LEVEL EVERYTHING UP in my Eldritch Tribe

Chapter 273: Booming questions

The murmuring among the soldiers swelled once more, a tide of voices pressing against Lyerin.

One of them stepped forward—a tall man with a sneer permanently etched into his lips.

His eyes glimmered with a mix of entitlement and bravado, as if the world owed him answers simply for the burden of his existence.

"Chieftain Lyerin," the man said, drawing out each word with a false, syrupy politeness. "If I may ask, this 'revival' ability—does it work every time? No matter how grievous the injury? Say, if one of us were burned to ashes… would we still rise?"

Lyerin's eyes, dark and unyielding as the abyss, narrowed slightly. He kept his voice level, though it carried a subtle, dangerous edge.

"Yes," he said.

"Even if reduced to ashes, the spirit of the Stonehooves Tribe pulls the fragments back together. But I would not suggest testing the limits of such a gift." His gaze lingered on the soldier just a heartbeat too long, and the man shifted uncomfortably.

Another soldier, a wiry woman with hair cropped short, stepped in without hesitation. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

"So, it's a perfect ability, then? No side effects? No fine print?" Her tone dripped with skepticism, as if daring Lyerin to reveal some hidden clause.

Lyerin's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. His patience, frayed as it was, held by a thread.

"There are no hidden clauses," he said, his voice like the rumble of a distant storm. "Revival occurs once within a twenty-four-hour cycle. No more, no less. Abuse it, and you will still meet your end when the second death comes."

The soldiers exchanged glances, as if weighing his words.

Then, another voice piped up from the back—a man with a self-assured smirk plastered across his face. "So, let's say we're crushed under a mountain. You're telling us we'd just pop back to life? Completely unharmed?"

Lyerin exhaled slowly, a hiss of air that sounded like the beginning of a tempest.

"You would emerge alive," he said, enunciating each word carefully, "but not unscathed. The body mends. The pain does not simply vanish. It leaves its mark."

"But why not?" demanded the man, his voice growing more insistent. "Why can't it be a true reset? If your tribe's power is as great as you claim, why do we have to suffer through the pain?"

The heat in Lyerin's gaze could have melted iron. His fingers flexed, the leather straps of his gauntlets creaking softly. "Because pain is a teacher," he said, each word heavy with restrained ire.

"It reminds you of the cost of failure. Without it, you would learn nothing."

A snicker broke the tension, and another soldier stepped forward, her expression half-mocking. "So, you're saying we get to come back to life, but we'll be in agony? Sounds like a raw deal to me."

Lyerin's eyes darkened. He took a step forward, and for a moment, the shadows around him seemed to deepen, as if responding to his growing irritation.

"You think this is a game?" His voice was low, dangerous, like the first rumble of an avalanche. "You think the gift of a second life is something to mock?"

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A hush fell over the group. The soldiers shifted uneasily, but their arrogance refused to be snuffed out.

"But what about old age?" another asked, his tone unbothered. "If someone dies of old age, do they come back young? Or do they just drop dead again immediately?"

Lyerin's jaw clenched. "The gift does not turn back time. You return as you were moments before death. If your body is at its limit, the spirit cannot change that."

"So, no immortality, then?" The same soldier scoffed, a glint of condescension in his eyes. "Some 'gift.'"

Lyerin's patience cracked like ice under a boot. His words, now edged with steel, came faster. "If you wish for immortality, you are in the wrong place. I have no interest in granting eternity to fools."

The soldiers' arrogance did not abate. One spoke up, a woman whose gaze was cold and calculating. "If this revival power is so great, why haven't you made your tribe invincible? Why limit it to one resurrection per day?"

"Limits exist for a reason," Lyerin bit out, his voice taut as a drawn bowstring. "Unchecked power breeds complacency. And I do not lead a tribe of complacent fools."

"Oh, but you're fine with making us your temporary pawns, aren't you?" a man sneered, crossing his arms.

"What happens if we die and then you decide our 'temporary membership' is over? Do we just drop dead again?"

Lyerin's eyes blazed with something primal, something barely held in check.

"Your lives are your own. If you survive and leave, you will retain what you have earned for as long as the spirit deems fit. Beyond that? It is out of my hands."

There was a tense silence. Then, a soldier with hollow eyes and a thin voice spoke. "So, you're saying we're at the mercy of this 'spirit' you keep talking about? We're just its playthings?"

Lyerin stepped forward again, his cloak billowing as if caught in a sudden wind.

The ground beneath him cracked, and for a moment, it felt as though the air itself had grown heavy.

"You are at the mercy of nothing but your own choices," he said, his words cutting through their entitlement like a scythe. "I offered you strength. Survival. If you cannot see the value in that, then leave. Your lives are of no interest to me."

But they did not leave. They glared, they grumbled, but they did not walk away. And Lyerin saw it for what it was—a desperate need to feel important, to be more than what the world had made of them.

It would have been almost pitiable, if it hadn't been so grating.

"What about poison?" someone asked, their voice trembling. "If we're poisoned to death, will the revival cure us?"

"Yes," Lyerin said flatly. "The revival purges all foreign elements from the body."

Another question came, then another, and another still.

Each one more entitled, more grasping, more insistent.

Lyerin's replies grew curt.

His eyes burned, his fingers itched to silence them all. Yet he answered each question, even as his patience wore to a frayed thread.

"Can we revive underwater?"

"Yes."

"Can we revive if we're dismembered?"

"Yes."

"What about if we—"

"Enough!" Lyerin's voice cracked like a whip. The soldiers fell silent, finally sensing the fury simmering beneath his calm facade.

He stepped forward, towering over them, a force of nature barely contained. "You think yourselves entitled to this power? You think you deserve it simply because you demand it?"

No one spoke. The air was heavy, stifling.

"Power must be earned," Lyerin said, his voice low, vibrating with barely restrained wrath. "If you wish to wield the gifts of my tribe, prove yourselves worthy. Or leave now, while you still have the chance."

The silence that followed was deafening. For once, none of the soldiers dared to speak.

They had pushed too far, and they knew it. But even as they stood there, chastened and wary, one thought lingered in their minds.

The taste of power was sweet, and they were not ready to let it go.

From the shadows, Lucas stepped forward, his expression grim. "Chieftain," he said, his voice careful. "A word, if you please."

Lyerin turned to him, the fury in his gaze dimming to a simmer. "Very well," he said, his voice cold as winter's breath. "But make it quick."