Lord of the Truth - Chapter 1274

Chapter 1274: Prisoner of Hate
BZZZZT—

Robin emerged from the spatial corridor, his hands calmly clasped behind his back, as though he were taking a casual stroll. The moment his feet touched solid ground, he let out a faint whistle, a low sound that echoed eerily in the confined space.

“I must admit… I had no idea planetary spirits were capable of feats such as this.”

“It’s nothing more than a minor trick,” Richard replied in a measured tone, his voice calm but resolute. “Juri, my planetary spirit, can open spatial gates to virtually any location on or beneath the planet’s surface. But, of course, she only does so under my direct command.”

“…And where exactly have you brought me?” Robin asked, narrowing his eyes as he advanced with cautious curiosity.

He quickly realized he was inside a narrow, suffocating passageway—its walls composed of dark volcanic rock and glowing veins of magma. The air shimmered with intense heat, so overwhelming that even someone of Robin’s caliber could feel it pressing against his skin. The corridor descended steeply, spiraling downward like a tunnel to the underworld. Not a single source of natural light could be seen, leaving him to rely solely on his soul senses to feel his surroundings and move forward.

“We near the heart of the planet, father,” Richard answered with absolute seriousness. Then, raising one hand in a smooth, practiced motion, he gestured toward the end of the tunnel.

A massive slab of black stone began to grind and shift with a deep rumble, slowly revealing a blinding crimson glow that pulsed like a living heartbeat.

“We’ve arrived.”

“This is…?” Robin stepped forward. His posture remained regal and composed, hands still behind his back—but his eyes widened, and for a fleeting moment, a glimmer of genuine shock passed across his face.

What lay beyond the stone was nothing less than a vision of torment incarnate.

He now stood at the edge of an enormous underground cavern, the size of which dwarfed any natural cave he had ever encountered. Directly before him lay a precipice that overlooked a vast lake of molten lava, a sea of liquid fire that extended far beyond what the eye could see.

The surface of the lava roiled and churned, erupting with violent bursts of molten fury. The searing heat and flashes of light provided just enough illumination to reveal the terrifying features of the chamber. From the ceiling above and the fiery lake below, jagged black stone spikes jutted out like the fangs of a monstrous beast.

There was no sign of life—no creature, no presence, nothing that could possibly survive the sheer intensity of this inferno.

“Richard… What is this place?” Robin asked, voice lowered slightly, as if the sheer atmosphere demanded reverence. “Why would you bring me to this—”

Before he could complete his sentence, something caught his eye.

“Hmm?”

Far in the distance, floating above the center of the lava lake, was a figure. At first, it seemed as though it were levitating—arms and legs extended outwards in a cruciform position—but no… upon closer inspection, it became horrifyingly clear:

He was chained.

WHOOSH—

Robin vanished in a blur and reappeared above the lake, near the suspended figure. The sight that greeted him was both disturbing and surreal.

A man—a human being—was bound by five immense chains. One gripped each of his wrists, another two bound his ankles, and the final chain clamped around his neck. Each chain stretched dozens of meters in length, anchored to different jagged stone spikes, some embedded in the cavern ceiling, others rising from the fiery depths below.

The chains glowed white-hot from the unbearable heat, and every few seconds they snapped and crackled with violent energy.

The man’s wrists, ankles, and throat were blackened and charred, as if they had been burned for centuries. His skin was blistered and cracked, oozing with a mixture of blood and ash. The smell in the air was unmistakable—the scent of scorched flesh and burned blood, thick and suffocating.

“What… what is happening here?!” Robin demanded, his voice trembling with fury and disbelief.

“How long has this man been imprisoned?!”

“How long?” Richard echoed calmly, tilting his head ever so slightly as he gazed at the prisoner. His expression showed no trace of guilt or hesitation.

“I can’t recall the exact number… but certainly over a hundred years. That much is certain.”

“A hundred years?! You’ve kept him chained—here, in this literal hell—for a century?!” Robin’s voice cracked with outrage.

“What could he have possibly done to deserve a punishment this inhumane?!” He seized Richard by the collar of his coat.

“Richard, what kind of monster have you become?! What horrors have you committed in my absence?!”

“Calm yourself, Father,” Richard said quietly, raising a hand to steady him. Then he nodded subtly toward the prisoner.

“Look more closely at his face. Examine him carefully. You’ve seen him before.”

“…I’ve seen him?” Robin stepped back, the anger on his face giving way to confusion and hesitation.

He began to study the prisoner’s face with greater focus. The man’s features were mostly obscured by tangled, scorched hair—thick and unkempt, as though it had grown wild and been singed repeatedly by fire.

His hair wasn’t long; it had been burned away at the ends, leaving only a half-melted mess that clung to his head like a curse.

Beneath the burnt hair, Robin began to make out fragments of a face—aged, worn, and hardened. The man appeared to be in his fifties, maybe older, though his suffering made it hard to judge. His face was gaunt, bones protruding under damaged skin, yet… there was something there.

