Chapter 290: Nagaryll and the Provincial Governor

Nagaryll is a coastal country situated between the subtropics and tropics. It is a very backward nation, covered with primeval jungles.

People have long believed that Nagaryll’s underground holds abundant mineral resources. Combined with its rich forestry and rare spices, it should be a wealthy country.

But it isn’t. It is both rich and poor—poverty is created by Nagaryll’s social structure.

The people here have worshipped their native religion for generations, believing that the workings of heaven and earth are unchangeable. Periodically, the world faces destruction followed by rebirth.

Their role is to comply with this cycle, not to change anything.

Under this ignorant and backward mindset, the upper class has become rigid and corrupt. They have no fear of the lower class overthrowing or killing them because all is predestined.

Do the people hate these rulers? Of course. When those rulers live off the bones of the people, strong resentment arises.

But the religion provides a satisfactory answer: curse these people. All their deeds will condemn them to eternal suffering in an endless hell.

The harsher and more numerous the curses, the worse their fate after the great destruction.

There are unique structures called Hall of Admonition scattered across Nagaryll—magical sites with astonishing functions.

When someone can no longer bear the social injustices, they come here. The priests lead them along the long walls of these places.

The walls are carved and painted with scenes of humans suffering terrible torments by dreadful monsters. The priests tell those seeking solace that the ones they hate will suffer these pains forever, endlessly trapped in a sea of agony.

Most visitors leave feeling calm, comforted that those they despise are doomed to eternal hell, while the good among them have the chance to ascend and become superior beings.

This religious system thoroughly controls Nagaryll’s people and grants priests authority equal to the rulers.

Friction and struggle between religious and political power have dominated Nagaryll’s long history. They focused so much on these conflicts that civilizations emerging later surpassed them in every way.

Some tried to bring foreign culture to challenge Nagaryll’s backward religion but failed.

Though skilled at internal strife, they united tightly against outsiders. Their only concern was preserving their power, never considering others.

This is the country many avoid to escape trouble. But to Lynch, it shone with tempting promise.

“Shh…”

Just off the ship, Asel stood at the harbor, glancing back at the replenishing passenger ship, his eyes hiding a complex, barely perceptible emotion—part nostalgia, part reluctance, part helplessness, part pain.

He had returned home. The air filling his lungs told him so.

The air carried Nagaryll’s unique stench—a mix of sweat, stale odors from unwashed dense hair follicles, and sea salt. It was a nauseating yet strangely familiar scent.

Asel didn’t know if this smell existed elsewhere; in his memory, only his hometown had it.

The streets were filled with locals. Few foreigners came here for business, though there had been some.

Foreign merchants and scientific teams arrived, believing the jungles hid rich mineral deposits. But after a while, they mysteriously vanished.

No one stirred trouble over a few strangers. Even their countries ignored communication with these backward, ignorant people. Gradually, foreigners became rare here—but not gone.

Local elites craved luxury and envied developed countries, yet feared them. They needed others to bring imported goods so they could enjoy distant worlds without leaving home.

Foreigners who stayed served this role, acting as merchants supplying imported luxuries. Each was incredibly wealthy.

Snapping out of his daze, Asel headed toward the city center. There were no sidewalks or paved roads—just dirt paths shared by people and vehicles, causing frequent jams.

In the past, walking here meant constant bumping into others. He’d thought little of it then; now it felt disgusting.

But this time, no one came close. People gave space, their gestures seeming respectful though some eyes held a chilling hatred.

They treated him like an important figure. Avoidance was instinctive; so was resentment.

Exiting the dock, he saw several locals loudly talking. People kept distance because they wore foreign clothes.

In Nagaryll, only the elite could afford imported garments. These people enjoyed terrifying privileges—they could sentence those they disliked to death, paying a fine in Valier currency.

Valier was Nagaryll’s money. Officially, one Federal Sol exchanged for about forty Valier; ten thousand Valier equaled a month’s wages for a Federal worker.

On the black market, one Federal Sol could buy ninety to a hundred Valier—the real exchange rate.

Paying the fine freed them, as the money was offered to the gods. Priests, guided by divine signs, usually showed mercy, forgiving inadvertent sins.

If anyone hated them?

Then curse them. Their souls would eternally wail in hell at the next great destruction.

A small group different from others in the crowd brightened visibly on seeing Asel. The man at the front was about fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair, strong and sturdy.

This was Asel’s father, who had his first child at seventeen. Asel was his third, but not the youngest.

“Welcome back. Where’s your boss?” His father looked over Asel’s shoulder but saw no notable figure.

In Nagaryll, spotting an important person was easy—just see how many people kept their distance.

While father and son talked, Asel’s brothers joined, making jokes.

In recent years, Asel inexplicably gained permanent residency in the Baylor Federation, elevating his lowly family. The money sent annually to his father’s account allowed them to live comfortably without working.

Thanks to Asel, the family was now middle-upper class locally.

As they spoke, a sharp whistle sounded from afar, and a chaotic yet strangely orderly crowd hurried to the street edges.

Men in wide-brimmed hats and developed-country police uniforms appeared, wielding two-foot wooden sticks wrapped in cloth. They beat those who couldn’t dodge fast enough, pushing people to the sides.

When they reached Asel’s family, they removed their hats and saluted instead of striking—typical here, where power was sharply divided and social ranks rigid.

At that moment, a few cars slowly passed on the cleared road. Occupants in the two middle vehicles glanced curiously at Asel’s family. One girl left a strong impression on Asel.

A very beautiful girl. Although Asel had lived many years in the neighboring Baylor Federation and liked those pale-skinned, exceptionally developed girls, those were just physical impulses, not soulful.

This girl was different—she perfectly matched the culture Asel had known since childhood. Her face was decorated with patterns, and she wore traditional yet lavish Nagaryll jewelry. Everything was flawless.

When their eyes met, the girl paused briefly, then smiled. Perhaps Asel’s aura, unlike that of Nagaryll’s lower class, seemed intriguing—but only that.

The convoy passed quickly. Watching it fade into dust and the returning crowd, Asel felt dazed.

“Whose convoy is that?” he asked his father.

His father sighed, “It belongs to the Provincial Governor.”