BAM!

The man with stag horns slammed his hand on the lecture table and stood abruptly. "Professor Robin, your attitude toward us grows worse with each passing minute! Do you even realize who you're talking to?"

"I'm talking to chess pieces," Robin replied coolly, raising one brow. "Pieces on a massive board—one so vast that none of you even know it exists." His sharp gaze swept across the hall. "I'm offering you a chance—a rare chance—to get one step ahead of everyone else, to stand with the winning side. But it seems none of you will understand… not until the news crashes down upon your heads like lightning from the heavens."

"Chess pieces?!" The horned man scoffed and turned as if to leave. "I've heard enough of this nonsense."

"Suit yourself." Robin waved a hand lazily without even looking at him. "But my words remain. If I hear that anyone besides your son uses the technique, or that you've been wandering around spreading rumors of an impending cosmic war—then I assure you, you won't live to see the morning."

"You—!" The elderly man froze mid-step, nearly lunging at Robin in fury.

But BAA!—a firm sound broke the tension as the woman wearing the feathered crown extended her hand from the upper seats and pressed it gently against his back. "Calm yourself," she said evenly. "You cannot fight within the domain of Monarch Althera."

"Do you hear how he speaks to us? Do you see the disrespect?" The stag-headed man pointed at Robin in rage, his voice trembling with suppressed fury.

Yet he stopped. He didn't attack. He didn't even leave. Something in Robin's tone—or perhaps the silent authority of the room—kept him frozen in place.

"Listen well, all of you." Robin's voice rose, echoing across the hall with cold clarity. "I offered you a path to survival in the coming calamity for one reason alone: I saw hope and perseverance in your children—and I believed, perhaps foolishly, that you shared those traits. That's why I brought this to you first, to give you the chance to stand among the survivors. That is all."

He sat back down slowly, his expression unreadable. "But I won't force anyone. Forget everything I said if you wish. You're free to leave at any time."

Then, closing his eyes, he fell silent. The atmosphere grew dense—so still that even the sound of breathing seemed too loud.

In the reports he'd reviewed during the three days since Jabba's rescue, the military progress of Aro remained steady—steady to a suspicious degree. After the grand announcement of the Black Wasps' allegiance, the Empire had returned to subjugating planets by sheer force, waging one war after another with mechanical precision.

From what Robin had heard, the Black Wasps had completely withdrawn from those campaigns.

At first, that angered him —his jaw tightened, his hand clenched— but after a moment of reflection, he understood. In fact, he even felt gratitude toward them.

Their very presence cast an aura of dread upon the Grave Empire, making any attempt to oppose it a terrifying prospect. But had they continued openly conquering worlds, the result would have been inevitable: the formation of a vast coalition to destroy them.

And, in truth… that was already happening.

Just earlier that day, one of the students had nearly spoken that truth aloud—right after Robin had asked about Marshal Arrow's current popularity—before a relative silenced him in panic.

Indeed, a coalition was already being woven in secret, aimed at dismantling both the Grave Empire and the Wasps. The Shadow Swords were doing everything in their power to break that alliance before it solidified, but it seemed unlikely they would fully succeed.

Too many powers—too many long-standing forces—were determined to erase the centennial Grave Empire from the sector's map. And among them stood a Millennium Empire.

Will Aro and the Black Wasps truly prevail in the end?

No one could say for certain. Their overall strength—the number of World Cataclysms, Nexus States, and battle fleets under their command—remained far too low to stand against a vast coalition led by a millennial empire, one whose history, resources, and military doctrines had been refined over eons.

And even if by some twist of fate, some miracle, they managed to seize victory… what kind of victory would it even be? The armies would be shattered, their fleets reduced to drifting wrecks scattered across the void, and countless Cataclysms along with Nexus users would be dead. The Shadow Swords might even have their secret involvement exposed to the universe.

If the Grave Empire continued on its current path—pushing slowly, expanding cautiously, fighting one calculated war after another—then it was destined to stagnate. In time, the momentum that had once made it feared would fade. Its resources would thin, its borders would crumble inward, and the empire itself might begin to shrink long before the decisive war of destiny ever arrived.

The board was too small now; the rules of the game had to change. The pieces had to move differently.

If Robin could secure even one of the powerful rulers in this room—just one of them—it would ensure a stronger, brighter future for the Grave Empire. Even a single alliance could stall the rise of the coming coalition for decades, perhaps for entire centuries—time precious beyond measure, time that could be turned into an advantage.

Was it deceitful for him to warn them about a cosmic war that he, in truth, would stand at the very center of? Perhaps. But in the grand scheme of things, who cared about moral semantics when the flames of that war were already inevitable? The warning might have been self-serving—but it was also undeniably true.

The fish were all gathered in one place, circling around the same bait. Robin only needed one of them to open their mouth and bite. Just one, and the tide of destiny would shift.

Minutes stretched like hours, heavy and silent, until finally a single voice echoed through the hall, calm yet firm:

"Professor Robin," the speaker said, "you've had your say. Now present your offers—clearly, and without any more of your provoking words. You've made your point."

Robin's eyelids lifted slowly. "…!" His eyes widened in mild surprise.

The five emperors and their entourages were still there. Not one of them had left. Even the stag-horned emperor, whose fury moments ago had nearly driven him to strike, now stood frozen, glaring daggers yet refusing to depart.

In response, Robin exhaled and spread his arms slightly, a faint trace of satisfaction curving at the edge of his lips.

"The offer," he said softly, "is very simple."

He stood straighter, his tone now steady, almost diplomatic. "The techniques you've been after— I ask for no material price. They're free. You may share them among your citizens, strengthen their bloodlines, fortify the foundations of your coming generations. I'll not take a single Pearl from you."

Then he clasped his hands together. "In return, I ask for one thing only—a public, documented Mutual Defense Pact, bound by an unbreakable oath. One that will stand for ten thousand years."

A pause. Then for the first time in what felt like ages, Robin's expression softened into something almost kind.

"This way, you'll obtain the technologies without cost, and you'll gain an additional layer of protection. Once the rest of the sector learns that we stand together, that we share the same cause and the same shield, our collective front will be far stronger. Together, we might have a real chance of surviving the storm to come—the cosmic war that's already whispering at our doors. What do you say?"

"This…?"

The hall buzzed with confusion. The emperors exchanged glances, utterly taken aback. Compared to his earlier manner—compared to demanding half their riches, mocking them as followers, and hurling open threats—this proposal sounded almost… noble.

How could he shift so suddenly from madness to reason?

"Heh~" Only the dark-skinned elder chuckled quietly, his gaze narrowing as he leaned back in his chair.

That professor… was dangerous.

His offer, despite its civility, was still drenched in peril. A public alliance with the Grave Empire through a defense pact would be a catastrophe by itself. At this very moment, countless powers were conspiring against them—and even without a cosmic war, such an agreement would draw every blade and cannon in their direction.

And yet, despite knowing this… everyone felt an unexpected calm wash over them. It was as though the tension that had built throughout the discussion had been lifted at last.

That professor—was this his true intent all along?

Had he deliberately driven them to the edge of frustration and disbelief, only to pull them back with something that appeared rational?

Had he twisted the room's emotions so skillfully that a serious strategic proposal now felt like a gift from the heavens themselves?

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