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

Faces screamed in agony as their flesh was scoured away by the gnashing insect fangs. Try as they might, these people could not escape. The insects were everywhere; they were fast, and they were hungry, always hungry.

This is not a game.

Nephthys’ brow wrinkled above her closed eyes, her hands resting on her knees. She sat cross-legged on a chair in a dark room, the only light a streak leaking through the gap beneath the door.

Tara’s horrendously disfigured face lay motionless within a growing pool of blood. Her chest was still, unmoving, unbreathing. Her body repaired itself, her visage practically glowing as the magic faded, yet still, she did not move, did not breathe.

This is not a game.

A stirring brought Nephthys’s attention back to the present. There was motion on the bed next to her. With a flick of her finger, a soft blue light illuminated the room, and a mental message was sent.

Tara sat up in bed, glancing around in obvious confusion. Her eyes met Nephthys’, and she seemed to relax a little, a subconscious reaction that both warmed Nephthys’ heart and froze the blood within it.

“Wha-where am I?” Tara croaked.

Nephthys floated a cup of water over to her, waiting to make sure she started drinking before speaking.

“We are back within Nemesis. You are safe,” she assured.

Tara’s brow furrowed as she worked up to larger and larger drafts of the water. Eventually, she placed the empty cup on the table beside the bed, looking over at Nephthys. When next she spoke, it was with a much clearer tone, the rasp lessened.

“Was I not safe before?” she asked simply.

“No, but you are now,” Nephthys replied.

Tara seemed to take time to consider the words, thinking through how she ended up here, though she visibly struggled. Nephthys watched closely, unsure what side effects a departed and returned soul might suffer. 

After a few moments, Tara turned back to Nephthys, opening her mouth, likely to voice another question, but a growl that echoed across the entire room interrupted her.

Her cheeks colored, and she covered her protesting stomach with both hands. Nephthys chuckled, standing and walking over to the bed, where she reached a hand out. Tara recoiled slightly, but once Nephthys' hand landed atop her head, she stilled.

“Why don’t you go get something to eat? We can talk after. I have an errand to run, anyway,” Nephthys suggested.

The door across the room opened, and Theron entered, a wide smile covering his face.

“Well, looky what we’ve got here! A girly who sleeps for over a full day and then has the gall to be embarrassed when her stomach growls!” he said, practically shouting, boisterous as ever.

Tara’s eyes widened, and she shot a look toward Nephthys.

“We will talk later. Do not dwell on it, for now. Just eat your fill and enjoy. Give Theron something to do,” Nephthys ordered, gently pushing Tara’s back, nudging her out of bed.

Truthfully, she almost worried that Tara would stumble when she rose to her feet, but she merely stood and followed Theron out. This made sense once she considered it—Nephthys had poured a deluge of mana into healing her body. Tara should be feeling about the best she has ever felt, barring any strange occurrences like soul damage.

That was a concept Nephthys was unsure existed, yet she had seen the fragmented, degraded souls in the Well, so something must exist capable of causing such ethereal destruction.

Nephthys sent a cluster of mental messages and exited the room. She started at a brisk walk, eventually transitioning to a float, as her mind was focused on other issues.

She had failed. Miserably.

Tara had died. Nephthys did not save the day. She did not arrive in time to prevent Tara’s death, and she could not even heal her. It was only by some grace of Nokros’, or perhaps his fear of—or respect for—Truth, that Tara lived. 

Nephthys was not a hero. She had not come to the rescue. She was not enough, had not done enough.

It had been over twenty-four hours since she had returned to Nemesis, and Nephthys had spent the entire time, when she was not fussing over Tara’s condition, contemplating exactly where she had gone wrong.

It would be easy to say she was not cautious enough. It would be easy to say she was overconfident. It would be easy to blame fate and the convergence of unfortunate circumstances. The reality, she had realized, was that none of these was the whole story.

She had spent time with Eirene to ensure Tara had adequate protection that could be easily activated. She was not incautious.

She had ordered Tara back to the inn the instant tensions began rising. She was not overconfident.

She had taken precautions. She had ensured Tara was safe. Fate should have had nothing to do with the situation, yet it had reared its ugly head. That was not a coincidence, nor was it unavoidable.

The truth was that Nephthys had done only the bare minimum.

She was not invested.

Bones baked in the scorching volcanic heat, their alabaster gleam matching the glitter of tears as they ran down her face. She had done this. They died by her order.

Nephthys clenched her fists. The truth was that when she arrived in this world, she gradually began to step out of her hole, her safe space, always moving cautiously, she thought.

Yet, despite her intentions, the decisions she made had resulted in the deaths of dozens of people. Yes, they were bad. Yes, she would not have mourned had someone else killed them. However, it was not someone else. It was her. She had killed them.

And it scared her.

Nephthys unclenched her fists, inhaling slowly, though her breathing was not erratic, nor was her heart rate disturbed. This djinn body felt no anxiety, which somehow made the effect worse in her mind.

