LEVEL EVERYTHING UP in my Eldritch Tribe

The soldier's first breath was a ragged gasp, as if his lungs were remembering the act of living after being starved of air for far too long.

His chest rose and fell, each breath coming quicker than the last as he tried to ground himself in the here and now. His limbs felt heavy, like lead, but slowly, he managed to sit up.

The world around him swam, edges blurring and colors bleeding together.

Everything was too bright, too sharp, too alive.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Shapes swam into focus—familiar shapes.

His comrades, standing around him in a wide circle, their faces pale and drawn.

They were silent at first, too shocked to form words, their eyes wide and unblinking as if they were staring at a ghost.

The soldier's gaze darted from one face to another, searching for something—anything—that made sense.

"What…" he croaked, his voice rough and weak, like it hadn't been used in days. "What happened?"

No one answered.

Instead, they took a hesitant step back, their eyes never leaving him.

He noticed then that their hands were clenched tight, their bodies tense as if preparing for a threat.

Confusion rippled through him.

Why were they looking at him like that?

What had he done?

He tried to move again, this time with more purpose. His muscles screamed in protest, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain.

When he finally managed to stand, he wobbled slightly, but the ground held firm beneath his feet.

The silence in the cavern stretched on, oppressive and suffocating.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could, he caught sight of something in the faces around him—something he hadn't expected.

Fear.

They were afraid of him.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Why are you…"

His words trailed off as he took in their expressions—wide eyes, parted lips, trembling hands. He took a hesitant step forward, and immediately, several of his comrades recoiled.

The movement was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

The soldier's heart clenched.

These were the people he had fought beside, bled beside. What had changed?

A murmur rippled through the crowd, low and urgent.

The whispers were soft at first, barely more than the rustle of wind through leaves. But they grew louder, more insistent, until they became a cacophony of hushed voices.

"He was dead," someone whispered, their voice tinged with disbelief. "I saw him. He was dead."

"His wounds—" another voice cut in, shaky and filled with dread. "There was no way he could have survived that."

"He's… he's standing. How is he standing?"

The soldier's gaze darted around, trying to pinpoint the source of the whispers, but they were everywhere, all around him.

He could hear every word, each one a dagger that drove deeper into his confusion. His comrades' faces were a mix of awe, fear, and something else—something darker, like suspicion.

"He should be dead," a woman's voice said, louder this time. "I saw the Eldritch Crab pierce him. I saw it."

"He was gone," another added, their tone grim. "We all saw it."

The soldier's head spun. Memories began to surface, jagged and broken.

The battle.

The crab beast's pincer—sharp, cold, and relentless as it tore through his armor, piercing his chest.

The blinding pain, the warmth of his own blood spilling out.

The world going dark. He remembered falling, remembered the weight of his own body as it hit the ground, lifeless. He remembered dying.

But he was here. He was alive.

His hands shook as he lifted them, turning them over, inspecting every inch.

There were no wounds.

No blood.

Only smooth, unbroken skin.

His breathing quickened.

This wasn't possible.

None of it made sense.

The whispers grew louder.

"Is it really him? Or something else wearing his face?"

"Can we even trust him now?"

"What if he's… changed?"

The soldier's chest tightened. He took another step forward, desperation creeping into his voice. "It's me," he said, louder this time. "I'm still me."

But the words rang hollow. He didn't even believe them himself. His comrades exchanged wary glances, their fear palpable.

One of them—the young soldier who had first reached for his body—took a cautious step forward. His face was pale, his eyes haunted.

"You… you were dead," the young soldier said, his voice cracking. "I felt it. Your heart wasn't beating. You weren't breathing. How… how are you standing here?"

The soldier opened his mouth, but no words came out.

How could he explain something he didn't understand himself?

He looked down at his hands again, clenching them into fists and then releasing them.

He could feel everything—the roughness of his skin, the ache in his muscles, the pulse of blood beneath the surface. He was alive. But how?

A memory surfaced, unbidden.

The dark circle that had appeared beneath him.

The tendrils of shadow that had wrapped around his body.

The sensation of something—something cold and ancient—pulling him back from the abyss. He shivered, the memory leaving a cold weight in his chest.

"Why am I still alive?" he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered.

No one spoke.

No one dared.

They only watched, their eyes wide with a mixture of horror and disbelief.

Whatever had happened, whatever had brought him back, had changed something fundamental.

They could all feel it, even if they couldn't put it into words.

The soldier took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest.

He wanted to scream, to demand answers, but all he could do was stare at the faces around him—faces that once looked at him with camaraderie and trust, now filled with fear and doubt.

