You're an assassin in a litrpg fantasy.

Your name is John Doe. Your father, also John Doe, is dead at your feet.

Okay, so John Doe is an alias. But shouldn't you be more concerned about the other aforementioned fact?

Yes, your mentor and parent is indeed a cooling corpse. No, you were not the one who did the old man in, but you will find those responsible, and you will kill them.

He would have wanted it that way.

Using your Tracking skill (level 1) you attempt to pick up the killers' trail in the woods outside the cabin. Although your skill is only a level 1, even you can tell that this is just a regular hunters' trail, not necessarily the path the assassins took. Likewise, you can tell that another trail that crisscrosses this one is coming from the wrong direction and thus probably unrelated, but you decide to follow it anyway.

Soon, you catch up to a horse-drawn wagon. The horses are being paced for stamina rather than speed, and you're rather motivated, so you're able to close the distance and appear in front of the wagon.

Either the driver will "woah" at his horses and stop, or he will try to run you down. The easy way, or the hard way. You sort of hope he takes the hard way.

And what do you know, you get your wish.

In response, you grab the bridles of the horses, causing them to whinny in displeasure, but they stop. You're careful enough to stay out of the way of those powerful hooves as you arrest their motion.

"I only wish to talk," you say. "Is that too much to ask?"

Another man steps out of the wagon, bow in hand. Great, a Ranger. You prefer to take out Rangers before they even see you coming. They're one of the worst possible classes to deal with out in the open like this.

Likewise, the driver has his hand on his sword. Both are weary of you. As they should be.

"Good evening, gentlemen," you say, tipping your hat. "My name is John Doe. By chance, have either of you passed any other travelers recently?"

"What business is that of yours?" growls the driver.

You sigh. Politeness gets you so far, and yet so few people bother with it.

"They killed my father," you say. "I'd say it is very much my business."

The Ranger nocks an arrow, but he can't let it loose with one of your daggers sticking out of his eyeball.

[Negative -113 HP]

[You gain 20 XP]

The other man is a short-range fighter, so one might expect you to engage him and show everyone that you dominate at swords as well as thrown weapons. But you leveled up the skills related to throwing knives for a reason, and that reason wasn't to pointlessly get yourself within range of other combatants' weapons. A dagger to the eye takes out the driver.

[Negative -155 HP]

[You gain 21 XP]

Fairly powerful fighters . . . for these parts, anyway. You're not too impressed, obviously. Oh, well, time to check out the wagon.

To your surprise, there's a pale young woman wrapped in a tatty cloak and shivering in the back of the covered wagon.

Which brings up a good point. Considering that you couldn't see what was in the wagon before, anyone could have been hiding inside. You took a huge risk engaging this caravan at all. But you were uncharacteristically **** and impatient. It's not like you can just let the trail go cold.

The young woman is wearing a pair of metal cuffs that cover her hands completely and are chained to the floor of the wagon. She looks at you with an expression that you interpret as . . . hopeful? Hungry? She's certainly not hostile, at least.

"Why did you do that?" she asks.

Her tone is one of curiosity rather than accusation.

"They were hostile for seemingly no reason," you shrug.

Actually, you're quite certain of the reason. The assassins must have someone on their team that can plant hypnotic suggestions. Suggestions like, "If someone comes asking questions about a group of shady individuals, kill him!"

You're aware of such a skill that can do that. It's powerful in that it affects the target's subconscious and thus uses their intelligence to carry out its orders. Where it fails is its lack of specificity. Someone under the effects of this spell wouldn't just try to take you out: they would try to kill anyone that remotely fits the specified parameters.

Hypnotic suggestions can also have side-effects that last indefinitely. In a case like this, the men you killed would probably have randomly suffered bouts of hostility without understanding why. On the other hand, the compulsion's intended effect would have worn off in a day or two.

Which means these men must have encountered the assassins within the last two days. That's good to know.

"Why these chains?" you say. "Did you do something wrong?"

"Only if you count being in the wrong place at the wrong time," she said.

She then proceeds to lay out her whole sob story, in novel format. By the pace at which it's rushing out of her mouth, she must have been dying to have a sympathetic listener for some time. Unfortunately for her, she hasn't found one.

"Stop," you order, holding up a hand.

She cuts off in mid-sentence. Her expression becomes fearful. She's starting to realize that you might be like the men who bought her.

For a legal transaction was technically was what that was. This girl--Emily--is an orphan who lived in the house of her step-father up until the time she turned 18 a few weeks ago. At that time, her step-father took the long-awaited opportunity to eagerly kick her to the curb.

The city watch caught her wandering the streets and scrounging for scraps of food. Being the social workers that they are, they gave her to a **** merchant, who tossed her in the bargain bin.

Nobody needed a woman without any leveled skills and only base stats.

Even so, there's a use for just about everyone in the big cities. The two men you killed--brother adventurers, it turned out--took advantage of her dirt-cheap price, intending to sell her where they might turn a small profit.

However . . .

"The fact that you have those cuffs on must mean that you can cast SOME magic," you point out.

"Well, the opportunity for growth is there," she says. "But it's not very impressive, yet."

"Show me."

You unlock the cuffs with a key you find in the pocket of one of the dead men. She rubs her tender wrists for several moments, marveling at the feeling of freedom after who-knows-how-long, until you gently remind her to demonstrate her magic.

"Lightning bolt!" she says.

A barely visible spark flies from her hands, the source of a caster's spells. Lightning bolt, however, is more effective than visibly impressive at lower levels. That probably could have sent someone into convulsions if they were standing a few feet away from her.

"Alright," you say, "now put the cuffs back on."

"But--wh--why?" she wails, almost in tears.

"It's nothing personal. I just don't trust you."

"But I haven't done anything to you!"

You literally just said it's nothing personal. Why are some people so dense when they're emotional? You sigh, trying to decide between the carrot and the stick.

"Look, I'll get you out of here. I'll feed you properly, which, judging by the number of ribs on you that I can count, is better than what those men were doing. I'll take you with me, and if you want, we can part ways when we reach the next city. But I am not going to travel with someone that can stun me and run off with my possessions."

The real reason, which you can't tell her, is that a hypnotic compulsion could have been placed on her, as well. You need to keep her cuffed for another sleep-wake cycle to be absolutely sure that any such compulsion has worn off.

She reluctantly puts on the cuffs.

"Are you hungry?"

She nods vigorously.

You grab a hunk of dried meat out of the wagon. It had been strategically placed out of her reach, but in such a place that she had to be aware of its presence. To be within arm's length of nourishment but unable to get it must have been torment for her.

She sits on the back of the wagon while you break off pieces of the jerky and feed them to her. She blushes a little at being treated like a child, but accepts the arrangement quietly. Life has been humbling for her lately, after all.

Now, you need to address the fact that she's wearing almost nothing beyond the dirty cloak around her shoulders.

"Now, what of their clothing do you want?" you ask.

"Off the dead men?" she exclaims. "Their clothes with their blood, and their scent, and their, nnnnnnnngh, musk?"

You roll your eyes. Typical girl, always thinking with her pussy.

In fact, there's barely any blood on the clothes--you're that good with a dagger, after all. You take their socks, pants, shirts, everything and dress her up like a snowman. She'll need coverings if she's going to make it through the night.

It's amazing that she hasn't croaked from the elements before now. Women are not known for their strong constitutions.

"How long have you been on the road, anyway?" you ask.

"We set off at first light."

So that would explain it. That also gives you a new lead.