She had begun looking to establish a trade route. It was necessary, she told herself. She wanted to see what the world was like, what had changed since she played Prelude. She was logistically-minded and the guild leader, so it only made sense for her to take on this task herself.

She was running away.

She had pulled back from her guild members, her own family. What order would she give next that would result in more deaths? Hannibal claimed no one died while he trimmed the Gloam, but was that true? Would he even consider it worthy of report if someone he thought insignificant died?

Useless speculation, she knew. Hannibal was frighteningly competent and mechanically precise. If he said no one died, no one did.

How long would that last?

No, she had run away from the guild, buried herself in the mundane to distract, to distance herself from the difficult moral questions her power and authority might impose, to distance herself from the world.

It had worked quite well. She could give and receive reports remotely, even return briefly to take care of what she needed, all while viewing the world and its inhabitants from high in the sky, uninvolved, unburdened.

But Tara, dear Tara.

Tara was an anchor, a chain around her ankle, tying her inexorably to this world. She had grown to care for the girl, though she had no adequate words to name their relationship. At times, it was a mentorship. At times, it felt familial. At times, she even felt maternal.

Tara was a part of her life that she would not let go of, and Tara lived in this world.

It could not continue this way. Nephthys could not view the world from a thousand miles up. She could not do the bare minimum and let the pieces fall where they would. She could not suggest action to competent people and expect them to follow through, leave everything to them, and be comfortable with the knowledge that she had at least suggested.

Tara lived in this world, and so did Nephthys.

It was time to start acting like it.

Ramose appeared at Nephthys' side as she entered a large hall, doors filling both walls. She glanced at him, and he nodded to her, holding a decorated scroll secured with a blue ribbon, embossed with gold.

Hannibal appeared on her other side, nodding to her as he matched her floating pace. Moirenea fell in line behind her without a word, a small, anticipatory smile on her face.

Space ripped itself open before the assemblage, and Nephthys strode through. She and her party appeared just outside Bernard’s gate, which opened the instant the on-duty guard noticed them.

Before her group could make it to the manor, the large double doors were swinging open, and Bernard, garbed in finery that was clearly hastily donned, strode out to meet them. 

He was flanked by a few of his manor staff, though Nephthys noted a convergence of guards on her position. They appeared to be attempting subtlety so as not to offend, but Hannibal narrowed his eyes noticeably, the gesture not working as they planned.

“Nephthys. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Bernard called, approaching until he stopped only a few feet from her.

“My apologies for appearing unannounced. I appreciate your taking the time to meet with us,” Nephthys replied.

Bernard straightened slightly, noting the implication that it was Nemesis he was meeting with, not merely Nephthys on her own.

“Moirenea?” Nephthys indicated.

Moirenea strode forward, bowing slightly to the baron before clasping her main hands behind her back, her others curling behind her.

“Gloamview is calm but not stable. The count was dispatched during the rebellion, and leadership collapsed quickly afterward. The rebels took ownership of the city, but they, too, are leaderless. They bail water to keep the ship afloat, but they cannot patch the holes, much less fix the hull.

“Promise City is in flux even as we speak. The riots and rebellion have largely ceased, but many guards and civilians were lost. What remains of city leadership attempts to regain control, but it has already devolved into infighting, leaving the already-diminished guards fragmented among their several factions and the city unable to operate efficiently.

“The situation deteriorates moment by moment, though many citizens attempt to move on with their lives despite the circumstances. Nails must be smithed to make repairs. Food must be grown, harvested, and traded.

“While Gloamview bails water from a sinking ship, Promise City’s crew now floats on rafts fashioned from the debris of their once-proud vessel, fighting each other whenever the waves push them close enough to strike each other,” Moirenea finished, stepping back behind Nephthys once again.

Bernard, his hand on his chin, stared at the ground, processing. Nephthys gave him only a moment to consider.

“What is your decision?” she asked.

Bernard glanced at her, sighed heavily, and clasped his own hands behind his back.

“If my nation lies in ruin, rudderless, leaderless, it is my duty to restore order,” he declared.

Nephthys nodded, observing mixed reactions from his attendants.

“Nemesis will aid you,” she said.

A silence passed, Bernard staring blankly, his people exchanging confused glances. Eventually, Bernard shook himself and blinked rapidly, regaining his senses.

“You will?” he asked.

“We will. Nemesis will assist those who ask for it, as long as they meet certain conditions,” she said, nodding to Ramose.

He strode forward, presenting the glittering scroll, which lay atop both his hands, as if a precious artifact.

“May I?” Bernard asked, and at Nephthys’ nod, he took the scroll.

He opened it delicately, making sure to untie the ribbon properly and hang it over his arm while he read the scroll’s contents. His face ran through a range of emotions as he read, and after a few minutes, he looked up at Nephthys, his brows furrowed.

“This—” he started.

“Sardvend does not meet the requirements,” Nephthys declared.

“Right…so, you will not help us, then?” Bernard asked, confused.

“We will aid you, but we will not aid Sardvend,” Nephthys clarified.

Bernard seemed to struggle to make sense of her words for a few seconds before his eyes widened, understanding finally dawning.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!