LEVEL EVERYTHING UP in my Eldritch Tribe

Chapter 289: In charge

Lyerin's eyes softened, the intensity of his gaze shifting into something more controlled, almost fatherly, as he took in the exhausted, battered soldiers.

Their faces were pale, streaked with sweat, dust, and splatters of blood.

Their breaths came in ragged gasps, their bodies trembling from both adrenaline and fear.

Weapons clutched tightly in their hands trembled with the effort of staying upright, and their eyes—wide with the memory of what they had just endured—betrayed their exhaustion and lingering terror.

He raised a hand, signaling for calm. "Rest," he said, his voice low and steady, yet it carried through the cavern with authority. "Rest while you still can."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, like marionettes suddenly cut from their strings, the soldiers collapsed.

Some dropped to their knees, others sat heavily on the rough stone floor, weapons clanging beside them.

A few leaned against the cavern walls, heads bowed, eyes shut, as if they were willing themselves to disappear into the darkness.

No one spoke; the only sounds were the labored breaths and the distant echo of dripping water.

Lyerin moved among them, his presence both reassuring and heavy with expectation.

He stopped near a cluster of soldiers who were struggling to calm their shaking hands.

One soldier—his face gaunt, his eyes hollow—looked up at him, a question trembling on his lips.

"Why?" he whispered, the single word carrying a weight that spoke of desperation, confusion, and fear. "Why can't we... why can't we just stop?"

Lyerin crouched beside him, his movements deliberate, almost painfully slow. "You can't stop," he said simply, his tone devoid of mockery or harshness. "Stopping means death."

He stood and addressed the rest, his voice rising. "You think the fight is over? You believe you've earned rest because you survived?" He let the question hang, heavy and biting.

"What you fought just now was a fraction—a glimpse—of what lurks beneath these cursed depths. And if you die again, there is no second chance. No revival. No power surge. Your soul will be forfeit, consumed by the darkness."

The weight of his words pressed down on them like a physical force.

A few soldiers exchanged fearful glances.

Others clenched their jaws, muscles tensing as if bracing for another attack. Lyerin let their fear settle, feeding the gravity of what he was about to tell them.

"You've tasted strength," he said, pacing slowly.

"You've felt what it means to be more than what you were. Titans, born of my tribe's blood and spirit. But that strength came with a cost—and now it is gone. You have reverted to what you were: fragile, human. You bleed. You break."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across each weary face. "And if you fall again, you will not rise."

The soldiers listened, captivated and terrified.

They leaned closer, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten as the gravity of his words sank in.

"I will not lie to you," Lyerin continued.

"You are at a disadvantage. You fight creatures older than memory itself. Beasts molded by darkness and malice, bound to destroy whatever crosses their path. But they can be defeated."

"How?" a voice called out from the shadows. It was Lucas.

His face was pale, his expression a mix of desperation and grim determination.

"We were Titans and still barely survived. How can we stand a chance like this?"

Lyerin's gaze shifted to him, and he nodded slowly.

"A fair question. The Trilobites are not mindless beasts. They are organized. They have patterns, weaknesses you can exploit—but only if you learn them. Strength alone will not save you. Precision, timing, awareness—these are your weapons now."

He walked to a nearby stone and picked up a fragment of broken trilobite shell.

The soldiers watched him intently as he turned it over in his hand.

"Their exoskeletons are thick, impervious to most strikes, but they have seams—joints that move and bend. The softer flesh beneath is vulnerable. Aim for those."

He tossed the fragment aside, letting it clatter to the ground. "But even that is not enough," he said. "They are relentless, and they will wear you down if you do not fight smart. You must work together. Alone, you are nothing but prey."

A soldier, her voice trembling but determined, spoke up. "But... they're so fast. So strong. What do we do when they swarm?"

"Control the flow of battle," Lyerin replied without hesitation. "Their numbers are their strength—and their weakness. Use terrain to funnel them. Use your formations to create choke points. Do not let them surround you."

He pointed to a spot on the ground.

"When they charge, move with purpose. Every strike must count. Hesitation will get you killed. Fear will get you killed. Trust your comrades. Trust the bond you forged as Titans. That bond did not die with your transformation."

"But... what about when they're too close?" another soldier asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "What if we can't keep them at a distance?"

Lyerin nodded slowly, as if considering the weight of her words.

"Then you fight with every breath in your body. You use everything at your disposal—your weapons, your wits, your strength. You bite, you claw, you do whatever it takes to survive. There is no room for hesitation. No room for doubt."

He paused, letting the silence stretch.

"You are not alone in this fight. I will guide you when I can. But do not mistake my guidance for salvation. Your survival depends on your will to endure. If you want to live, you must fight like you have never fought before."

The soldiers absorbed his words, their fear tempered by a flicker of resolve. They were still afraid—how could they not be?—but they understood now. This was their fight. Their lives depended on it.

"Rest," Lyerin repeated, his voice softer now. "Gather your strength. For when the next wave comes—and it will come—you must be ready."

