on your nerves to this extent? These numbers... are trivial in a Behemoth war.”

A brief pause followed, deliberate. ”Iʼm certain you expected far greater losses when you agreed to this,” he continued calmly, ”and the Marshal compensated you in advance for anything that might happen, and more. You were not dragged into this blind.” Then his voice lowered just a little. ”So what changed?” ”...The Syndicate.” Glathion did not turn back. His gaze remained fixed somewhere far ahead, distant, as if the word itself carried weight he did not wish to face directly. ”They contacted me...”

A faint pause. ”And the contents were not pleasant.” ”That Syndicate?” Rantherʼs expression shifted immediately. The smile that had lingered on his face vanished, replaced by a more serious, measured look. ”...Did they threaten you to break our alliance?” ”A lot was said...” Glathion replied, a thin smile forming, one that carried no humor at all. ”It seems Lord Robin has truly angered them with the Soul

Inheritance Array.” ”What exactly did they say, Lord Glathion?!” Ranther asked, this time without much patience, his tone sharpening slightly.

Anything related to the Syndicate had always been sensitive, dangerous, and deeply rooted in the foundations of power since ancient times. But now... that truth had become sharper, clearer, and far more pressing.

The Syndicate had begun interfering in everything connected to His Majesty and his followers.

It had started quietly, almost subtly, long ago with the Shadow Swords. Pressure was applied, movements were restricted, and their presence was erased from newly developing sectors.

But after the announcement of the Soul Inheritance Array...

Everything escalated.

The Grave Empire found itself under an immediate blockade, unable to purchase essential resources freely.

Potential wings were targeted, threatened, even abducted... ensuring that none would dare consider joining or even associating.

Farms were sabotaged. Markets destabilized. Wells poisoned. Mines destroyed. Every layer of infrastructure faced disruption.

Even places of worship belonging to the new faith Robin had unintentionally sparked during his conversation with Pythor centuries ago were not spared. Incidents, collapses, and orchestrated disturbances spread across them, attempts to fracture belief and scatter its followers... especially as that faith had begun gaining alarming traction across Mid Sector 99 and 100. ”They said we are bound to lose,” Glathion finally spoke again, his fingers moving slightly against the armrest, betraying the tension he otherwise concealed. ”They said they would make sure of it...”

A brief pause. ”And that I still have a chance to withdraw.”

For the first time, his composure slipped-just slightly.

His lips trembled.

That bastard Aro... He had tricked him from the very beginning.

On that day, during the agreement, he had taken out a strange metallic tablet- an object Glathion had never seen before-and without hesitation, he had sworn upon it.

He swore that he would fulfill every term they agreed upon.

He swore he would never abandon him for personal gain.

And then...

He passed the same tablet to Glathion.

And with that wide, unsettling smile. And asked him to repeat the same oath.

Faced with that gesture... Faced with that stupid smile...

There had been no room to refuse.

Refusal would have cast doubt upon his intentions, his resolve, even his honor.

And that... was unacceptable.

Not when weighed against the immense benefits he had already received.

Not when everything had seemed perfectly calculated, perfectly advantageous.

But now...

Now those benefits felt hollow.

All of it-every resource, every gain, every advantage-seemed utterly worthless in the face of one thing... Angering the Syndicate.