LEVEL EVERYTHING UP in my Eldritch Tribe

Chapter 269: What are you all doing?

The chaos in the cavern was deafening: the clash of weapons against an unyielding shell, the roar of the crab beast, the labored breaths of soldiers, and the rattle of empty ammunition clips.

But above it all, a singular, commanding voice cut through, its tone calm, almost indifferent.

"Enough," Lyerin called, stepping forward with a deliberate, unhurried pace.

The word rippled through the soldiers like a shockwave.

They stumbled back, drenched in sweat and blood, their weapons lowered as they turned to him.

For a moment, they simply stared, bewilderment mingling with hope. Could he truly stop this nightmare?

Lyerin's eyes, cold and calculating, flicked to the beast. "My turn."

With a single, fluid motion, he raised one hand. His fingers moved through the air with a practiced grace, weaving patterns of power.

The pig Orcs at his side, who had stood silent and watchful during the battle, suddenly came to life.

Their muscles tensed, eyes gleaming with savage intensity.

Lyerin's voice was low, yet every word carried the weight of command.

"Stonecrushers, flank and harry it. Bleed it out."

The largest of the pig Orcs—a behemoth with bulging arms like slabs of granite—grunted in acknowledgement. He led a group that surged forward, their footfalls shaking the ground.

They moved with surprising speed for their size, their massive weapons—war hammers, spiked clubs, jagged axes—raised high.

The crab beast, sensing the new threat, reared back and unleashed a guttural roar. But it didn't matter.

The Stonecrushers were already at its legs, hammering down with brutal efficiency.

Crunch!

A sickening crack echoed as a spiked club found a joint.

The beast reeled, ichor oozing from the wound, but the Orcs pressed in, their strikes precise and unrelenting.

"Scalebreakers, the underbelly. Now."

Lyerin's words were calm, almost disinterested, as though he were merely observing a dance rather than commanding a life-or-death struggle.

The Scalebreakers—leaner Orcs with sharp blades and climbing claws—moved like shadows.

They swarmed over the beast's body, climbing its shell with an eerie grace.

When they reached the softer underbelly, they struck with surgical precision, their blades slicing through flesh, carving wounds that bled rivers of dark ichor.

The beast howled, its cries echoing off the cavern walls. It thrashed wildly, its limbs striking out, but it was slower now, its movements hampered by pain and fatigue.

The soldiers watched, breathless, as the Orcs continued their relentless assault.

They moved in perfect unison, their attacks calculated, their every motion a display of brutal elegance.

One of the soldiers whispered, awe mingling with fear. "They're… they're unstoppable."

"Ravagers," Lyerin intoned, his voice as cold and precise as ever, "cripple its senses."

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A new group of Orcs stepped forward, bearing long spears tipped with jagged metal.

They closed in from all sides, their spears stabbing toward the creature's eyes, its sensory stalks, any vulnerable point they could find.

The crab beast roared again, shaking the cavern with the force of its fury, but it was blind now, its senses dulled, its strength waning.

The soldiers could only watch, stunned, as the pig Orcs dismantled the creature piece by piece.

There was no panic in their movements, no desperation—only cold, ruthless efficiency.

Every order from Lyerin was followed without hesitation, and every strike landed true.

Suddenly, one of the crab beast's limbs lashed out, faster than anyone anticipated. It slammed into the ground, splintering rock and sending Orcs flying.

But even this desperate attack was met with cold, calm control. "Bonecrushers, subdue it."

An Orc with arms like tree trunks stepped forward, hefting a massive chain. He swung it wide, looping it around the beast's flailing limb.

With a roar, he yanked it taut, anchoring the creature in place. The other Bonecrushers joined him, their combined strength keeping the beast pinned.

"Execute it," Lyerin commanded, his tone unchanging.

The Orcs converged, striking as one.

Axes bit deep, blades cut true, and the creature's roars gave way to a final, shuddering gasp. Its massive form trembled, then went still, its lifeblood pooling beneath it.

The cavern fell silent, save for the heavy breathing of the soldiers.

They stared, wide-eyed and speechless, as the Orcs stood over the fallen beast, uninjured, unbroken.

One soldier found his voice, his words trembling with disbelief. "They didn't even… not a scratch."

Another nodded, his eyes wide. "They only took so long because… because the Chief didn't want them hurt."

