"...Tell me, Robin... what is theroleof 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’tbuildanything.

It didn’tshapeanything.

At least, not in any direct way.

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

How could mereawarenessraise 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 theblueprint? 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 ofWill—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 thesupervisor?" he tried. "The one who oversees everything, ensuring the construction follows the plan?"

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

Robin groaned softly, rubbing his temples.

"...Then... is it the reason why thetoolsare real tools and not toys? Why thematerialsare real and suitable for building?"

"Aha!" the old man grinned. "Now you’re stepping into the territory ofIdentity."

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. Somethingnoneof the other laws cover. Something real. Somethingtangible."

Robin stared at him, incredulous.

"How can it betangible," he barked, "if the construction’s already complete?! What role could athingplay after everything’s already done?!"

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

"...It’s not thethingsinside 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 thefoundational,essential, andcomplementarylaws."

He tilted his head toward Robin again.

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

Atleasthave the decency to understandwhatyou’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 thanthis."

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

"How pitiful... truly pitiful, for someone chosen byTruthitself.

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—somethingall other thingsrest upon.

A silent act repeated endlessly since your birth.

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

"...Thenteach 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 endbadly."

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.

"Justtellme."

"Nowthat’sbetter," the old man said, finally nodding, his tone turning serious.

"The answer... isthe ground."

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

"The ground the house wasbuiltupon," 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—ismeaninglessunless there is something to stand on.

Something stable. Something that says:

Yes.This happened. This is real."

He pointed directly at Robin.

"Thatsomething... is the belief thatrealityexists to begin with.

That what you touch istrulythere. That what you feel, what you see, what you know—hasweight."

Then his tone darkened, his expression turning grave.

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

When you felt like there wasnoabsolute 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 itisn’t... then nothing matters.

Nothing."

The old man’s smile widened slowly—this time, one of acknowledgment, "And what ifyouyourself, 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—somepresence—that allows it. Even if I’m not truly ’Robin Burton, the human,’ speaking to you... thensomethingmust still be speaking to you. Something real. Somethingpresent."

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

"So logically, the most natural assumption is that Idoexist, 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’tknowit for certain.

You’re notprovingit.

You’rechoosingto believe you’re right.

You’ve convinced yourself that what you see, what you touch, what you experience—mustbe 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 whoactuallythink like that?" he said slowly, his voice quiet with disbelief.

"That’s... that’shorrifying."

"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 todoubt truth itself...

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

Their life becomesunlivable. 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’santi-logic.

If someonetrulybelieves 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?

Whylive, if pain and hunger are just illusions?

If your body’s not real, your needs aren’t real—then whatis?"

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 astrue beings.

They fear death.

They hope for tomorrow.

Theybuildtheir 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 thereissomething certain.

Thereissomething unshakable."

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

"The Master Law of Truth...

Is thegroundbeneath 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 justspawninside 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 isnotnegotiable.

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, somethingsolidremains."

Then, with a quiet finality, he added:

"Without that foundation, no other law matters.

Without Truth—everythingis 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."

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by lotustale.com