Something disturbingly familiar.

“Wake up, you wretched sinner!”

In that moment of cold fury, Richard raised his hand high and delivered a vicious slap across the prisoner’s face —

BAAAAAAM!

The crack of the strike exploded through the cavern like a whip of thunder, reverberating off every wall, shaking the silence like an earthquake through hell.

“Pffft—Richard, you—!!” Robin was about to shout, to unleash a torrent of outrage at his son’s cruel and merciless behavior, but he stopped short—

Because in that very instant, the prisoner’s eye snapped open.

And Robin’s words died in his throat.

“These eyes…” he whispered in disbelief.

A single eye gleamed back at him—filled with a brilliant, terrible light. A flame of searing hatred, burning with the clarity of sharp intellect, dancing with recognition and fury. Robin stared at it, his breath caught in his lungs.

He knew that eye.

CLANG!

CLANG!

The scalding-hot chains shook violently as the prisoner stirred. His face, twisted with pain and disbelief, turned toward Robin—

And when he spoke, it was not with weakness, but with a voice brimming with loathing and wounded pride:

“Robin… Burton!!”

Robin’s pupils widened like a man seeing a ghost from the past. His heart skipped a beat. Then two.

And then the truth struck him like lightning:

“It’s you… Kristan Burton!!!”

He took a step back in shock. Even after a hundred years in hell, even after the fires had seared his skin and time had taken its toll—Robin recognized him with absolute certainty.

Kristan.

The son of Julia.

Daughter of Peter Burton.

This man was his blood sister’s child.

His nephew.

The very man who had ignited the flames of rebellion—the one who breathed life into the People’s Uprising and threw the Empire into chaos.

“What the hell is going on here?!” Robin spun around, his voice now trembling with a mix of fury, confusion, and disbelief. “Why is this man still alive?!”

Kristan’s voice roared out in fury, scorched but unbroken.

“Robin Burton! The heavens themselves will hold you accountable! For every crime you’ve committed—every innocent life lost by your command—the skies will rain down justice! You will not escape!”

“Go back to sleep.”

Richard’s voice cut like a blade. He stepped forward and, without hesitation, unleashed a bone-crushing punch to Kristan’s jaw.

The force shattered bone and will alike—sending the prisoner into a merciful unconsciousness as the chains rattled with finality.

“…He’s a stubborn dog,” Richard muttered coldly. “But I’ll give him this much—he’s still got some fight left in him.”

Robin, burning with a hundred questions, stared at his son.

“Richard,” he growled, “Explain. Now. During the Jura reclamation war, I gave the order to mark every rebel with the Red Arrow. Kristan was supposed to be executed like the others—swiftly, silently, without spectacle. Why the hell do I find him here, buried near the molten heart of a planet?!”

“Even the Azil Tribe survivors,” Robin continued, his voice rising, “—you merely abandoned them on Planet S-3 with the demons. You didn’t torture them personally. You didn’t bind them in hellfire like this! Why him?!”

“…I’m sorry,” Richard said at last, his tone softening with shame and resolve. He didn’t meet his father’s eyes. “I couldn’t stop myself.”

He paused.

“During the invasion, before Caesar’s reinforcements arrived, I had to make choices that will haunt me forever. I slaughtered millions of the planet’s citizens—people swept up by the lies of the People’s Movement. They gave me names —the Impaler— for how much I killed.”

He turned, slowly, to stare at Kristan’s unconscious body, suspended in the chains of fire.

“These people were deceived—brainwashed by him. But even so, they killed tens of millions of innocents. I watched cities collapse into rubble. I saw children buried beneath ashes. Families torn apart in fire and blood—all because of his revolution.”

His voice was shaking now—gritted with pain and rage.

“And then… the final blow. The catastrophe that destroyed the last remnants of the Burton bloodline in the capital. My kin. My family.”

He looked directly at Robin, eyes blazing.

“My hatred for him… could not be erased by a simple death. A quick execution wasn’t enough. He didn’t deserve silence. So while you were busy in the final campaigns, I acted.”

“I captured him. And I brought him here—to suffer. To taste the very fire he brought to others. To feel every second of every consequence.”

Richard clenched his fists tighter, until the knuckles turned white and trembled with power.

“Don’t pity him, Father. He’s earned every second of this torment.

A hundred years in this inferno doesn’t scratch the surface of the tens of millions who perished because of him.

Even if one day here paid for one soul—he still owes eternity.”

Robin looked away, his expression dark and unreadable. “…Why did you bring me here?”

“You asked about my rule,” Richard replied. His voice was calm now—cold, measured, resolved. “About why my laws are so brutal. Why my methods are feared. Why I govern with an iron fist and bring death to those who defy me.”

He gestured toward the man in chains, hanging over the molten abyss.

“It’s all him.”