Chapter 1573: The day of Awakening
Planet Nihari—
StepStep
Robin advanced with agonizing slowness, every movement heavy, reluctant, as though each step dragged him closer to a grave carved in his name. He felt like a man condemned, pushed forward by an unseen spear at his back. A long sigh escaped him; then he halted, hesitating, lost in thought.
Once, twice, thrice he even turned halfway as though he might abandon the path altogether... yet each time, after a pause weighted with doubt, he forced his feet forward again.
At last, after what felt like an eternity of inner struggle, he raised his head slightly. Before him rose a dwarf of a mountain—small compared to the giants of stone that ruled the land, yet unmistakable. Its shape was round, swelling from the flat earth like a seed striving to break the surface. Robin recognized it instantly. That mountain, humble and strange, was the one Jabba had chosen as the core of his daring scheme.
"..." Robin’s gaze lingered on it. Around its slopes were countless protective arrays—layer upon layer, interwoven and precise, designed to shield it against all intrusion, against the erosion of time itself. He sighed deeply, a sound that carried both fatigue and inevitability, then began the long ascent.
"Heh~" Robin exhaled again, bitter and wistful. The last time he had climbed this place, he had wagered his very life in a desperate bid to find Jabba. He had been reckless, teleporting again and again until his body was nearly torn apart, scouring the surroundings ceaselessly with his soul sense. Every heartbeat had been a dance with death.
Yet now, though no enemy hunted him, the climb felt heavier than ever...
Because this time, at the mountain’s heart, awaited not a battle—but the return of a companion. In a few moments, Jabba would awaken, the stasis undone, the prison of time broken. He would breathe again after four hundred long years, though he had not even lived to see a single century before being sealed. Robin’s heart twisted. What could he possibly say to him?
Hello, you’ve spent multiple lifetimes trapped on this rock?
Or perhaps: How are you, my disciple? you abandoned me once, and helped me once, so I’m here to settle the score?
"...." Robin stopped midway up the slope. He stared at a scatter of boulders ahead, breath caught in his chest. Then—whoosh—he vanished.
"...." He reappeared within a cavern hollowed inside the mountain’s heart. Darkness engulfed him, oppressive and absolute. The faint glowstones he had placed here in ages past had long since crumbled to ash.
Shwa-laaa—a tiny flame of white fire flickered into being at the tip of Robin’s finger. With a thought, he scattered it, and sparks shot out like falling stars, leaping from torch to torch around the vast cavern. Slowly, light bloomed, soft and almost sacred, chasing shadows into the corners.
Then, with a quiet whoomph, Robin swept his hand through the air. For a heartbeat the cavern groaned as the pressure surged; then streams of fresh wind burst from his palm, rushing outward to fill the sealed chamber.
This mountain had no entrance, no exit. It was a prison of stone, a hollow chamber without a breath of life. Only through the Master Law of Creation could Robin conjure the air needed for survival. The strain pressed on him, heavy and suffocating, but it was not enough to crack his foundation. He endured it without flinching.
Finally, he lifted his gaze upward. And there he saw it—
A statue, or rather, a man frozen in an eternal moment. Seated awkwardly, twisted in posture, yet unyielding. His face contorted in a cry of defiance, teeth bared, eyes blazing though lifeless. One hand clutched his thigh with iron will, while the other stretched outward, pointing toward the floor where countless sigils, interlaced and endless, sprawled in a grand design.
The image of a warrior embracing death with pride.
Robin stood still for a long while, silent, his chest tight with emotion. Then, slowly, he drifted closer until he was beside the frozen figure. He extended his hand, his forefinger trembling ever so slightly, and pressed it gently to the figure’s brow. From that touch, a radiance blossomed—purple light shaped like an ancient key, mysterious and solemn.
The Key of Eternal Stillness. The very relic he had torn from Hedric’s grasp.
"Hm..." Robin whispered, voice barely audible in the vast hollow. "And what am I supposed to do... once he wakes?"
He hesitated, frowning. "Do I throw myself at him, embrace him tightly and shout that I missed him? No... that would be too strange, too unworthy of both of us. Should I play the cold one instead, tell him I only repaid a debt and that each of us should walk our own path? But..." Robin’s throat tightened, "...what if he truly does walk away?"
