In the morning, the streets of Mataram Prana around the Temple of Radiant Memory thrummed with life. People and vehicles passed by in steady flow. Merchants called out their wares, children ran laughing through the crowds, and a noisy buzz of conversation filled the streets. Even the distant clang of blacksmith hammers echoed from the Dwarven smithies.
Amid the busy morning, Eryndor adjusted the small satchel at his side. Inside lay few fragments of forbidden texts—books and records, even relic shards he had managed to smuggled out over the years. He stepped through the temple gate, clenching his fist as his mind drifted back to the moments in the Grand Hall few hours earlier.
He had felt his skin pulse and hum, then somehow he had endured the crushing aura beyond of a High Mortal while still only a Knight-tier High Mortal.
"Did I have some kind of breakthrough under that pressure?" he wondered.
After checking himself more than once, however, he confirmed that he was still firmly within the Knight tier of the High Mortal Realm.
"Maybe pressure had cracked something loose."
"…Or I just need more sleep," he muttered with a wry smile, shaking his head.
He paused at the threshold and looked back at the temple gate quietly. More than ten years of service—and he had been cast out like this. The thought left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Yet strangely, he felt no bitterness—only an exhilarating calm, and very little regret. Ten years of devotion, discarded in an instant.
He turned away from the gate. A quiet certainty burned within him as he continued forward. For the first time, he was truly unbound.
Exile meant freedom—and perhaps, opportunity.
Roughly speaking, to visualize Matrabhumi Ayoga, the Great Nation of Humanity, one might imagine a colossal blooming lotus, its petals forming the provinces centered around Mataram Prana, the Ancestral City.
To the north lay The Vedas March, a frontier province of forts and monasteries. They directly facing the lands of the Elves. To the west and east of the capital stretched the Verdant Threshold—lush, humid borderlands swallowed by nature—and the Aurash Plains, the nation's breadbasket of golden fields and ruined sky-temples.
South of the capital stood Kael Durn, a fortress-state guarding the southern trade routes to Karshvar, it was pinched by two regions, to the southeast lay the Nandavara Dunes, once fertile land now reduced to glass and sand. Then to the southwest sprawled the Tiraveda Frontier, a wild land of rivers, jungles, and ancient ruins reclaimed by nature.
NORTH: The Vedas March
WEST: Verdant Threshold EAST: Aurash Plains
CENTER: Mataram Prana
SOUTHWEST: Tiraveda Frontier SOUTHEAST: Nandavara Dunes
SOUTH: Kael Durn Marches
The horizon of the Nandavara Dunes stretched like a polished shard of sunlight. Beneath the scorching sun, Eryndor trudged forward, battered and exhausted. His steps were uneven and heavy, and his satchel had become a burden rather than a comfort.
"This is your life now, Eryndor," he muttered inwardly, the words lost to the wind.
"Ruins for coins, dusty scrolls for the rich, and the occasional desert snake that thinks it can outwit me."
It had been about a month since he was banished from the temple. From there, Eryndor had become a wanderer—a relic hunter drifting from ruin to ruin, half scholar and half scavenger. He mapped ancient walls for curious or foolish nobles and deciphered fragments for collectors.
He pulled his hood lower as desert sand lashed and slapped against his face repeatedly. Around him, sparse traffic moved across the dunes—caravans, mercenaries, wandering merchants, and even scholars-for-hire. A varied mix of those who survived in the borderlands. Eryndor passed them quietly, their faces veiled, their eyes cautious. The air was thick with grit and tension; every sound carried far in the emptiness.
At last, he reached a ruin half-buried in sand.
They called it the Obsidian Library of Tarekha—a collapsed tower from uncertain period, but rumored to have once held the secrets of an ancient empire and a forgotten era. Its walls were cracked, its glyphs worn smooth by centuries of wind. Eryndor traced a finger over one of the runes.
"Hey, beautiful," he whispered.
"Abandoned knowledge, left for me to ponder and plunder. You'd make the Temple of Radiant Memory weep with delight… if only they could see you."
He chuckled softly.
A sudden rustle behind him made him turns. startled.
And his shock was justified.
A band of desert raiders—around nine of them—had appeared, Scarves wrapped their faces with eyes beneath it that glinting with hunger. One of them, likely the leader, was a tall man with a jagged scar running across his visible eye. He grinned.
"You alone, scholar?" the man sneered.
"Or do you carry treasures too fragile for sturdy hands like mine?" His voice's dripping arrogance.
Eryndor rubbed the black iron gauntlet on his hand. Black and scarred, it had been his weapon of choice since in the order and after his exile, he carried it everywhere. He had once intended to buy a spear or sword or even a gun—but the gauntlet had stayed.
His breathing slowed as he felt mana hum beneath his skin, a faint pulse like a second heartbeat. In the High Mortal Realm, mana strengthened every fiber of the body, granting speed, strength, and resilience beyond ordinary humans. As one advanced, control expanded outward, influencing the environment—elements, terrain, even weather.
"Fragile?" Eryndor replied, shifting his stance. His feet were light, his spine straight—the disciplined form of the temple martial art.
"My friend, knowledge is the toughest treasure of all."
The raiders laughed and surged forward.
Eryndor ducked beneath the sweeping arc of a scimitar, momentum coiling through his legs as he darted low. He seized the first attacker's leg and rolled sideways, yanking the man off balance while other blades whistled overhead. They hit the sand together.
Eryndor twisted, drove a sharp strike into the man's face, then sprang back to his feet.
One down—fast, clean, efficient.
The remaining raiders hesitated for a heartbeat before rage overtook them. Their leader growled as the desert wind howled like a dying beast. Eryndor rolled his shoulders, breath steady, exhaling once as the circle closed again.
"Almost Royale tier," he muttered.
"But still High Mortal Realm. Hopefully still doable."