LEVEL EVERYTHING UP in my Eldritch Tribe

The forest was silent save for Lyerin's amused, measured steps. His boots crunched over the shattered terrain, their sound sharp and deliberate, like a metronome marking the beats of his impending words.

He strolled casually around the five assassins, each of them trembling, battered, and slumped in defeat. His ever-present smile was wider now, bordering on maniacal, his eyes gleaming with the predatory glee of someone completely in control.

His voice, calm but carrying an unsettling edge, broke the oppressive quiet.

"Do you know what makes a good assassin?" he began, his tone dripping with condescension, yet laced with an unsettling charm that demanded attention. He stopped, tilting his head and waiting, though he clearly didn't expect a reply.

The Younger Woman, Donovan, Theran, Miriam, and Mikhail flinched under his gaze, their silence the only answer they could muster.

Lyerin chuckled softly. "No? Of course, you wouldn't. If you did, we wouldn't be here, would we?" He turned his back to them, his hands clasped behind him as though addressing a class of students. "A good assassin is not just skilled with mana or weapons. It's not about flashy techniques or overwhelming power. No, no, no. A good assassin is a shadow. A whisper. A fleeting breath in the dark."

He pivoted sharply, his piercing gaze locking onto Donovan. "A good assassin," he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "doesn't charge into a fight expecting brute force to solve their problems. A good assassin isn't seen. A good assassin isn't heard."

The air around him seemed to grow heavier, his words pressing down on them like a physical weight. He crouched suddenly, bringing himself eye-level with Donovan, who shrank back instinctively. "Tell me, Donovan," Lyerin said, his tone mockingly conversational, "what exactly was your plan when you charged at me earlier? Did you think your little mana blades—predictable, linear, and oh-so-obvious—would work on someone like me?" He shook his head, clicking his tongue. "Pathetic."

He rose smoothly, his movements fluid and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. "And you, Theran," he said, turning his attention to the next in line. "Your so-called blood spears. Do you honestly believe that brute force, no matter how well-aimed, is the hallmark of a skilled assassin? Let me give you a hint: It's not. The moment your magic lit up the sky like a festival firework, you failed. Assassins do not announce their presence with flare. They strike unseen, unheard, unexpected."

Theran said nothing, his fists clenching and unclenching as he avoided Lyerin's piercing gaze.

"And Miriam," Lyerin said, now addressing the woman whose shadowy tendrils had dissolved so effortlessly under his power. "Your little beasts. Oh, they were terrifying. Truly," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But they were sloppy. Their movements, chaotic. Their intent, unfocused. You cannot simply throw magic into the air and hope it does the work for you. A real assassin controls every detail. Every breath. Every movement. Your lack of control made you as easy to read as an open book."

Miriam's face burned with humiliation, her head bowing under his relentless critique.

Lyerin moved on, pacing in front of the group like a professor delivering a lecture. "You see, children," he said, his tone growing almost jovial, "assassination isn't about overwhelming your target. It's about precision. It's about patience. It's about thinking. But what do you do? You rush in, you throw your strongest attacks, you hope for the best." He laughed, a deep, resonant sound that sent chills down their spines.

"It's almost adorable," he said, pausing dramatically before continuing. "But mostly, it's sad."

His expression darkened, his playful tone dropping into something colder, more menacing. "You Borgias assassins," he spat, his voice laced with disgust. "You think your name, your reputation, is enough. That the world will tremble at the mere mention of your family. But look at you now." He gestured broadly at their broken, trembling forms. "What good is a reputation when you're groveling in the dirt?"

The Younger Woman, despite her fear, raised her head and glared at him. "You… You're just playing with us," she managed to say, her voice trembling but defiant.

Lyerin turned to her, his smile returning, more sinister than ever. "Oh, absolutely," he said, his voice smooth and unapologetic. "But isn't that the point? An assassin should never allow themselves to become someone's toy. And yet, here you are."

He stepped closer to her, crouching again so their faces were inches apart. "Do you know why I'm doing this?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The Younger Woman said nothing, her jaw clenched tightly.

"I'm teaching you," Lyerin said, his grin widening. "You may not survive the lesson, but isn't that the beauty of it? Survival is a test. And right now…" He leaned in closer, his breath cold against her skin. "…you're all failing."

He stood abruptly, addressing the group once more. "Now, let's talk about your latest failure, shall we?" He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing slowly as he spoke. "That little burst of mana you unleashed earlier. Impressive, I'll admit. You almost managed to make me blink. But it was messy. Rushed. Desperate. You burned through your energy like amateurs, leaving yourselves vulnerable."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over them like a predator sizing up its prey. "Do you know what your biggest mistake was?" he asked, his tone mockingly patient. "You assumed that more power would equal more success. That if you just threw enough at me, I'd somehow falter." Discover more content at empire

He laughed again, the sound sharp and grating. "But power without strategy is meaningless. It's like throwing stones at a mountain and expecting it to crumble. An assassin's strength isn't in their power—it's in their mind."

He stopped in front of Mikhail, who had been trying to avoid his gaze the entire time. "And you, Mikhail," Lyerin said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You're the most disappointing of all. I expected more from you. I really did."

Mikhail's shoulders sagged, his head hanging low.

"But don't worry," Lyerin said, straightening and addressing the group once more. "This lesson isn't over. Oh no, we're just getting started."

And then, for the first time, he smiled—not a smirk or a grin, but a genuine smile. And that, more than anything else, was terrifying.