Robin raised his other hand and scratched the back of his head, his mouth twisting with faint irritation.
"Tsk~ Fine... I’ll just see how things play out," he muttered, as though tired of wasting words on a situation he had already decided upon.
Then, without another moment’s hesitation, he pressed the violet key downward, placing it firmly against the very center of Jabba’s forehead, as if sealing a verdict upon him.
Rrrrrrrr
The sound was low and resonant, and immediately, something uncanny unfolded—like a living chrysalis spun from pure light. A cocoon of luminous violet radiance enveloped Jabba’s entire body, wrapping him in layer after layer of shimmering threads. It pulsed rhythmically, beating like a second heart, reacting to the presence of the key with an almost reverent awareness. As if it had been waiting in silence for this exact instant, an opening formed at Jabba’s brow, aligning perfectly with the point where Robin pressed. The cocoon drank in the key, accepting it like a missing piece returning home.
Then—
CrackCrack
Boooomf!
The cocoon split apart, erupting in a detonation that shook the chamber. Shards of violet soul force burst outward, scattering in wild, jagged streams that shredded the stillness of the air. Each fragment glowed like a broken star, radiating sorrow and fury before unraveling into nothingness.
WoomWoom
Instantly, Robin’s arm swept wide, and with a twist of his fingers, he conjured several overlapping spatial gates. They flared into existence like black mirrors, pulling in the shards before they could dissipate. The effort demanded focus—precision—but Robin could not gather them all. For in the very next heartbeat, something else consumed his senses.
A sound. A voice. A scream.
Raw, primal, and desperate, it erupted with such force that Robin’s entire body shuddered as though struck by thunder.
"NOOOOOOOOOW!!!!"
"...?!?"
The impossible happened.
The statue moved.
Jabba moved.
His eyes snapped open—wide, wild, blazing with a torrent of emotion. His grim mask of resignation fractured into startled confusion. He drew in a ragged breath as if drowning and clawing his way back to the surface of life itself.
The chamber, however, betrayed him. The floor no longer shimmered with divine runes; the lines lay dark, inert, like veins drained of blood. The great array he had labored for, sacrificed for, whispered to, and bled for... had never even awakened.
"No... no, no, no!" Jabba’s voice cracked, breaking between despair and denial. His hands trembled as he pounded the floor. "Why did you go dark?! This can’t be right—did I miscalculate? Did I miss something?! Why won’t you answer me now of all times?!"
"Tsk~ Why the hell are you screaming like that? There was no one here but you."
The sharp, cutting voice sliced through his unraveling thoughts. Familiar. Too familiar.
Slowly, almost against his own will, Jabba turned his head. His breath stopped. His fear solidified. His very soul seemed to shrink inside his chest.
Standing there, calm yet unyielding, was the last person he ever wished to see.
Robin.
"Ahh!!" Jabba screamed, his body jerking backward in sheer horror. He shoved himself with frantic strength, both arms and one leg flailing until his back smashed against the cavern wall. His face twisted in dread, his voice tumbling out in a broken rush:
"Why did you follow me?! You should be out there—fighting Pythor and his army right now! I- I know you’re furious, I can feel it—wait, wait, listen to me! I can explain! The array—it failed, but I swear I was trying to do something! I wasn’t betraying you—I was going to help, I swear on it!"
But Robin’s silence was heavier than thunder.
To Jabba, this was the worst fate imaginable. Not death itself—he had already made peace with dying, already steeled his soul to fall for his master, for Nihari. Death in battle was honorable.
But this?
To fail.
To be cornered like a coward, caught in disgrace, slain not by the enemy but by Robin’s own hand...
There could be no more shameful ending.
Whoosh
Robin extended his hand toward him.
"Ahh!!" Jabba shrieked, his panic boiling over. He curled in on himself, throwing both arms over his head like a child bracing for his father’s wrathful strike.
But instead of a crushing blow, he felt only a dull, almost gentle thud against the back of his skull. A pat.
Robin’s voice followed, calm, heavy, edged with weary contempt:
"Get up. Get up already, and stop embarrassing yourself."