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

Nephthys kneeled over Tara’s shattered body, her mind distant, feelings numb. Her eyes flicked through different sights, working to assess the damage.

Skull shattered; brain damaged. Repair first.

Her hand, covering Tara’s unrecognizable face, glowed a brilliant purple, ribbons of thick light swirling around it and into Tara’s head.

No pulse; not breathing. Begin CPR.

An application of telekinesis had Tara’s heart pumping blood, her lungs inflating and deflating in a regular rhythm. Nephthys watched as oxygenated blood pumped through her body and to her reforming brain.

The hand over Tara’s chest began to glow as well, the same purple light streams flowing into her, suffusing her entire body with it. The street lit up, as if a purple bonfire burned nearby, and Tara’s bones snapped and cracked back into place. Her skin stitched together, regaining a healthy color.

Within less than a minute, her body appeared fully healed, her visage recognizable and correct, as if she were only lightly sleeping.

Yet her heart would not beat on its own.

Nephthys took a deep breath and placed both her hands on Tara’s chest. A waterfall of mana poured from her so thick that it caused uncontrolled effects around them. Purple arcs of electricity crackled into the stone below. A wind kicked up, howling in her ears. The air vibrated and rose, like the haze from intense heat.

With a flash, a plasmic tornado ignited around the two, swirling with energy so intense that it sheared through the stone, creating a bright circle of molten stone around them, as if the center of a ritual. Bystanders, including Lyron, gasped and retreated even farther back.

Nephthys saw none of this and was not interested in it. The only thing she was interested in was the singular question pounding inside her skull.

Why?

Why was it not working? Tara’s body was as good as when Nephthys had last seen her, better, even. There were no wounds to be found, yet she would not take a breath; her heart would not beat. Was Nephthys missing something? What caused a healthy body to live? Was there some spark of life she could not see?

Ah, of course.

Souls existed in this world. She had just seen heinous magic that could manipulate them, and even used some of it herself. With a flash, Nephthys' vision turned monochrome, most of reality fading except for glowing lights.

She first saw a light bathing her surroundings in purple, drowning out all others. It was her own soul, shining like the sun. With a slight shift in mindset, the light from her own soul vanished from her sight, much like her nose only became visible when she wished to see it.

Now she saw only darkness. Tara’s body was a gray outline, with no spark, no inner light to brighten it.

Her soul had departed.

No.

Nephthys sucked air through her teeth, summoning up her memories of soul magic, what it had whispered to her in her Domain. Her eyes flashed green, her mana taking on a sickly pallor and quality, and she sought the curtain, the separator.

The Boundary.

She sought that indescribably fragile, yet unmistakably sturdy divider between life and death. She sought that curtain which heralded the end of life, the emptying of the stage. She sought it and aimed her magic at it, concentrating it, twisting it, and condensing it.

She pressed it forward, spinning like a drill, where it vanished from her sight and senses, yet she felt it grinding, spinning, drilling against the Boundary. She felt the uneasy sensation of her spinning drill making no progress, her mana drillbit shattering, remaking itself, and shattering again, over and over, in vain.

No.

She was missing something. Nothing was indestructible. Nothing was inaccessible. There was something she needed, some key she could not see, did not possess. She glanced around, unsure what it could be, but knowing it was close, she was close.

Her eyes lingered on a bright green light in the distance. This was not the sickly pale green of Mircha’lech. This was bright green and vibrant, like the color of new leaves on trees in the spring, the light filtering through them, full of life, saturated.

“Of course,” she said calmly. What in this world could not only interface with the Boundary, but pass through it? “A soul for a soul.”

Lyron staggered backward, falling on his backside as those white eyes, currently ringed with green, the eyes of a predator that had found its prey, pierced him. He sweated, his hands shaking, and he crawled backward, as if unable to regain his feet.

Nephthys, once again, saw none of this. All she could see was a powerful soul, a bright, boisterous soul full of life.

A worthy trade.

Before she could act, the world around her went dark. This was not the darkness of night, nor was it the same darkness she saw when she closed her eyes. This was absence, void, a colossal presence which needed no announcement. Its name filled her mind, as if a facet of the world so intrinsic that all recognized it instinctively.

“Nokros, God of Death,” Nephthys greeted.

His presence hung over her like a blanket, and Nephthys suspected that most would find it difficult to so much as breathe. Truthfully, were she not so numb, she might have been afraid herself. Right now, however, she was annoyed at being interrupted.

“Have you come to bargain?” she asked.

Whispers filled her mind, some barely audible, others so loud that though they were whispered, they felt like they shook her body. The tones were myriad, as if a chorus of the dead spoke into her mind.

“You go too far, child of Sky,” they said.

“With what?” Nephthys asked, in no mood for cryptic hinting.

There was a pause, and Nephthys felt as though she were being studied, as if someone sat across from her and looked her up and down, though she still could not see anything.

“What you seek is not magic. It is not a force to be manipulated. Death is me, I am it. The ‘Boundary’, as you think of it, is me. What you experience as a soul passing on is merely me reclaiming it. 

“You cannot manipulate Death like you can your magic. You cannot manipulate me,” the voices groaned, whined, and chided.

“You mean to say that you ‘reclaimed’ Tara’s soul? That was quite hasty, was it not? The blood had not fully stilled in her veins,” Nephthys said, nearly grinding her teeth.

