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

“Ack!” Tara spat, spittle flying.

The column of stone that had gut-blasted her retracted back into the ground faster even than her reaction to the hit. It slid into place and became flush with the ground, invisible, perhaps actually merged back into the ground for all she knew.

“Hss,” she hissed, exhaling as she wiped her mouth with her arm.

It turns out the “I am not going to hit you” promise was good only during balance training.

Speaking of which, a small section of the floor rose up under her left foot, but she merely shifted her weight to the other, allowing the floor to push her left leg into a bend, while her right stayed planted firmly on the level ground.

This had been the escalation of her training. She started by keeping her balance on one foot; then Myra made it more complicated by making her close her eyes. He then started punching near her and throwing things, trying to distract her.

Now, she was doing actual combat training, yet the attempts to throw her off-balance never ceased. Always, the ground shifted and changed, forcing her to be on the move. The instant she grew too accustomed to one position, she would be thrown on her back.

“You are becoming distracted,” Myra observed, his voice echoing out from the formless black, just as another column shot from the floor.

Tara barely saw it coming and turned just in time for it to clip her shoulder rather than her chest. She was sent spinning with the momentum of the strike.

Claws suddenly shot from the tips of her fingers, and night-blue fur covered her arms. With a skrrk, she dug her claws into the ground to stabilize herself, stopping in a bestial crouch, her hands on the ground, claws buried.

She growled, her frustration mounting as sharp teeth extended from the corners of her lips.

“Peace, child. Your anger will accomplish nothing here. You possess neither the power nor the battle instincts to benefit from berserking,” Myra’s disembodied voice chided calmly.

“You mean to calm me by insulting me?” Tara barked, standing straight, her bestial features fading as she slipped back into her combat posture.

“I mean to ground you by telling you the truth,” Myra declared.

A silence followed, during which Tara remained still, her eyes unfocused. She watched her entire field of vision for motion, leaning on her other senses to cover areas her eyes could not.

“This is what I aim to teach you, what you need most right now. We are forming your combat style and naming it: temperance,” Myra said, his voice fading in and out, never giving a firm indication where he was.

Tara shifted her unfocused eyes across the field, scanning for the slightest motion, yet it was difficult. Though her eyes were open, Myra had somehow limited visibility to mere feet. Beyond five or six feet, she could see only shadow and darkness.

“Temperance? What does that mean?” Tara asked, slowly shifting her body in a circle, wary.

Myra liked to distract her with talk—

“Ha!” Tara shouted, throwing her arms out to either side, pushing herself away from two pillars of stone that erupted from the floor at the same time.

She skid across the floor, shaking her arms out. The backs of her forearms were sore, and she knew they would have gnarly bruises, but she had avoided the strikes, at least.

“I can see it in your eyes, child. The thing from your past that you cling to, what you consider your birthright,” Myra said.

Tara stiffened unconsciously before forcing herself to relax. Not only did she want to become better at controlling her reactions, but being too stiff during this training would earn her a black eye.

“I see your past suffering, your trauma. Because of it, you cling to this one nugget, this one silver lining, to get you through, to make it all your past suffering worth it:

“I am special.

“Born to a unique position in society, perhaps, or maybe you were born with unique abilities. Regardless, you cling to that one positive to wash away all the bad things you have experienced. It is understandable.

“But it is wrong,” he mercilessly declared.

Suddenly, the darkness vanished, as if a curtain was lifted. Myra stood towering over her. Though he stood several feet away, his size so thoroughly dwarfed her that she felt a child before a giant, which was not wholly inaccurate.

“You are not special,” he said, his visage carved from stone.

Wham!

A titanic fist crushed the ground she had just stood on, sending shards of stone skittering. Tara threw herself to the side just in time to avoid the fist, but its impact still sent her sliding. She dug her claws into the ground to slow and right herself, and her elongated snout, filled with sharp teeth, emitted a low snarl.

“Your unique position or ability—that thing you were born with or into—what has it gotten you thus far? How has it alleviated your suffering, set you apart from your peers?” Myra asked, staring down at her stone-faced.

Tara snapped her jaw and snarled loudly, her body shaking. Fur covered her from head to toe, the seams of her clothing straining against the furred bulk beneath. Her eyes were surrounded by dark circles, her pupils dilated.

“Tell me, how did you come into an apprenticeship with Starchild? Did she seek you out because you are special? No, I doubt it. I suspect it was rather more circumstantial. Perhaps, even, it was you who sought teaching from her? Not something a ‘chosen one’ would need to do, yes?” he reasoned with a raised brow.

Tara bristled, her fur standing on end. She hissed and rushed toward him, vanishing so quickly that the wind almost lagged behind her. She appeared in front of Myra’s face, her claws poised to rake across his smug mouth, yet in a move she could not even see, Myra casually swatted her out of the air with an enormous mit, just as one might swat a bug.

She hit the ground on her back and bounced, rolling across the stone several times before she found her feet again.

She crouched on all fours, her limbs tensed, ready for anything. The two stared at each other for several long seconds, the silence broken only by the faint sound of the wind blowing past the cavern exit at the end of the tunnel, as well as Tara’s low snarling.

“Do you know much about oni?” Myra suddenly asked.

The question was so unexpected that the fire burning in Tara’s chest winked and wavered for a moment, her growl lowering momentarily.

