Prelude: To Domathra (Isekai/LitRPG/OP MC)

Clayton crouched, panting, sweat dripping from his face. He reached down, pulling his dagger from the back of Clint’s head, where it met his neck, and wiped it on the man’s shirt. He sheathed it at his waist and, rising slowly, nudged the body into the alley’s shadows with his foot. 

This was not a frequently-trafficked route, and most who used it would not look twice at a body in the shadows.

Can’t rat me out, now.

He had to do it, of course. Clint was behaving suspiciously. He constantly asked how Clayton was holding up, how he was feeling. He had never been so interested in Clayton’s well-being.

No, he was up to something. Probably took a plea deal. Offered to bring Clayton in if they granted him leniency. Well, that was not going to happen. Clayton was not some young pup prowling the backstreets. 

He ran them.

Stalking through the back and side paths, his heart calmed, his breathing slowed. This was his territory. Nothing could frighten him in his domain—

He whipped around, the dust cloud kicked up by the motion trailing behind, as if delayed. He stared at the shadows—empty. The sun was just above the horizon, and its shadows were long and thick.

His bloodshot eyes were wide, ringed by dark circles, as he stared, unblinking. After several seconds of silence, he turned around slowly, continuing on his way.

His pace began to quicken, gait moving from relaxed to brisk and, eventually, to a jog. The darkness clawed at him, every shadow hiding motion, yet it was always gone when he glanced at it, slipping past his gaze like water on oil.

All around me. Watching. Waiting.

After a twitchy jog through town, he entered the alley that hid the door to his house. He had a front door, of course, but he used it only when he was comfortable being seen.

Slipping in the back door, he stopped, his feet frozen to the ground. His eyes were locked onto the glassy, distant gaze of the farm wife, hanging limply from the ceiling at the top of the stairs. 

Sweat dripped down his back, yet he felt cold, as if the temperature had dropped dozens of degrees.

The back door opened into a hall with a staircase up to the second floor, where his bedroom was, while a door next to it led to the first floor, including the front door.

The stairs being out of the question, he opened the door to the kitchen, the only other door in this hall, and recoiled, his back hitting the door to the alley.

Before him stood the charred, eyeless corpse of the farm husband. He stood straight, though his head hung limply against his chest, yet somehow, Clayton could feel his gaze on him. It was as if his sockets were a void drawing his stare, his thoughts, his very soul, in.

Bursting through the back door, Clayton sprinted down the alley. He did not know where he was going, only where he could not go.

On the roof!

The farmer stared at him with empty sockets, and Clayton could hear his breath, rasping through a windpipe scoured by flames.

Alley!

The other farmer swung in the entrance to a side alley, staring at him. Accusing.

He sprinted through town, ducking into alleys, weaving through side streets, and even crossing main thoroughfares, much to the chagrin of passersby. None could see the corpses that tormented him. None could feel the threat breathing down his neck.

He was not sure where he was going, but he knew he was being shepherded, guided. The creatures constantly appeared to block his way, leaving him only one direction to run: toward his judgment, maybe his death.

His breath came in jagged gasps, though not from physical exertion. His body was slick with sweat, though not from running. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and circled by deep, dark rings. 

He did not care how it ended, as long as it did.

————————————————

Baron Buchanan gazed upon the ruins of the Halfords’ farm, his expression grim. His guilt had not faded, even after several days. How had this happened on his watch, right under his nose?

What a failure.

A commotion drew his attention toward the road. His soldiers were mustering, gathering to block the path from the road to where he stood. Intending to spend time here investigating the arson, he had brought a full contingent of soldiers this time, and they now gathered in an intimidating display.

The noonday sun shone down brightly, and he had to cover his eyes with his arm to see a man kneeling before his soldiers, apparently screaming his head off.

As he approached, the baron began to notice rather striking details. The man was gaunt, his pallid skin sucked to his bones, despite what appeared to be agile musculature. His eyes were bloodshot and yellowed around the edges, and purple rings darkened his sockets.

His auburn hair, down to just below his ears, was a chaotic tangle, debris visible throughout. His clothes were disheveled and torn, as if he had crawled through the underbrush to get here.

“What is going on?” the baron boomed, now feet from the backline of his soldiers.

“Sir, this individual arrived at a sprint, screaming something about—” a soldier began, but he was interrupted by a guttural shout from the kneeling man.

“Please! It was me! I’m here! Make it stop!” he bellowed.

All attention was focused on the belligerent man, and none noticed the pair of white eyes watching from the tall grass.

————————————

Nephthys opened her eyes, the visions fading from her mind. A small smile threatened her lips, but she forcibly restrained it. She was pleased that the plan worked, not what it had required.

When she discovered the fire, she had determined to investigate it, as it was very likely related to her own purpose for being in Gloamview, yet she was stuck in a tricky position. 

