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

A group of robed men clustered around a metal spire, their faces serious, eyes closed.

“Magical surges in sectors three through seven. Readings suggest a large group of civilians rather than any powerful individuals,” one spoke.

“Two more surges in seventeen and eighteen. Mobile. Moving east,” another reported.

A man stood at the back of the enormous, domed room, near the exit. His arms were crossed, and he had a hand on his chin. A wiry man beside him in guard attire fidgeted with the haft of his spear, looking between the calm man beside him and the robed men with obvious anxiety.

“Sir…” he muttered.

The calm man glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and even the minor expression was filled with derision.

“It makes no difference. Until the situation around the Needle is dealt with, nothing changes. Protocols are clear: the Needle takes priority,” he stated coldly.

The thin man stared down at the ground, obviously expecting the answer but not liking it.

“You have family out there, I presume?” the calm man asked.

“Yes, sir,” came the answer.

“If you wish to help them, go outside and do what you can to calm the masses around the Needle. Only then can we focus on the rest of the city,” the man instructed, turning his gaze back to the robed cabal, the dismissal clear.

The wiry man glanced between his superior, the door, and the robed figures before exiting the room with a sigh. The door closed behind him, and a short silence descended, only to be broken moments later by a thud and clang from outside the door.

The calm man, a guard captain of some sort, no doubt, glanced at the door, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, and backed a few steps from it. He motioned with his free hand, drawing his sword in the other, and the robed men all raised their own hands, aimed toward the door.

The door opened, and the entire room tensed, prepared to unleash fury on whoever walked through, yet no one did. A quiet few seconds passed with nothing happening, and just as the robed men traded glances, a pulse of green energy passed through the room, blasting through the space from the door like a shockwave, quicker than anyone could react.

Gasps and exhalations sounded from throughout the room. Some fell to their knees, others merely stared at their own hands, as if observing them for the first time.

“My magic—it’s gone!” came a cry of panic from one of the robed men.

“Fool, you never had any magic to begin with,” came an eerie voice.

Jace emerged from the doorway, a blank expression on his face, as if there were no emotions present at all, like a golem operated by a remote pilot. He glanced around the room, noting everyone present as three of his own people filtered in behind him.

“Haa…pathetic. Just…get rid of them,” he ordered with a sigh, waving his hand dismissively as he walked toward the metal spire that dominated the center of the room.

A small smile twitched at the corner of his lips as he gazed upon the familiar device, the wet sounds of stabs and gags filling the room around him, though he barely noticed, his people dispatching the guard and robed men with ease.

The spire was at least twice as wide as a person was tall, and it filled the entire center of the room from top to bottom. Its surface was sleek and smooth, though it was foggy, as if needing a good polish.

“This is…the Conductor?” one of Jace’s people asked, walking up beside him, wiping his bloody hands on a rag.

“This is an antenna,” Jace replied, curt, with barely restrained contempt. 

“Primitives,” he muttered, shaking his head.

He placed a hand on the antenna, and it lit up with blue symbols and carvings so intricate and small that they were barely discernible. With a rumble, the base of the antenna rose, a small arch rising from the ground. When the rumbling stopped, an arch eight feet tall and five feet wide revealed a metal staircase that wound down into the ground, through the base of the antenna.

“Sir, these symbols…” the same man who had spoken before mused, observing the glowing etchings in the antenna.

“Haa…please save your questions and only ask what you think are the most important. You are going to see much of which you have no understanding. I simply do not have time to explain everything to you,” Jace sighed, walking under the arch and descending the stairs.

“The symbols are glowing because the antenna is deactivated. The antenna is deactivated because I summoned the passage. You would not want to be in this passage while the antenna is active, believe me. You would be quite fortunate if the tremendous amount of magical energy being channeled through it only cooked you from the inside out,” Jace explained as they descended.

The three accompanying him all exchanged nervous glances. They admired the staircase as they walked, noting that the steps seemed to glow with a soft white light that, though they descended within essentially a giant metal tube, did not hurt their eyes with either the light’s source or its reflections.