The soldiers nodded, some more hesitantly than others.

They knew the truth of his words.

There would be no mercy, no respite.

This was their reality now. But for the first time in a long while, there was a glimmer of hope—fragile, fleeting, but enough to stoke the fire within.

The cavern's heavy air hung around them, thick with exhaustion and the stench of battle, as the soldiers sprawled on the cold stone ground.

Their breaths came in gasps, and the trembling in their limbs had only just begun to subside.

One of the soldiers, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, lifted his head.

His eyes, dull with exhaustion and confusion, fixed on Lyerin.

He swallowed hard before speaking, his voice cracking.

"Why did you bring us here, Lyerin? Why drag us into these... these hellish depths?"

Lyerin's response was a low, rumbling laugh that echoed through the cavern walls.

There was no humor in it—only a cold, cutting edge.

"Training," he said simply, letting the word sink into their bones like ice. "And for my needs."

Several soldiers exchanged wary glances, not daring to voice their thoughts. But the weight of his words lingered, pressing down on them like an invisible hand.

They had nearly died—more than once. The "training" Lyerin spoke of was brutal, merciless. Was this truly all just preparation?

One of the younger soldiers, barely more than a boy, his face still pale and drawn, forced himself to speak up.

"Training? Needs? You call this training?" His voice trembled, a mix of fear and disbelief. "You brought us to face these monsters, to nearly get slaughtered, for training?"

Lyerin's eyes gleamed with something dark and inscrutable.

"Do you really think this is hard?" he asked, his tone suddenly calm and almost dismissive. He gestured vaguely to the cavern around them, where the corpses of the Trilobites lay scattered.

"These Trilobites? They are nothing more than insects compared to what you will face beyond these walls."

His words hung in the air, as heavy and oppressive as the darkness that surrounded them.

The soldiers stared at him, trying to comprehend the meaning behind his words.

The scarred soldier, still catching his breath, shook his head. "What do you mean... beyond these walls?"

Lyerin's lips curled into a cold smile. "Do you think that forming your little government with numbers alone will be enough to keep you safe? Do you really believe it will deter the families you've turned your backs on?" His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "You are fools if you think that."

The mention of the families sent a chill through the soldiers.

They knew of the powerful families that ruled with iron fists—untouchable and ruthless.

The idea that their newly-formed government could stand against such forces had always been a fragile hope, a desperate gamble. But hearing Lyerin speak of it now, with such utter disdain, made their blood run cold.

"The families," he continued, pacing slowly. "They have ruled since ancient times. Their strength is not just in numbers or wealth, but in power beyond your understanding. Especially the Borgias Family."

At the mention of the Borgias, the soldiers stiffened.

They had heard of the Borgias—everyone had.

Their cruelty, their power, their reach that extended into every shadowed corner of humanity's remnants.

The scarred soldier frowned, confusion creasing his brow.

"The Borgias? What... what do they have to do with this?"

Enjoy new tales from mvl

Lyerin stopped pacing, turning his gaze to meet the soldier's eyes. "Because that is the family you are going against," he said, his voice as cold and unyielding as stone. "The Borgias Family is mine."

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. The soldiers' eyes widened in shock and disbelief. "What...?" someone whispered, the word barely audible.

"I am Lyerin Borgias," he continued, his voice hard as iron. "The son of that wretched family you fear so much."

For a long, terrible moment, silence reigned.

The soldiers stared at him, their minds reeling.

They remembered him from the survival games in the sky, where he was Lyerin Stonehooves.

They had idolized him, trusted him. And now, to hear that he was of the Borgias—a family known for its brutality and its merciless grip on power—shook them to their cores.

"But..." one soldier stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "You're a halfling?"

Lyerin turned his gaze on him, and the soldier felt as though he were being scrutinized by something far older and more dangerous than he could comprehend.

"Yes," Lyerin said, his tone softer but no less intense. "A halfling. Not even fully recognized by the Borgias. An outsider even among them."

Understanding dawned on their faces, mingled with horror.

The halflings in the Borgias Family were treated as little more than tools, disposable and despised.

If even those bearing the family's blood were treated so cruelly, what hope did outsiders have? And suddenly, Lyerin's fury at the assassin from before made perfect, terrible sense.

Lyerin rose to his feet with a swift, commanding motion.

"Enough rest," he said, his voice cutting through their fear and exhaustion. "This is not over. You will face these Trilobites again—and this time, you will do so without the luxury of becoming Titans."

The soldiers exchanged fearful glances, but they knew better than to protest.

One by one, they forced themselves to their feet, weapons in hand.

Lyerin moved to the entrance of another cavern, his gaze cold and unyielding. "You want to survive against the families? Then prove you can survive here. Move."

He stepped aside, gesturing for them to lead the way.

With trepidation, the soldiers moved forward, their steps heavy with exhaustion and dread.

The darkness of the cavern seemed

to close in around them, but they had no choice. They would fight, or they would die.

As they stepped deeper into the shadows, Lyerin followed behind, a dark figure guiding them into the unknown.