He was alive. But at what cost?

The soldier moved to stand, pushing himself up with trembling arms.

The stone beneath his hands felt cold and unforgiving, a stark reminder of the life he thought he had lost.

As he rose, his joints creaked in protest, and his muscles burned with an unfamiliar intensity.

Every movement felt laborious, as though his limbs had been weighed down with iron. But he pressed on, determined to find answers—to understand what had become of him.

He expected to meet the eyes of his comrades when he stood, to see their wary expressions and searching gazes. But what he saw instead shocked him to his core.

He was looking down at them.

Confusion clawed at him, and he blinked, willing his eyes to clear. Surely, he was mistaken.

He shifted his weight, trying to steady himself, and his head brushed against something hard and unyielding.

The cavern ceiling.

He flinched, ducking instinctively, and for the first time, he truly registered the distance between himself and his comrades.

He towered over them, casting a shadow that stretched across the cavern floor.

"What…?"

His voice was deeper than he remembered, rumbling like distant thunder. He took a step back, his footfall reverberating through the ground with a heavy thud.

Dust rained down from the cavern ceiling, and the soldiers around him recoiled, their expressions a mixture of shock and fear.

He lifted his hands, staring at them as if they belonged to someone else.

They were enormous—thick fingers, knotted with muscle and scarred from countless battles, now seemed impossibly large.

He turned them over, palms facing him, and saw the callouses and lines that had once been so familiar. But they were wrong, stretched and distorted.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the pull of tendons and the creak of bone. It was him—his body—but it wasn't.

The soldier's breath came in shallow gasps, panic clawing at his chest.

"Why… why am I…?" He couldn't finish the thought. The words choked him, tangling in his throat. He looked down at his comrades, his heart pounding.

"Why am I tall?" he whispered, his voice trembling.

Silence met his question. The soldiers exchanged nervous glances, their eyes darting between each other and the giant standing before them.

No one spoke.

No one dared to answer.

He tried to steady himself, reaching out for support, but his hand collided with a stalagmite, shattering it into pieces with a deafening crash.

The sound echoed through the cavern, and more dust fell from above.

The soldier froze, his eyes wide with horror. "I-I didn't mean…" He stumbled over his words, his voice breaking. "I didn't mean to…"

The soldiers took another step back, their faces pale.

The distance between them felt insurmountable.

He tried to shrink away, to make himself smaller, but every movement only served to remind him of how much space he now occupied.

The cavern seemed to close in on him, the air growing thick and oppressive.

"How?" he murmured, his voice low and pained. He turned his gaze back to his comrades, desperation etched into every line of his face. "How did this happen?"

None of them answered.

They only stared, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and pity.

One of the soldiers—a woman with short-cropped hair and a scar running down her cheek—opened her mouth as if to speak but quickly closed it, shaking her head.

Another soldier, younger than most, took a step forward but stopped, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

No one knew what to say.

No one could bring themselves to bridge the chasm that had opened between them.

The soldier's panic deepened. He felt like he was drowning, the weight of his new reality pressing down on him. "Please," he begged, his voice cracking. "Someone… anyone… tell me what's happening!"

Still, silence. It stretched on, cold and unyielding, wrapping around him like a shroud.

His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a painful reminder of his new, unnatural form.

He wanted to tear at his skin, to rip away whatever curse had twisted him into this monstrous shape.

He wanted to be seen, to be recognized as the man he once was. But all he saw in their eyes was fear.

His breath quickened, coming in ragged gasps. He took a step closer, desperation driving him forward.

"Answer me!" he shouted, the force of his voice shaking the cavern walls. A few of the soldiers flinched, their eyes darting to the exits as if weighing the possibility of escape.

In the midst of the chaos, a sound cut through the tension—a deliberate, almost dismissive clearing of a throat. It was soft compared to the cacophony of his panic, but it carried weight, commanding attention.

The soldier's head snapped around, his eyes searching for the source. He found it in the form of Lyerin, who had been watching silently from the shadows, his expression unreadable.

Lyerin stepped forward, his movements calm and measured. He was untouched by the fear that gripped the others, unaffected by the chaos that had erupted.

There was no surprise in his eyes, no trace of uncertainty.

Only a cold, detached interest, as if he had been expecting this all along.

The soldier's chest tightened.

For a moment, he forgot to breathe.

Lyerin's gaze was piercing, cutting through him like a blade.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry.

Whatever answers he sought, he knew he would find them here. But he wasn't sure he wanted to hear them.

"Ah," Lyerin said, his voice smooth and controlled. "I see you've all noticed the change."