She knew from her old world that torture almost never worked, even if she were willing to do it. Tortured individuals would say anything they thought the torturer wanted to hear to make the pain stop, making any information gained unreliable at best.Yet, she also did not have the time to disguise herself and attempt to extract information from the man by befriending him. Such a method was far more reliable, but it could take days or weeks, especially from the careful sort that he very likely was.

Fortunately, a guilty conscience did the work for her.

Although the information he provided was not everything she wanted, it was a start.

Whoom!

Displaced air buffeted her, bringing Nephthys back to what was in front of her. 

Tara panted, her fist extended. She was in her cat form, her blue fur shining in the afternoon sun. Clearly, her strength in this form was significant, and her form had improved quite a bit. She had made wonderful progress, but sadly, she was nearing the end of what Nephthys could reliably teach her—physically, at least.

“That was good. Shifting your feet, turning your body into the punch, and maintaining a solid foundation. You have made great progress,” she praised.

Tara stood straight, huffing with a smile.

“There is little more that I can teach you, sadly. We will continue magic practice, but my knowledge of physical combat is limited. I will have to find you a teacher,” Nephthys said, her hand on her chin as she placed her feet on the ground, approaching Tara.

“A teacher? If I know as much as you about physical combat, isn’t that good enough?” Tara asked through breaths.

“Tara, I can take the caps off of mountains, should I desire. Physical combat is for when I feel like playing around. You, though…I suspect you will be a hybrid combatant for much of your youth, utilizing both magic and physicality. Thus, I want you to be good at both,” Nephthys explained, standing before Tara. 

It was strange looking the girl in the eyes. Normally, she was a full head taller than Tara, but in her cat form, she was eye-level with Nephthys.

“I guess…wouldn’t any high-level adventurer work, then? Surely, we could just go to the guild and find someone,” Tara asked, understandably.

“Those who are good at doing are not always good at teaching, and I will not compromise on your training. Besides, I already have someone in mind—assuming he will allow it. Now, ready your fists. We are going to spar,” Nephthys said, crouching into a fighting stance.

“Spar? Wha—” Tara started.

Nephthys suddenly clapped, the force from her two hands coming together sending Tara sliding back, dirt kicking up around her feet. She was vaguely aware of their audience, people clustered around windows in the inn, but she ignored them.

The courtyard they practiced in reminded her of Romen architecture from her home world. The inn was shaped like a square, with all interior sides facing the inner courtyard, so it was visible from nearly anywhere in the building. 

The southern portion of Ashreach, although not as hot as the volcanic region, was still subtropical, so large open areas were common.

Tara took her stance once again, this time watching Nephthys closely. This was good. Defense was probably the right call here. She did not know what Nephthys could do in a physical fight, so observing was wise. Nephthys also wanted Tara to become adept at defense first, so that she could keep herself safe.

“Who do you have in mind for my teacher, then?” Tara asked, Nephthys approaching slowly, swaying left and right, trying to make her next move unpredictable.

“A master whose favor I earned two hundred years ago. He is, without a doubt, the most suitable teacher, assuming he still views me favorably,” Nephthys explained.

Suddenly, she vanished, appearing directly in front of Tara. She did not want to overwhelm the girl with strength and speed. That would not teach her anything. It was tough, though, as the world seemed to crawl before Nephthys’ perception. She felt she had to stand still for minutes just to leave enough time for Tara to even see her move coming.

She threw a significantly restrained punch, and Tara lightly pushed it aside with her palm. Nephthys glowed with pride for a brief moment. Parrying her strike was, again, wise. Not only did she not have to take the punch at all, but she did not know how much force it would be loaded with, so blocking could just as easily break her arms as defend her face.

Nephthys followed her deflected punch by putting a foot into Tara’s chest and pushing her backward, not even having to dodge Tara’s attempted retaliation.

“Parrying my strike was wise, but going for the immediate counterattack was not. You should be defending yourself and observing me. You do not know how I fight, how hard I hit. You are not yet ready to strike me,” Nephthys lectured as Tara finished her skid, coming to a stop several feet away.

She crouched low and nodded, watching Nephthys closely.

“A master, huh? Someone I would know? The guild master, maybe?” Tara asked.

The corner of Nephthys’ lips twitched. She could not tell whether Tara was attempting to distract her with conversation or if she was genuinely curious.

“I doubt you have heard of him. He is an immortal. Some call him a demi-god, though I would advise not taking such lofty titles literally,” Nephthys replied casually, suddenly bursting into motion.

“A demi-god?! Wha—oof!” Tara grunted. 

Nephthys' foot once again connected with her abdomen, pushing her to the ground. Tara’s conversational distraction seemed to have backfired.

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