The temple was silent.
Only the soft hum of crimson light filled the chamber. Dust drifted like ash through the air, swirling around the ancient throne—a relic of ages long lost, carved from a single shard of crystal that seemed to breathe with its own heart.
Eryndor stood before it, his pulse still echoing from the vision.
He could feel the weight of what he had witnessed, the whisper that lingered in his blood. His gaze fell to the faint crimson droplet of light, now resting upon his palm. It pulsed again, weak yet insistent, like something answering a distant call. The light stirred, unfurling into a thin stream of radiance that stretched toward his fingers. It brushed his fingertip—hesitant, curious, almost alive—
Then, without warning, it sank into his palm.
The world broke open.
The temple vanished. Space itself bent inward, folding around him. The light flooded his body, searing through flesh and sinew, sinking past bone, past soul.
It was not warmth.
It was cold—cold as snow.
"Blood of Kings."
The voice thundered within him, the same presence that had spoken in the vision, now vast and commanding.
"You have found what was left behind."
The light held him fast as ancient words—alive—carved themselves across his body in threads of molten gold. They coiled around his arms, chest, and neck, shifting and writhing. Each mark sank deeper, engraving not only his flesh, but his bones, his blood, even his soul. It was no inscription—it was breathing, moving like serpents of light.
Eryndor fell to his knees.
The pain was unthinkable. His entire body felt as though it were boiling, raging—but it was not merely pain.
It was transformation.
Words too vast for mortal tongues echoed and embedded themselves within his mind.
"The flesh shall not yield.
The heart shall not break.
The will shall not falter."
"The Absolute Scripture.
The Legacy of the Paragon.
The covenant of the High King—written in flesh, sealed in blood."
His bones rang like tempered steel. His breath became fire. His heartbeat struck like a forge-hammer. The light grew unbearable—
And then, in a single shuddering instant, it vanished.
Eryndor collapsed, unconscious.
Smoke rose faintly from his skin, yet not a single wound remained.
He awoke after what felt like an eternity. Staring at the ceiling with the dull confusion of a man recently died but then somehow resurrected.
"Well. That happened." He murmured.
His vision swam as he slowly lifted his arm. On the back of his hand, golden inscriptions glimmered faintly. After a moment, they faded, sinking beneath his skin, burying themselves deep within his body, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
They were neither tattoo nor scar.
They were the Scripture itself.
In the silence, he felt it—the echo of millions of warriors, their fury and triumph resounding within him. The strength of forgotten High Kings surged through his veins. He clenched his fist.
The air quivered.
The stone beneath him cracked like glass.
He could feel the flow of the world—every motion, every vibration, every thread of life woven around him. His body no longer felt bound by weight or weakness. Every breath carried the memory of war and conquest.
Yet beneath that power, something older stirred.
Rage.
The knowledge that this legacy had once slaughtered others without mercy.
"The Scripture of the Paragon…" Eryndor muttered under his breath, curiosity mixing with unease. "What kind of scripture is this?"
In Terra Proper, all mortal races gained strength through mana. The known hierarchy of power in the current era consisted of four realms, from lowest to highest: High Mortal, Mortal Lord, Saint, and Immortal. Each realm was further divided into tiers—Knight, Noblesse, and Royale.
Progression came through learning, contemplation, and disciplined study of spells or true words drawn from scriptures—arts that demanded immense willpower, intellect, or wisdom. The deeper one's comprehension, the stronger their spells, and the higher their tier. Ascending to a greater realm required mastering even stronger scriptures, demanding still greater resolve.
But none of that aligned with what Eryndor had just endured.
As far as he knew, no scripture engraved itself directly onto the body.
"Hells," he muttered internally, "even the most savage Beastfolk wouldn't use a method this insane."
"I really thought I was going to die."
After a moment, curiosity overcame him. He clenched his fist again. Strength surged through his blood, flowing like a crashing wave. He closed his eyes as mana gathered around him, then expanded outward—shimmering like golden flame dancing across his body.
"Royale tier…" he whispered, stunned. "To break through from Knight straight to Royale…"
Then his excitement faltered.
"But this doesn't feel like High Mortal strength at all," he muttered. "My body feels far stronger than it should."
"What did the voice call it again… Absolute Scripture?"
He frowned. Somehow, he understood—this scripture did not require stronger scriptures to advance. It would grow regardless.
It was growth itself.
A living code that would evolve alongside him.
For now, he pushed the questions aside. Rising to his feet, Eryndor adjusted his satchel and slung it over his shoulder. The chamber lay silent once more, as though nothing extraordinary had occurred. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt like a dream—or a nightmare.
He glanced back at the throne one last time, took a deep breath, and left, weaving through the tunnels until he emerged atop the dunes, alert.
The raiders were gone.
He looked out across the endless desert. Beyond it lay Mataram Prana, gleaming in the twilight like a golden crown. And farther still—other nations, ruins, and hidden stories waiting to be uncovered.
"This," he murmured, resolve hardening in his gaze, "is only the beginning."
A relieved smile tugged at his lips.
Unbeknownst to Eryndor, the moment the light from the throne sank into his flesh—when the Scripture etched itself into his being—the world trembled.
Not loudly.
But deeply.
A ripple passed through the unseen fabric of the Realms. Above the firmament, beneath the deepest shadow, within mirrored wildernesses and even the most sacred lands of Terra Proper, ancient eyes opened in recognition.
"Terra shall tremble once more," whispered unseen voices,
"for a mortal has inherited the Scripture of Paragon."