Handrails seemed to be carved out of the metal walls themselves, offering plenty of support, yet the metal stairs were also slightly textured to prevent slipping. The quality of the staircase alone spoke of the builders’ ingenuity and attention to detail.

“Sir, may I ask where we are going?” a woman asked, bringing up the rear. They had been descending the stairs for what must have been ten or fifteen minutes by this point, and the group was growing restless.

“Ha,” Jace chuckled, stepping off the last stair and pressing his palm against what appeared to be a sheer wall of metal before him.

An arch, exactly like the one they had entered through above, slid up from the floor, revealing a colossal structure bathed in the same soft white light as the stairs.

A dome of what seemed black glass covered the remains of an entire city, stretching before them nearly as far as they could see. Buildings the likes of which would dwarf the white stone structures above rose from a ground they could not see, for they had exited the antenna staircase atop the tallest of these buildings.

“The goliath’s shell has been around for millennia. Do you really think yourselves the first to desire it?” Jace asked, a wide smile stretching across his face. “Welcome to the necropolis, the ghost of Falan’Dar, once a grand Praxic city.”

————————————

It is too late. The marquis is dead.

Lyron cursed himself as he raced through the streets. Not only had he been unable to locate the rebel leader, but because he had been so focused on finding him, he had failed to do the obvious thing and defend the marquis! He should have headed straight for the marquis’ manor once the protests began to escalate!

No time for ifs and should haves, he thought, leaping over a building as he ran toward the unmistakable sound of conflict.

He could not protect the marquis, but he could at least control this chaos so that the line of succession could be transitioned smoothly. Though the marquis’ son was also dead, as Lyron understood it. Still, there had to be someone who could take over the rule of this territory.

He landed in a square with a deafening crash, cratering the ground and sending those nearby onto their backs. Slowly rising from a crouch, he observed that the fighting in the market square had temporarily halted, all eyes turning to him. 

That was good.

“All civilians, please return to your homes immediately. I am an agent of the Sardvend Kingdom, and you are currently rebels. If you do not return peacefully to your homes, I will be forced to deal with you as such, rather than as citizens. This is your one and only warning,” he declared, his face dark.

The crowd was quiet, all attempting to digest the turn of events. Possibly, it was a moment of returning clarity for many who had been caught up in the atmosphere and energy of violence moments ago.

One man sauntered to the front of the crowd, a wooden bat, possibly a support from one of the destroyed market stalls nearby, resting on his shoulder.

“Or what? You gonna kill us all?” he asked, his tone cocky.

“If I must,” Lyron responded instantly, his voice as firm as his jaw.

The crowd went deathly quiet at his declaration. Never mind a pen dropping, Lyron could hear each individual breathing. He hoped that things would not head that direction, but he was prepared to do what he must to restore order to the kingdom.

That was his purpose, his reason for living.

The boisterous man seemed to pause, thinking through Lyron’s words, but his face quickly contorted, and he pointed his stick at Lyron.

“Fuck that! Fuckin’ Sardvend is the reason everything’s gone to shit! It’s too expensive to fuckin’ live! We've been sayin’ it for months, and no one listened! 

“But now, now that we’ve finally taken matters into our own hands, decided we’re gonna be the ones to control our own fates, only now does Sardvend decide to listen, and your answer is, what? Go back home? Go back and wait for a new leader to come ‘stabilize’ things so we can go back to havin’ to struggle just to put food on the table?

Fuck that! Fuck you!” he roared, charging forward with his makeshift weapon gripped firmly in both hands.

Lyron shifted his stance, pushing off the ground with his right foot, which shattered as it left the ground. He rushed forward with his right arm extended, stopping several strides away from where he started. The movement took less than a second, and when Lyron stopped, the man’s body kept going, his head falling to the ground behind it before it, too, crumpled.

The Titan stood straight, staring at the crowd with a grimace, his eyes aflame. His visage told them all they needed to know: he did not wish it, but he would do the same to each of them, if he must.

A mixture of expressions spread throughout the group of civilians, and Lyron knew in an instant that they would not all flee. Some began turning, preparing to run, but many more hardened with determination, the death of one of their compatriots only inspiring them.

Lyron braced his core, prepared. He would do what he must.

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