When the light faded, the world no longer felt real.
Eryndor trudged through the ruins, sand grinding in his boots, blood drying stiff on his sleeve, and a bag tugging at his back that fortunately he had not left behind. The wind outside was cold, tasting faintly of dust and old stone. Someone had said, the wind of dune breathed out memory of something long forgotten.
Night blanketed the wasteland in hues of copper and pale white, bringing with it a strange clarity.
For the first time, he truly felt the weight of the scripture pulsing within his veins. The legacy that deeply inscribed into every part of his being.
Every heartbeat was thunder.
Every breath, a whisper of strength.
His blood felt dense and heavy, yet it flowed fiercely through his vein.
He then stared at his arm, fascinated by the faint glow that occasionally flickering under his skin.
*"Well, that's… concerningly impressive."
Eryndor was still marveling at his own body when the ruins before him suddenly shattered—no, were slashed apart. Marble and dust exploded into the air, faint mana glowing along the cut's impossibly clean edge.
And there she stepped through the falling debris
A figure who did not belong to the desert.
Silver hair spilled like starlight, glowing faintly beneath the moon's edge, made brighter by the surrounding darkness. Her armor was too ornate for any battlefield—delicate filigree meant for courtly halls, not sand and ruin. Her sharp, assessing eyes reflected the moonlight as she stood surrounded by a faint shimmer of illusion magic, blade already drawn, poised on the razor line between threat and grace.
"Another scavenger?" she asked, her tone carrying both disdain and caution.
"If you've come for relics, you're late. The dead took them first."
Eryndor blinked, amused.
Magic… an elf? Definitely elf he thought.
He glanced down at himself dramatically, then pointed at his chest.
"Do I look like a scavenger to you?"
The woman's sword tilted slightly, light humming along its edge.
"You certainly do. Dirty, dusty, and reeking of blood."
Eryndor looked at his body. The wounds were already closed, though dried blood still clung to his clothes. He shrugged.
"Well, technically you're not wrong. But this is my blood, thank you very much. Got ambushed by a bunch of raiders earlier—"
He didn't get to finish.
She moved.
The first strike came like moonlight slicing water—too fast, too elegant. Her blade grazed his shoulder, shallow but sharp, drawing a thin line of blood. He stumbled back, more startled than hurt.
Then suddenly the Scripture around his shoulder pulsed faintly.
The wound sealed itself, skin knitting together in a brief shimmer of golden light.
Eryndor rolled his shoulder, staring.
"Well… that's new."
He lifted his gaze. "Hey, what was that for?"
But she was already attacking him again.
Instinct moved him before thought. He raised his arm, and the air bent. She felt it, Her lunge slammed into an immovable force, her blade stopping dead against his forearm brace. Pressure flared outward with a sound like cracking glass.
"Yeah," she said dryly, leaping back, "you were definitely injured by those raiders."
She spun away, lips chanting as shadows gathered around her feet. Magic bloomed. Spectral duplicates flickered into existence—five, six reflections—rushing him from every direction.
They weren't real, but they were convincing enough.
Eryndor barely kept up, the world becoming a blur of steel and echoes.
Then the Scripture whispered.
Strange words slid through his veins—ancient syllables of command. He didn't understand them, but they understood him.
He exhaled.
The world slowed. No dramatic flash. No grand sensation.
Just… time that dragged to near stillness.
Every movement stretched, dragged through syrup-thick time. Her form nearly froze mid-strike, each footstep sending ripples through the almost suspended time.
In that silence, Eryndor moved.
Once.
Twice.
His steps were calm, unhurried. His leg swept through two illusions—they shattered into black light. His fist, glowing with golden runes met the third.
It was her real body.
She barely managed to block. The impact hurled her backward, skidding across before catching herself on one knee.
At the same time, time snapped back.
She knelt at the edge of the ruin as her illusions faded into smoke. Her eyes widened, alert and shaken while Her hands were numb and her breath were tight. What she had seen made no sense—one moment he stood still, the next he was elsewhere. Only instinct, honed through endless drills, had saved her from being crushed.
Eryndor stood there breathing hard, hands on his knees.
He then raised one hand.
"Before you try to kill me again," he said between breaths,
"might I suggest… talking?"
His mana flickered weakly. Whatever he had done had nearly drained him dry. His High Mortal capacity had reached its limit.
She rose slowly, gaze cold.
"You are either a robber… or a cold-blooded killer."
Eryndor stared. "What? Excuse me, young lady, you can't just accuse people like that."
He inhaled, calming himself, then gestured vaguely at the ruins.
"Look, I'm a respectable scholar, alright? I travel to ruins and ancient sites because I—well, yes, you could call me a scavenger. But a murderer? That's just rude."
A pause.
Her sharp gaze softened—only slightly. Curiosity edged past hostility as she studied him.
After a long, awkward silence, she spoke.
"Your aura is strange. You are at the High Mortal Realm, yet your strength is far beyond it."
"That was not power someone those raiders could wound so easily."
"Yeah," Eryndor huffed, still annoyed, "try having nearly ten people trying to kill you."
She ignored the remark.
"It seems this was my fault,"
"I attacked you under false assumption." she continued.
"You reek of blood, but not bloodlust. My apologies." Her words were stiff, reluctant and proud but for the first time, her blade lowered. She inclined her head slightly.
"Good," Eryndor said. "Let that be a lesson—don't attack people out of nowhere next time."
After a moment, he sighed, turned, and walked away, waving half-heartedly over his shoulder.
"Goodbye. And seriously—don't stab strangers on sight."
She watched him go in silence.
Then, from the depths of memory, a voice echoed—an old conversation, resurfacing unbidden.
"My child, you must leave. Staying here will only get you killed."
A woman's voice. Soft. Wise. Sad.
"Find the one who bears the Prophecy. Perhaps they can help us."
"How will I find them?" the younger her had asked, frightened, confused and angry.
"You will know. Or perhaps they will. Destiny always finds its way."
She still didn't fully understand those words.
But when she looked at Eryndor earlier, her soul had trembled. Her blood had whispered something she could not understand.
With an irritated sigh—mostly at herself—she began walking after him. Slowly at first, then faster, until they were side by side, crossing the moonlit desert together.
Behind them, the echoes of their duel faded, leaving only wind and sand.
In the distant ruins, unseen by either of them, ancient sigils—of the First Empire, or perhaps something even older—flickered softly, reacting to two paths newly entwined.