Lord of the Truth

Chapter 1348: The struggle for the breath of ages

Lord Morval gave a solemn nod.

”Indeed, this is a fact. The creator of this martial art undoubtedly possesses mastery over both laws—there is not even the faintest shadow of doubt about it. The creator made no effort whatsoever to conceal this truth, not even in the slightest way. But tell me, where is the issue in that? Is it not within reason that someone, somewhere, might attain both laws simultaneously? Throughout the annals of time, countless geniuses have risen and vanished like flickers of light... and this, this technique, is but the fruit of one such brilliant soul.”

”....”

Robin quietly held his breath, the air catching in his chest. He shifted his eyes subtly, stealing glances at those around him without so much as tilting his head.

As the Chosen Bearer of the Truth...

As the one destined to uncover the mythical Fifth Path...

As one who aspired to eternal glory and sought to etch his name into the very bones of history...

He had no intention of taking his discoveries to the grave. No, he longed for the world to witness the flame he carried.

Revealing such truths—just a few fragments of his vast knowledge—was merely a surface ripple in the ocean of what he knew.

Yet, the reactions he observed... the unease, the awe, the tension—they made him pause. Perhaps... perhaps the time was not yet right.

Perhaps patience would serve him better.

At that moment, Lord Morval raised his hand, lifting the tome it held slightly higher. Before anyone could utter a question, he spoke again, his voice resonating with authority.

”Please, everyone—listen carefully. I will explain how to use it only once. I will not repeat myself.”

His voice grew louder, firmer.

”The Breath of the Ages is not a martial art meant for offense. Nor is it designed for defense. No, this is a martial discipline forged solely for the preservation of life. It can be cast upon oneself... or bestowed upon another.”

He paused for a moment, sweeping his gaze across the assembly. Then, with calm precision, he elaborated:

”So long as the target retains even a single final breath—just a whisper of life—the Breath of Time will delay the spread and worsening of wounds, or in most cases, halt them entirely. Meanwhile, the Breath of Life will begin to stimulate regeneration and bolster the flow of life energy through the veins.”

”If this technique were used on a dying mortal—one stabbed through the heart by a dagger—he would still be able to survive for one hundred thousand years, with that same dagger still lodged in his chest. If used on an expert in the World Cataclysm Realm, it could seal their injuries, granting them enough time to retreat to safety. The seal’s effect may last for days, even weeks—long enough to find healing, or long enough to activate the art again.”

Then, with a voice that thundered like a war drum, he proclaimed:

”And most astonishing of all—because the laws upon which this art is founded are fundamental AND are the major ones as well, this fifth-stage martial art is effective even upon the Nexus state experts. That means, dear lords and ladies, if one of you is a Nexus and in a the very moments between life and death, he can use it. Its maximum effect can last for a full day, and its minimum, no less than two hours. My noble lords... this martial art can seal your wounds. It can save your very lives.”

A heavy silence descended again—dense, suffocating.

Each person present began to imagine...

They envisioned the art in their own hands—how they might cast it upon themselves in the heat of battle after taking a fatal blow, granting themselves time to strike again, to flee, to survive.

A second life—one kept hidden in their sleeves like a final ace.

Then they imagined their enemies wielding the art...

How terrifying it would be, knowing that even if they crushed their opponent’s heart, that foe might rise again.

That a hated adversary could escape, only to return for vengeance days, months, or years later.

With just a few words from Lord Morval, the value of the martial art had skyrocketed.

It was no longer merely a supplementary technique—no longer just another dagger on the warrior’s belt.

It had become something far more sacred...

This was a second heart.

After allowing the weight of his words to settle, Lord Morval continued:

”The seller has imposed a strict condition: this martial art is to be sold strictly for personal person. The one who purchases it may use it for themselves, gift it to a single other individual, or resell it to one buyer. However, it may not be disseminated widely in any form.”

He let that sink in, then added:

”Please take this into consideration moving forward—this art cannot be distributed to your armies or family lines. The one who wins the bid will sign a soul contract affirming this limitation.”