“Death comes when it comes, child. There is no proper or improper time. There is no late or early. It is time when it is time, and it was time.”

“So, I have to fight you to get her back?” Nephthys challenged, mana pouring from her very skin, covering her form in a viscous energy that shook the air around her and lit the impenetrable darkness a bright violet.

Death did not respond to the provocation. He seemed merely to observe, to watch her sputter and flame, speaking only after her fire had begun to fade.

“Do not reach so readily for violence, for it will eventually betray you. Power always does,” Nokros warned.

Nephthys frowned, deep lines creasing her forehead. Her mind whirled, a myriad of possibilities and actions rushing through it. Ultimately, her detached mind, logical and emotionally numbed, decided she would only escalate if need be. She shifted tactics instead. 

“I believe you owe me. I freed those souls in the Well,” she tried.

“All souls return to me. It matters not when, nor in how many pieces. All Life will come to Death, so it is, so it shall always be,” Nokros spoke, his chorus of voices almost sounding like they sang a hymn.

A silence passed between them, Nephthys both thinking of responses and waiting for him to speak, as he could leave at any moment, if he wished. That he had not yet likely meant he had something in mind, something more than an outright rejection.

“This system of Life, Death, and reincarnation, we did not create it for sport. The World required it, and we obliged. 

“It cannot fail; it must not.”

He paused, silence thickening the darkness around her.

“What do you know of the world?” he suddenly asked.

“You will have to be more specific,” Nephthys replied quickly.

“You think souls do not exist in your original world, yet you now occupy a body not your own. Does that not seem contradictory to you?” he asked, and Nephthys could somehow tell he had a brow raised.

“I am not here to speculate on esoteric matters. You will not distract me with a dangled carrot,” she growled. “What is your point?”

Another silence stretched, longer than the previous. Though she could not see Him, she felt as if Death were deep in thought, contemplating, perhaps even hesitant.

“Truth’s favor does not protect you as you might imagine. She would not intervene if you attempted to defy the world’s natural order,” he declared. 

He went silent again, considering. Then, all his myriad voices seemed to sigh, as if suddenly exhausted.

“Very well, Skyborne. Though I cannot see their entire shape, I see the patterns being woven. For this reason, I will make an exception: I will return young Tara’s soul. 

“You, in exchange, agree to never violate the cycle of Life and Death. You know not what you risk in doing so. The cycle must not fail, and if you attempt to supersede it, I will stop you, no matter Truth’s plans.”

Nephthys’ eyes widened, caught off-guard by the sudden compromise. She nodded without hesitation.

“Know that this offer will only be made once. Even with Her Watching, I will not defy my own order again,” he warned, and though the darkness still surrounded her, it felt thinned, as if His presence was receding.

“Be mindful of your own soul, child, for you have already risked it. Souls are not currency. They are not commodities to be bought, sold, and traded,” Nokros lectured, as if shaking his head, his myriad voices growing quieter.

A light suddenly shone in the darkness. A bright blue point slowly floated toward Nephthys, the only thing of light and color in this void.

It was Tara. She knew it was, somehow. It just felt like her.

“‘Celestial’, a fitting title for one who reaches for the stars.

“Do not reach beyond,” Nokros warned.

The darkness vanished, and Nephthys was suddenly kneeling before Tara’s body once again. Ramose stood behind her, his hands resting atop the pommel of an enormous sword driven into the ground. Hannibal stood in front of her and Tara, his back to them. He faced a stunned and terrified crowd, which gawked, many seeming partially paralyzed, as if they had fainted on their feet.

Her six demons surrounded them, one captain and two lieutenants on each side, encircling her and Tara. They faced outward, each holding various weapons and staring menacingly at the crowd.

Nephthys, once again, barely registered any of this. She focused on a tiny pinprick of light as it slid into Tara’s nostril, where it traveled up her nose, down her throat, and ignited a small fire in the center of her chest. Nephthys dispelled her magic, and Tara finally took a breath on her own.

The relief nearly caused Nephthys to faint where she was, but she clenched her fists, staring out at the crowd around them, and one individual in particular, still present, still on his backside, sweating.

“Rejoice, Child Killer. By the grace of Nokros, you are spared,” she declared, picking Tara up in her arms and cradling her gently.

She, along with the Nemesis members surrounding her, ascended into the sky for a couple of hundred feet until, with a flash of purple light that lit up the sky like a lightning bolt, they, one and all, vanished.

————————————

In the thick blanket of darkness beneath Promise City, Mircha’lech lay on the ground. His breathing was slow and labored, and it took all his concentration merely to remain conscious. Various fluids were dried and caked to his face, and his bloodshot eyes stared listlessly into the shadows.

Through the silence, the sound of soft footfalls on stone echoed into his ears, though he had no strength or will to turn even his head to glimpse whoever approached.

“You were really close,” a hoarse voice croaked, sounding like dry leather dragged across sharp stones.

Mircha’lech huffed, breathing being the most he could manage.

“Finding a temporary vessel for souls must’ve been challenging work. Ironic, then, that the answer was always before you, before everyone.

“The only suitable vessel for a soul is a body,” the voice whispered, now very near his head.

Mircha’lech’s breathing, already labored, increased imperceptibly as his paralyzed body’s pulse rose.

Before his face, shining in the darkness, were two cold, blue eyes, staring at him as if he were their next meal.

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