LEVEL EVERYTHING UP in my Eldritch Tribe

Lyerin walked down the bustling street with an almost serene expression, humming softly to himself.

The street was alive with people of all ages: old men hobbling on canes, young couples strolling hand-in-hand, children playing tag, and mothers cradling infants.

The sun cast a warm glow over the lively scene, but it was all a cruel contrast to the reality that was unfolding.

Without warning, the first body collapsed.

An old man, frail and hunched, let out a strangled gasp as his legs gave way beneath him.

He fell face-first into the pavement, his cane rolling away.

No one noticed at first, but soon, the woman next to him—an elderly lady clutching a bag of vegetables—dropped to her knees, her eyes wide in confusion.

Her lips moved as if trying to speak, but no words came out.

She crumpled beside him, lifeless.

Panic hadn't set in yet.

People were still too caught up in their own conversations, too unaware of the creeping horror. But as more bodies began to fall—one by one—the realization began to sink in.

A young man, tall and strong, collapsed mid-step, his hand still raised in greeting to a friend who stood frozen in shock.

A pregnant woman, resting on a nearby bench, let out a small cry as she slumped forward, her hands protectively cradling her swollen belly in a vain attempt to shield her unborn child from whatever invisible force was killing her.

And the children—their innocent laughter turned to choked gasps as they, too, succumbed.

A small boy who had been chasing after a ball tripped, landing face-down in the dirt, never to rise again.

His playmates followed suit, their fragile bodies toppling over like leaves caught in a deadly breeze.

Lyerin continued walking, his steps slow and deliberate, completely unaffected by the chaos around him.

His humming was soft, almost melodic, as he cast a casual glance over his shoulder.

The bodies littered the street like fallen petals, their eyes wide open, unseeing.

He stopped abruptly, tilting his head slightly as if listening to something.

Then, in a calm, confident tone, he spoke without turning around. "Old man, you can show yourself."

There was a moment of silence, and then, from the shadows of a nearby alley, a figure emerged.

The man in the suit, his face scarred and weathered from the explosion of his tribe back in the ruined magical world, stepped forward cautiously.

He had been tailing Lyerin for some time, yet he was surprised—no, stunned—that Lyerin had sensed him.

"How did you find me?" the old man asked, his voice gruff with disbelief.

Lyerin finally turned to face him, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It was the mist of blood and the scent it carries," he replied casually. "It's unmistakable once you've been around it long enough."

The old man narrowed his eyes. "So, you know why I'm here, don't you?"

Lyerin nodded slightly, his expression unfazed. "Of course."

The old man's gaze flickered with something akin to admiration.

"I must admit, I didn't expect you to be this sharp," he said. "You even know how to use the cloning technique. Impressive." He paused, then asked, "Where did you learn it? How do you know such a sacred art? That's something only the Borgias Family should possess."

…

Back at the Borgias headquarters, where Lyerin had supposedly been held, the scene had become chaotic.

The spear that had struck down the old man's clone—along with the old man's body—began to dissolve, hissing as if corroded by acid.

The realization hit the onlookers like a hammer: it was all a ruse.

The old man and Lyerin had both deceived them.

Neither of them had been there.

…

Meanwhile, back on the street, Lyerin's eyes gleamed with amusement.

"In my past life, the Borgias died, but not by my hand. Their most dangerous ability—this cloning technique—caused the fall of four kingdoms and crippled eight more. But in the end, they were too weak to survive the game they started."

The old man's eyes widened in shock, but he quickly composed himself. "A past life?" he murmured. "No wonder you know so much." He paused, studying Lyerin's face carefully. "But aren't you being too careless, telling me all this? Do you think I'll just let you walk away now that I know?"

Lyerin chuckled softly. "I don't plan on walking away." He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "You're going to die, old man. So why should I be afraid?"

The old man's jaw clenched in anger.

"Do you have any idea who I am, boy? I'm a seventh-cycle assassin. I've killed beings far stronger than you, ones with power beyond your comprehension. Do you think you can best me just because you possess the Mana of a sacred beast?"

Lyerin met his gaze, his smile unwavering. "Absolutely."

The old man's face darkened with humiliation.

How dare this brat, with his smug smile and confident tone, challenge him?

He had spent centuries perfecting his art, assassinating beings far more dangerous than this arrogant fool standing before him. But something about Lyerin's confidence unsettled him.

The boy's feats, his knowledge, everything pointed to one undeniable truth: Lyerin had lived through something far more complex than mere talent could explain.

Still, the old man wasn't one to back down. If Lyerin truly had a past life, the old man would find out—and if necessary, retreat. But not without testing the boy first.

"You think you can kill me?" the old man sneered, his eyes narrowing. "Then let's see you try."

Without waiting for a response, the old man raised his hand, and the air around them darkened.

The street, the buildings, everything fell into shadow.

A suffocating darkness descended over them, and in an instant, shadow clones appeared everywhere, surrounding Lyerin.

The old assassin's technique was flawless, honed over centuries of killing. Lyerin would be overwhelmed, drowned in the darkness.

But Lyerin's expression faltered for the first time. He hadn't expected the old man to be this capable.

His mind raced as he took in the shadow clones encircling him.

It looked like this was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

The old man moved like lightning, his shadow clones darting from every direction, blades aimed at Lyerin's throat, chest, and back.

Lyerin dodged the first few strikes, weaving through the onslaught with a fluidity that spoke of experience. But the sheer number of clones made it impossible to avoid them all.

In the chaos, the old man himself moved unseen, blending perfectly into the dark. Lyerin didn't see him until it was too late.

With a swift, silent strike, the old man's blade sliced across Lyerin's throat.

Lyerin gasped, his hands flying to his neck as blood poured from the wound.

He staggered back, his vision blurring as the darkness closed in around him. For a moment, the old man stood victorious, watching as his opponent fell to the ground.

But then, something unexpected happened.

Lyerin's body began to glow with an eerie light, and before the old man could react, it exploded in a brilliant flash of energy.

KABOOM!

The force of the explosion sent the old man flying, his shadow clones disintegrating into nothingness.

When the dust settled, there was nothing left of Lyerin.

Or so it seemed.