Then, with deliberate gravitas, he raised one finger into the air.

”We will begin the auction... at one hundred million energy pearls.”

Hearing that number jolted the grand stands into a sudden stir of murmurs and disbelief.

”Is that even possible?! Even a fourth-stage Planetary Displacement Artifact started at only seventy million energy pearls!”

”Exactly! And that was gear that could shift the trajectory of a planet! This—this is for personal use only! Not even allowed to be redistributed! The price is outrageous! They should at least lower the opening bid!”

Many heads nodded in agreement, others merely frowned, their minds doing frantic calculations.

But not everyone was deterred.

”Hah, doesn’t matter to me,” growled one of the planetary emperors, his voice rough like scraping stone. ”I want to be part of this legendary auction while the price is still within my reach.”

With a thud, he struck the armrest of his gilded seat and raised his hand with firm resolve.

”I raise it by one hundred million and—”

But then...

His words died mid-sentence.

Choked.

As though some invisible force had coiled around his throat and tightened.

His proud chest, once puffed with imperial confidence, deflated like a fallen banner.

Because at that very moment, across the colossal plaza, the glowing blue screen changed—projecting a number so immense it silenced every thought.

The crowd froze.

And then a quiet, almost musical voice echoed across the chamber—soft as silk, but it rang like thunder in every mind:

”I don’t know what ancient sage created this art... but whatever his legacy, it is well worth the price~”

Gasps filled the air.

All eyes turned toward the source of that voice.

Robin’s eyes stretched wide, as though trying to capture every detail.

He turned swiftly to identify the speaker—and when he did, his breath caught in his throat.

There, seated with a relaxed yet unnervingly deliberate posture, was a young man who exuded quiet power.

His silky brown hair framed a face too perfect to have known suffering.

His gaze was calm, knowing, as if he already saw a future where this martial art would become part of his legend.

Not a single drop of arrogance tainted his aura—only certainty.

”Who... is that?!” Robin whispered, voice low and tight.

The fairy beside him blinked, equally stunned, her wings fluttering with tension.

she said slowly, almost reverently.

Even her luminous eyes shimmered with awe as they reflected the 3-billion mark glowing on the auction display.

”Hah hah...” Another voice emerged from a different corner—aged, raspy, yet still carrying the weight of centuries.

”Young Lord Orion, still at the dawn of his journey, untouched by true enemies... Must you hoard relics meant for the dying generation? Leave such treasures to old ghosts like me.”

The crowd stirred again, and a new number was etched into the glowing display:

But that too was only a spark before the firestorm.

”Martial arts like this belong to warriors who still bleed on the battlefield, not those waiting for the grave!”

Another bidder shouted from above—a youth with glowing veins and cursed tattoos winding across his arms.

The insignia of a descendant of the Behemoth of Curses flared behind him like a dark halo.

...Robin could only stare in disbelief.

His lips parted slowly, trying to say something—anything.

Then he suddenly jerked to his right.

”You sly little thing... you were going to offer four hundred million for this?!”

His voice cracked with a mix of exasperation and betrayal.

The fairy, unbothered, crossed her arms and huffed.

”Do you take me for a fool?!” Robin snapped, lunging toward her, but she zipped away with ease.

”I wasn’t born yesterday, you conniving sprite! I swear I’ll—”

But then he stopped.

Something had caught his attention.

A silence had taken root—thick, heavy, unnatural.

Robin turned slowly... to his far right.

There sat Lord Hedric, on his ethereal cloud, unmoving.

His gaze was locked on the martial art, wide-eyed.

His expression...

It wasn’t just shock. It was devastation. Awe. Mourning.

Like a man seeing a ghost—no, a lost loved one returned from the grave.

Tears clung to the corners of his eyes.

Tears.

In that instant, Lord Hedric clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding with force.

He shut his eyes for a heartbeat, then reopened them—his composure restored as if it had never faltered.

Then, with a calm that hid a storm beneath it, he said:

”My apologies to all present... but I want it.”

The display shifted again.

The hall held its breath.