The soldiers turned to Lyerin, their faces pale. He simply shrugged, a faint, almost bored smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Precisely," he said, his voice soft and cold. "No need for unnecessary risk."

The soldiers exchanged glances, a mixture of fear and respect simmering in their eyes.

Whatever they had witnessed here was beyond anything they had imagined. And as they stared at the calm, unbothered figure of Lyerin, one thing became abundantly clear—they were in the presence of something monstrous.

Something they barely understood.

The cavern was quiet now.

The echo of battle still lingered, etched into the rock and the minds of those who had fought.

The massive, lifeless form of the crab beast lay sprawled, its ichor seeping into the cracks of the stone floor.

But the eyes of the soldiers did not linger on their vanquished foe.

Instead, they turned as one to a smaller, more fragile sight: the body of their fallen comrade.

He lay crumpled and broken, his armor stained with dark, congealing blood. His eyes, once bright with determination and resolve, now stared unseeing into the darkness above.

A soldier—barely more than a boy—stepped forward, his hands trembling as he reached down to close those eyes.

Others followed, forming a silent circle around their fallen brother.

Slowly, reverently, they each knelt, their knees scraping against the rough stone.

They bowed their heads, their faces obscured by the shadows and the pain etched into every line of their expressions.

The air was thick with grief, the kind that presses down on the chest and makes every breath feel like an effort.

One by one, they reached out, their hands resting on the shoulders of those beside them, creating a chain of solidarity and respect that spanned their ranks.

"May his soul find peace," murmured Lucas, his voice low but steady. "May he be remembered as a warrior, brave and true."

Another soldier, tears glistening on her cheeks, whispered a prayer to whatever gods still listened in this cruel, broken world. "We fight, we fall. And we rise again, in memory of those who gave all."

The soldiers remained there, heads bowed, for what felt like an eternity.

Time stretched and blurred, the cavern around them seeming to close in. The weight of their loss hung over them like a shroud, suffocating and heavy.

Then, they moved to lift the body.

Two soldiers knelt, sliding their arms beneath the fallen man's shoulders and legs, their movements slow and gentle, as if afraid to disturb whatever remained of him.

They would carry him, as they always had, through life and now, through death. They would honor him as one of their own, in death as in life.

But before they could rise, a voice cut through the stillness. Cold. Detached.

"What are you all doing?"

Lyerin's words shattered the solemn silence like a stone cast into still water. The soldiers flinched, their eyes snapping to him.

Confusion flashed across their faces, quickly replaced by anger and disbelief. What could he possibly mean?

Couldn't he see what they were doing?

Did he not understand what it meant to honor the dead?

"Chief," Lucas began, his voice tight with controlled fury, "we are paying respect—"

He fell silent as Lyerin raised a hand.

No explanation followed.

No acknowledgment of their grief, their rage, or the sanctity of the moment. Instead, Lyerin simply stepped forward, his expression unreadable, and the air around him grew cold.

Shadows seemed to writhe and shift at his feet, moving with a will of their own.

Without warning, a dark, intricate circle blazed to life beneath the fallen soldier's body.

The symbols carved into it glowed with an eldritch light, their harsh angles and jagged edges searing themselves into the stone.

The soldiers stumbled back, their eyes wide, as tendrils of shadow rose from the circle, curling around the lifeless form.

"What is this?" one of them gasped, his voice trembling. "What is he doing?"

None of them had an answer.

They could only watch, helpless, as the shadows moved with purpose, weaving themselves around the fallen soldier like a living shroud.

The blood that had pooled around him began to move, drawn back toward his body as if by some unseen force.

The crimson liquid defied gravity, flowing upward in thin, twisting streams until it disappeared beneath his armor.

The corpse jerked once.

Twice. And then it lay still.

The glow from the circle intensified, casting long, flickering shadows across the cavern walls.

The air was thick with a dark, oppressive energy, pressing down on them, filling their lungs with a heaviness they couldn't shake.

The soldiers could do nothing but watch, their faces pale and their breaths shallow.

The fallen soldier's chest rose—just a fraction—and then fell. It rose again.

His fingers twitched, curling into fists.

His head lolled to the side, and for a moment, the soldiers thought they saw something move beneath his closed eyelids.

His breathing, shallow at first, grew stronger, steadier.

The shadows around him faded, retreating back into the circle, which dimmed and then disappeared entirely.

Silence returned to the cavern, deep and absolute.

The soldier's eyes flew open.