LEVEL EVERYTHING UP in my Eldritch Tribe

The tension in the air was suffocating, thick with unspent magic and the heavy breaths of the defeated assassins.

They crouched, battered and bruised, as Lyerin paced like a panther before them, his mocking words cutting through the stillness.

His lecture on their incompetence had stung more than any physical blow, and his unrelenting confidence was like a towering wall they couldn't hope to scale. But amidst their exhaustion, their desperation, there was a flicker of something else.

Something dangerous. A silent exchange of glances passed between Donovan, Theran, Miriam, Mikhail, and the Younger Woman.

And then, without warning, they moved.

Mana erupted in a violent burst, the very air around them vibrating with raw power. It wasn't the sloppy, chaotic magic Lyerin had so eagerly mocked before.

This time, their attacks were precise, deliberate, woven together like the threads of a deadly tapestry.

Donovan was the first to strike, his blade of mana slicing through the air with a whip-crack, aimed directly at Lyerin's exposed back.

The blade shimmered, unnaturally sharp, and for a fraction of a second, it seemed as though it might actually reach its target.

But Lyerin, ever the predator, moved with an almost lazy grace. He sidestepped the attack as though swatting away a fly, the blade passing so close to his shoulder that it sent a ripple through his dark coat.

"Hmm," he murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Better. But still not good enough."

Before his words had even fully registered,

Theran was upon him. His blood spears materialized out of thin air, twisting and writhing like living things.

He hurled them with all his might, each one hissing through the air with a sound like tearing fabric.

Fwoosh. Hiss. Snap.

The spears converged on Lyerin in a perfectly timed assault, their tips glowing with a dark, ominous energy.

For the briefest moment, it looked as though they might strike true, as though Lyerin might finally be caught off guard.

But then he moved—no, he flowed—like water, slipping through the gaps between the spears with an ease that defied logic. His movements were impossibly fast, almost imperceptible, each step more like a shadow shifting than a man dodging.

"You're improving," he said, his voice carrying an almost playful lilt as he reappeared a few paces away. "But you're still so very predictable."

From the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of motion. Miriam's shadow beasts surged forward, their forms twisting and warping, barely distinguishable from the darkness they emerged from. Their claws glinted with unnatural sharpness, their eyes glowing like embers.

Snarl. Claw. Shatter.

They lunged at him, their movements erratic, each one striking from a different angle. For the first time, Lyerin's expression shifted—just slightly, a faint furrow of his brow—as he raised a hand to block their assault.

The beasts collided with an invisible barrier, their snarls turning into pained yelps as they disintegrated on impact. But even as they faded, they left behind a trail of dense, suffocating shadows that clung to Lyerin like a second skin.

"Clever," he admitted, brushing away the shadows with a flick of his wrist. "But not clever enough."

Mikhail was the next to strike, his mana coalescing into a massive, spiraling vortex of energy. The vortex roared to life with a sound like a hurricane, tearing up the ground beneath it as it hurtled toward Lyerin.

Boom. Crash. Crackle.

The sheer force of the attack sent shockwaves rippling through the forest, splintering trees and scattering debris. For a moment, Lyerin was completely enveloped by the vortex, his figure obscured by the blinding light and swirling chaos.

The assassins held their breath, their hearts pounding in unison as they waited for the dust to clear. Had they finally done it? Had they finally caught him off guard?

But then, through the dissipating energy, came the sound of laughter.

It started as a low chuckle, barely audible over the dying roar of the vortex. But it grew louder, richer, more resonant, until it echoed through the forest like the tolling of a bell.

When the dust finally settled, Lyerin stood at the center of the destruction, completely unharmed. His coat was pristine, his hair unruffled, his expression one of pure, unbridled amusement.

"Now that," he said, his voice dripping with mockery, "was almost entertaining."

The assassins stared in disbelief, their bodies trembling with exhaustion and despair. But before they could even process their failure, Lyerin's gaze shifted to the Younger Woman. Your next chapter awaits on empire

"And what about you?" he asked, his tone teasing. "Surely you have something to add to this delightful performance?"

She didn't respond, her mana already gathering around her in a pulsing, electric aura. With a sharp cry, she unleashed her attack—a barrage of glowing needles that shot toward Lyerin like a swarm of angry hornets.

Zap. Whoosh. Ping.

The needles struck with pinpoint accuracy, their trajectory impossible to predict. For a split second, it seemed as though they might actually catch him. But then, in one fluid motion, Lyerin raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

Snap.

The needles froze mid-air, their energy dissipating into harmless sparks that fell to the ground like dying embers.

"Not bad," Lyerin said, his tone almost approving. "But still…" He stepped forward, his smile widening to reveal gleaming teeth. "…not nearly good enough."

The assassins collapsed, their mana reserves completely drained, their bodies too weak to stand. They had given everything they had, every ounce of strength, every shred of hope. And still, they had failed.

Lyerin stood over them, his laughter echoing through the forest once more. "Oh, you poor, foolish children," he said, shaking his head. "Did you really think you stood a chance?"

He crouched down, his piercing gaze locking onto each of them in turn. "You've got spirit, I'll give you that," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But spirit alone isn't enough. Not against me."

He straightened, his laughter fading into a chilling silence. "Now," he said, his tone turning cold and commanding, "crawl."

The assassins obeyed, their broken bodies dragging themselves across the dirt. And behind them, Lyerin followed, his laughter ringing out like a death knell.