Lord of the Truth

Chapter 1398: The hypothesis of truth

”...Tell me, Robin... what is the role of Truth—the law you’ve wrapped your soul around, the one you guard like a sacred flame?”

Robin’s brows pulled together in a sharp crease. His mind, once a storm of certainty, had become a heavy fog. Slowly, almost unconsciously, he lowered himself to the sand, settling on the edge of the shore as the waves whispered beside him.

What role... could Truth possibly play in the construction process?

It didn’t build anything.

It didn’t shape anything.

At least, not in any direct way.

Until now, he had only used Truth as a tool for perception—a way to see through things, to pierce illusions, to unveil what was hidden. But how could vision build a house?

How could mere awareness raise a structure?

”To see...?” Robin muttered under his breath. His brow tensed further as thoughts collided like stars behind his eyes.

He slowly raised his gaze toward the old man.

”Maybe... it’s the blueprint? The knowledge that guides the construction—the plan the entire house is built upon?”

”No,” the old man dismissed firmly, cutting off the idea with sharp finality. ”That would be part of Will—the intention to shape something according to a plan.”

He then chuckled—a deep, amused laugh that echoed like an elder who had seen this question asked a thousand times before.

Robin looked around helplessly, grasping for something—anything—that would click into place.

”...Then maybe... it’s the supervisor?” he tried. ”The one who oversees everything, ensuring the construction follows the plan?”

”Also under Will,” the old man said, laughing harder now. ”Let me make it simple for that young mind of yours: anything that involves management, coordination, or decision-making falls under the Master Law of Will.”

Robin groaned softly, rubbing his temples.

”...Then... is it the reason why the tools are real tools and not toys? Why the materials are real and suitable for building?”

”Aha!” the old man grinned. ”Now you’re stepping into the territory of Identity.”

He leaned forward slightly, clearly enjoying himself.

”Let me give you a hint,” he said, his voice suddenly lowering, as if sharing a secret older than stars.

”It’s something different. Something none of the other laws cover. Something real. Something tangible.”

Robin stared at him, incredulous.

”How can it be tangible,” he barked, ”if the construction’s already complete?! What role could a thing play after everything’s already done?!”

His head dropped again into his hands, the frustration boiling over.

”...It’s not the things inside the house, is it? Like furniture? Decorations?”

”No,” the old man said, his tone growing instructive.

”The furniture, the paint, the clothes, the utensils... all those details that bring color to life within the house? They’re governed by the foundational, essential, and complementary laws.”

He tilted his head toward Robin again.

”But you, boy... you’re refusing an offer that could make you sovereign. One of the eternal greats. You spit in the face of true legacy.

At least have the decency to understand what you’re rejecting me for.”

Robin’s voice broke slightly.

”I... I don’t know. I honestly don’t.

Everything’s so interconnected. Every concept feeds the next.

Even that mysterious Eighth Law—Will—was easier to comprehend than this.”

The old man laughed again—this time a mocking little chuckle.

”How pitiful... truly pitiful, for someone chosen by Truth itself.

But I don’t blame you. You’re still a newborn in cosmic terms. Soft bones. A fragile ego. Stubborn without knowing why.”

He waved a hand lazily toward the sky.

”It’s something you do every single day, without noticing.

Something hardcoded into your brain—something all other things rest upon.

A silent act repeated endlessly since your birth.

A law so fundamental that its absence would collapse everything else.”

”...Then teach me, please.”

Robin’s voice lowered, humbled, almost trembling. He bowed his head—not just physically, but mentally—for the first time in the conversation.

”If you’re about to tell me I’m ’not ready’ or something like that—then I swear this day will end badly.”

The old man raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

”Oh? And what exactly would you do?”

”...I’ll go back and smash my head against that damn palm tree. What else can I do?!” Robin snapped. For once, he felt truly helpless—as if he were a child lost in a world of titans.

”Just tell me.”

”Now that’s better,” the old man said, finally nodding, his tone turning serious.

”The answer... is the ground.”

”...The ground?” Robin repeated, blinking. ”What ground?!”

”The ground the house was built upon,” the old man said, now smiling with full satisfaction.

”The earth upon which the materials were laid. The surface where the tools were used. The floor where the pillars were raised.

The ground that bore the weight of creation.”

”...I still don’t understand,” Robin admitted, shaking his head, the crease in his brow deeper than ever.

”Then listen to me, Robin Burton,” the old man said, his voice firm, commanding.

”You can have the best tools in the universe. The rarest materials. The strongest Will.

You can have Laws that command time and space, creation and causality...

But all of it—all of it—is meaningless unless there is something to stand on.

Something stable. Something that says:

Yes. This happened. This is real.”

He pointed directly at Robin.

”That something... is the belief that reality exists to begin with.

That what you touch is truly there. That what you feel, what you see, what you know—has weight.”

Then his tone darkened, his expression turning grave.

”Has there never been a moment when you doubted everything?