“Oni are near-immortals, functionally living forever, even before external factors like levels and power. However, reproduction is extraordinarily difficult. This keeps our population small despite an unlimited lifespan. Each birth is a celebrated miracle, each death a devastation.

“For this reason, oni are taught combat from birth. We learn to defend ourselves and our kin alongside our first steps. Each oni hopes never to engage in true combat, yet each is prepared to offer their life for their tribe, should the need arise.

“Allow me to tell you about the least special oni that ever existed,” he said, crossing his small arms before him.

Tara straightened, some small amount of clarity returning to her.

“Born from an unheard-of union between an oni and a human, this man was born with traits of both: the towering physique of the oni, and the fiery temper of the short-lived races. He possessed a pair of human-sized arms alongside his oni arms, and he was immediately recognizable by them.

“One might assume that he faced discrimination for his differences, yet as I mentioned, each birth among the oni is a miracle itself. However, that does not mean there were no differences at all,” Myra explained.

Suddenly, he vanished. Tara had just enough time to throw her head back, hinging at the hips nearly ninety degrees, as a colossal arm shattered the space above her. She was briefly reminded of a magma crab’s claw nearly bisecting her, but her instincts took over, and she launched herself backward from Myra’s strike, gaining distance.

“This oni’s strength was far from the towering heights of the race’s nature. Indeed, though he could handle humans his age like an adult would children, he was as far from full-blooded oni his own age as the humans were from him.

“He gained a reputation, not of discriminatory disgust, but of sadness and pity. Members of his tribe would begin calling his human arms ‘vestigial’ or ‘defective’, and his fiery temperament did nothing to help this reputation, for he quarreled with nearly every oni in the village at least once,” Myra said, his eyes distant, a faint smile raising the corners of his lips.

Without warning, he was behind Tara, and she had time only to throw herself forward before his open palm struck her back. She was sent flying across the room, yet because she had thrown herself first, she was only sent flying rather than struck dead-on.

She swirled around in a crouch, her arms raised and claws facing out, ready to defend herself, but Myra stood in the same spot, his human arms crossed in front of him and his oni arms clasped behind his back. He looked off to the side, as if witnessing a memory.

“This oni, so unremarkable and pitiable, desired strongly to be as powerful as his kin. So obvious was his desire that others pitied him, not for his form or lack of accomplishments, but because they could see that he did not live up to his own expectations. The village only ever asked members to do their best, but his best was not good enough for himself.

“For many years, this oni raged and caused trouble in the village. He challenged everyone to duels, and he attacked them when they refused, as he would not take ‘no’ for an answer.

“And always, he lost.

“It took many decades, perhaps the time it took for the heat of his youth to die, but eventually, he realized that his approach was not working. His tribesmen pitied him. He spent all his waking moments fighting, yet he never won. He had nothing to show for all his effort, no accolades, and no progress.”

Myra looked Tara straight in the eyes.

“One day, he decided that things had to change.”

He was gone without a sound.

“Oof!” Tara grunted.

Myra’s kick pushed her to the ground from behind, and she bounced and rolled across the cavern, slamming into the far wall without a sound, all the breath forced from her lungs.

“This oni knew all the village’s fighting techniques, of course. All oni were taught from birth. However, he realized that they were created largely to capitalize on the oni’s natural strength and stature. They simply were not suited to him, so he would have to come up with his own.

“Can you guess what that oni did next?” Myra asked, observing Tara as she choked air back into her lungs, rubbing her back with both hands.

“I don’t know,” she coughed, her vision swimming.

“He watched. He waited. He learned.

“Temperance,” Myra declared.

Tara’s head snapped to him, and the two stared at each other. Myra gave her a small nod in return.

“‘If my opponents use their strength, I will, too. I will use it against them,’ he thought. He continued challenging them to duels, but this time he did not rush in with the techniques he had been taught. He waited, watched, and learned. He held on through his opponents’ assaults, blocking attacks where he could, dodging where he could not.

“And gradually, he learned how each one fought. And even more gradually, he learned that once he knew how his opponents fought, he could figure out how to defeat them,” Myra firmly declared. 

“Arms that were too small, too weak to be of use, became traps to lull opponents into a false sense of security. Strength that was lacking for the oni style was primed for exploiting their own strength against them. Every aspect that was lacking in oni culture could be utilized efficiently with only a small shift in mindset.”

Tara stood, brushing the dirt and debris from her clothing.

“That’s what you’re teaching me, then? Waiting? Watching? Learning?” she asked.

“Indeed. You are not special, Tara, and neither was I—neither am I. No one is. However, once you recognize this, the real work can begin.

“What I am teaching you is how to survive long enough to win. You do not have the tremendous magical might that Starchild does, nor do you have my own physical might. You cannot fight the same way either of us does. What you do have is unrealized potential, and what I wish to show you is how to survive long enough to realize it.

“As I said from the beginning, the doorway is always open—even more than it is with any of my previous students. Starchild has placed a semi-permanent gate here specifically for you. You may walk through it at any time if you dislike or disagree with my teaching.

“The choice is, as always, yours,” he finished, both pairs of arms crossed before him.

Tara exhaled, her claws and fur retracted, and crouched down, bringing her arms up to defend herself.

Myra nodded with a small smile, raising his own arms in response.

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