LEVEL EVERYTHING UP in my Eldritch Tribe

Chapter 92: Becoming Insane

"Bullseye! Head separated!" Lyerin muttered to himself as he landed softly through the shattered glass, his boots crunching on the broken shards beneath his feet. He straightened up, dusting off his hands, and surveyed the room.

The air was thick with the stench of blood and decay, a sickly blend of metallic tang and rotten flesh that clung to everything like an invisible fog.

His eyes narrowed as he took in the scene before him: the twisted, lifeless form of the unknown Eldritch Flesher, its head now separated from its body, and the crumpled Tentatorn, its once formidable body now broken and still.

Lyerin chuckled darkly to himself, shaking his head in mild amusement. "I'm surprised to see these two fighting. Normally, they'd avoid each other like the plague." His gaze flicked to the Tentatorn's corpse, noting the deep gashes and crushed thorns that marred its form.

"The Tentatorn must've been really pissed," he mused, his voice barely more than a whisper in the oppressive silence of the room.

He paused then, his keen senses picking up on something he hadn't noticed before—there were people here.

Lyerin's lips curled into a slow, predatory smile as he turned his gaze towards the huddled group of survivors, their faces pale with fear, their eyes wide and filled with a mixture of terror and disbelief. "Perfect, I knew this mutated shit can find humans easily..." he whispered, a cold glint flashing in his eyes.

Without wasting a second, Lyerin raised his hand, and an aura of dark energy began to form around him. His fingers twitched slightly as he focused, drawing on the eldritch mana that flowed through his veins.

The air around him seemed to shimmer, distorting as if reality itself was bending to his will.

Suddenly, goo-like objects, resembling thick, oily slime, began to coalesce in his hand, dripping from his fingers in thick, black strands.

With a flick of his wrist, Lyerin sent the goo flying towards the group of survivors.

The black slime moved with lightning speed, faster than any of them could react. It splattered across their bodies, binding them in place with an unyielding grip.

The sticky substance tightened around their limbs, forcing them to the ground, their screams muffled by the dark tendrils that wrapped around their mouths.

Lyerin watched them struggle, a cold smile playing on his lips as he approached the corpses of the mutated Flesher and the Tentatorn.

He crouched down beside the Flesher's lifeless body, his hand reaching out to press against its chest. His fingers sank into the decaying flesh, searching for something within.

After a moment, he found it—a small, fleshy orb, pulsating weakly with a faint, sickly light.

Lyerin's eyes narrowed in disappointment, and with a careless flick of his wrist, he sent the orb flying across the room, where it struck the wall with a wet splat.

"Not what I need," he muttered, standing up and turning his attention to the Tentatorn's body. He circled it slowly, his eyes scanning its armored form with a critical gaze. "Hmm," he mused, his hand tracing the sharp thorns that jutted from its back. "This might work a little… but not enough. It doesn't matter, though. It's still useful, but I shouldn't harvest them now.

It wouldn't do much for me."

Satisfied with his assessment, Lyerin turned back to the group of survivors, who were still struggling futilely against their bonds. He walked over to them, his footsteps echoing ominously in the silent room.

With a simple tug of the dark tendrils that bound them, he pulled them closer, dragging them across the floor as if they weighed nothing at all.

Lyerin knelt down beside them, his cold, emotionless gaze locking onto their terrified faces. "Did all of you kill a lot of people?" he asked, his voice soft but laced with a chilling undercurrent. He didn't wait for an answer; their panicked expressions were enough. "I understand," he continued, almost as if he were talking to himself.

"This is the apocalypse, after all. It's natural to do whatever it takes to survive. But…" His voice trailed off as he leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing with disgust. "I can smell it on you—the stench of a struggling child."

He recoiled slightly, as if the very thought repulsed him. "You're all disgusting," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "But then again, who am I to judge? Morality… it doesn't exist here anymore, does it?"

Lyerin's voice grew louder, his words spilling out in a torrent of madness as he began to pace back and forth in front of them.

"This world… it doesn't care about right or wrong. It doesn't care about who's innocent or guilty. It only cares about one thing—survival. And to survive, you have to become something else. Something more."

He stopped suddenly, turning to face them, his eyes wide and manic. "You have to strip away everything that makes you human. Your morals, your compassion, your empathy… they're all weaknesses. They'll get you killed faster than any Flesher ever could. And you know what? I've learned that the hard way.

Time and time again, I've watched people cling to their so-called 'humanity,' only to be ripped apart by the very creatures they tried to save."

Lyerin's expression twisted into a cruel smile, his eyes glinting with a dark, twisted amusement. "But not me. I've learned to embrace the darkness. I've learned to let go of all those things that held me back. And you know what? I've survived.

I've thrived. Because in this world, there's no room for weakness. Only the strong survive."

He let out a harsh, bitter laugh, the sound echoing through the room like a death knell. "So why am I telling you this? Why do I even care? Maybe it's because I see a bit of myself in you. Maybe it's because I know what it's like to be weak, to be scared, to do things you never thought you'd do just to survive. But unlike you, I'm not going to let it control me.

I'm not going to let it define me."

Lyerin's gaze darkened, and his smile faded, replaced by a look of cold determination. "I've made my choice. I've embraced what I've become. And now, I'm going to show you what it means to truly survive."

He reached down and grabbed the bind that held the survivors together, hoisting them up effortlessly.

They squirmed and thrashed against their bonds, their muffled cries of terror filling the room, but it was no use.

Lyerin was far too strong, and the dark tendrils that bound them were unbreakable.

With a determined stride, Lyerin began to drag them across the room, his mind already working on what he needed to do next. He had no time for pity, no room for second thoughts.

These people were just another obstacle in his path, another means to an end.

They weren't human to him anymore—they were just tools, objects to be used and discarded as he saw fit.

As he pulled them along, his thoughts turned back to the encounter at the mall.

The pitiful blonde girl, the way she had looked at him with those big, pleading eyes… it had almost been too much for him. He had almost faltered, almost let his humanity slip through the cracks. But he couldn't afford to be weak, not now. Not when so much was at stake.

"I won't make that mistake again," Lyerin muttered to himself, his voice cold and resolute. "I can't afford to be weak. Even with my leveling tribe, I won't be able to make it if their leader is weak."

The survivors whimpered and struggled, their fear palpable as Lyerin led them through the dark, narrow corridors of the building.

The walls closed in around them, the air growing thick with the stench of decay and death. But Lyerin paid no attention to any of it. His focus was solely on the task at hand, on what he needed to do to ensure his survival.

Finally, he reached a dark, secluded area of the building, far away from where the parasites and fleshers prowled.

Here, they wouldn't be heard. They wouldn't be smelled. They would be safe—for now.

Lyerin stopped and turned to face the group, his expression as cold and emotionless as ever. "You all stay here," he ordered, his voice flat and devoid of any warmth.

The survivors didn't respond; they couldn't. The dark tendrils that bound their mouths ensured that.

Without another word, Lyerin reached down and grabbed three of the adult males from the group, lifting them as easily as if they were nothing more than stuffed toys.

Their eyes widened in terror as they realized what was happening, but they couldn't scream, couldn't plead for mercy.

They could only watch in horror as Lyerin dragged them away, their fates sealed.

The rest of the group could only watch in silent despair as Lyerin disappeared into the darkness, the sound of his footsteps growing fainter and fainter until it was nothing more than a distant echo.

The scene shifted as Lyerin emerged onto the rooftop, the cold night air biting at his skin. He looked out over the city, the distant sounds of moaning fleshers and skittering parasites barely audible over the wind.

Below him, the bridge highway stretched out like a ribbon of concrete, the metal thorns he had made.