When you felt like there was no absolute truth?

That everything could be questioned, twisted, manipulated?

Haven’t you ever asked yourself if the life you live is just an illusion?

Just a lie wearing the mask of reality?”

”...No,” Robin whispered, shaking his head firmly.

”I’ve always assumed that everything is real.

Because if it isn’t... then nothing matters.

Nothing.”

The old man’s smile widened slowly—this time, one of acknowledgment, ”And what if you yourself, are not real?”

”Me?!... That’s a bit excessive, don’t you think?” Robin scoffed, confusion tightening his expression.

”How could we be having this conversation if I didn’t exist?”

He gestured vaguely at the air between them.

”As long as this exchange is happening, there must be something—some presence—that allows it. Even if I’m not truly ’Robin Burton, the human,’ speaking to you... then something must still be speaking to you. Something real. Something present.”

His eyes narrowed, brows furrowed like a man cornered by his own thoughts.

”So logically, the most natural assumption is that I do exist, in flesh and blood.

Unless there’s undeniable reason to doubt that—I see no cause to question it.”

The old man’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

”Exactly,” he whispered, as if hearing a code spoken aloud.

”That’s the key. Assumption.

You don’t know it for certain.

You’re not proving it.

You’re choosing to believe you’re right.

You’ve convinced yourself that what you see, what you touch, what you experience—must be real.”

He pointed at Robin twice with deliberate emphasis, then clasped his hands behind his back.

”This world, this vivid dialogue between us...

This beach, the sand beneath your feet, the clothes on your back, the breath in your lungs...

Are they true?

Or are they just shadows—projections inside your mind?”

He took a step forward, his voice dropping an octave.

”Maybe you’re under attack—a psychic illusion tricking your senses.

Maybe you never were human. Maybe you’re a strand of bacteria, floating in liquid, dreaming a world far beyond your microscopic form.

Maybe this entire universe is a string of thoughts bouncing across a web—suspended beneath the roof of some unimaginable being.

Or worse... maybe your real body is lying somewhere in a meat factory, your brain plugged into a system designed to pacify you... feeding you this illusion while your body is harvested like livestock.”

Robin froze. His mind recoiled, fighting the torrent of disturbing possibilities.

”...There are people who actually think like that?” he said slowly, his voice quiet with disbelief.

”That’s... that’s horrifying.”

”You’d be amazed how many,” the old man said, his voice now heavy and grim.

”Some might even be your own children. Or those closest to you—your followers, your trusted companions.

It’s a plague, Robin.

When someone begins to doubt truth itself...

When the very foundation of reality starts to crack beneath their feet...

Their life becomes unlivable. A personal hell.”

Robin glanced around the shoreline, as if the world itself might vanish at any moment.

”But... that’s madness,” he murmured.

”It’s anti-logic.

If someone truly believes that nothing is real—that everything is fake, hollow, meaningless—

Then what would stop them from ending their life right there?

What keeps them from going insane?

Why even bother eating, drinking, breathing?

Why live, if pain and hunger are just illusions?

If your body’s not real, your needs aren’t real—then what is?”

The old man nodded solemnly.

”That’s the contradiction.

Everyone who screams ’there’s no truth,’ ’everything’s a lie’—

Still wakes up in the morning.

Still brushes their teeth, eats breakfast, and goes to work.

They live as though hunger is real. As though time matters.

They rely on paychecks, chase promotions, plan careers.

They fall in love, get married, raise children—and treat them not as illusions, but as true beings.

They fear death.

They hope for tomorrow.

They build their lives on the very assumption they claim not to believe.”

He smiled softly now, with the knowing of a sage who has seen this contradiction countless times.

”And yet...

Speak of the universe’s origin, of absolute truth, of cosmic foundations...

And suddenly, those same people say:

’Nothing is certain.

Everything is relative.’”

He pointed to the sky.

”But there is something certain.

There is something unshakable.”

He paused, then spoke with the force of a final verdict:

”The Master Law of Truth...

Is the ground beneath the universe.

The unspoken, unbreakable premise that says:

Yes. This happened—truly happened.

That time doesn’t unravel suddenly.

That the universe won’t blink out of existence just because you stopped believing in it.

That physical matter had a beginning.

That you didn’t just spawn inside your own mental universe, conjured out of nothingness.

That the world existed before you—and will continue to exist long after you are gone.”

He stepped closer, his voice now as solid as the earth he spoke of.

”Truth is the assumption that reality is not negotiable.

That the fabric of the universe isn’t a lie waiting to be exposed.

That even in the absence of proof, even in the presence of doubt, something solid remains.”

Then, with a quiet finality, he added:

”Without that foundation, no other law matters.

Without Truth—everything is false.

A structure without a ground.

A house that collapses before a single brick is laid.”

And then, with a scoff and a gesture behind his back, he turned away.

”...That, Robin Burton, is the Master Law of Truth.

Not that glowing eye of yours.”