LEVEL EVERYTHING UP in my Eldritch Tribe

Lyerin stood in the center of his tribe's stronghold, surrounded by the remnants of the Cragar'Throm Clan mana beasts.

Their curious eyes followed him as he walked toward the towering stone statue in the middle of the encampment.

The statue, seemingly crude, rough-hewn and worn by age, feels like it represented a long-forgotten spirit of war and power—like an ancient deity, revered by the tribe in times past that no longer exist.

Lyerin reached into his pocket and retrieved the black coin with the golden panther design. Its surface gleamed in the dim light, and the intricate etching of the panther seemed almost alive, as though it were ready to leap off the coin itself.

Lyerin smiled.

"I can't believe I really got this coin," he murmured to himself, the weight of it heavy in his hand.

He paused for a moment, trying to sense if Lord Victor was watching.

He could feel no presence, no eyes in the sky, no ears hidden in the wind. He was truly alone, if only for this moment.

Lyerin allowed himself to relax, making his focus drift back to the coin.

His smile faded, replaced by a look of deep contemplation.

The coin was not merely an object; it was a symbol of something far greater—something that, in his past life, had eluded him, out of his grasp, and now his mind couldn't help but began to drift into the past, and as if caught in a tide, memories began to exploded forward, it was vivid and agonizing even if Lyerin didn't admit it.

---

The first memory was of him standing at the gates of the Borgias Family's main territory.

The central fortress was colossal, its spires piercing the clouds, guarded by an army of the finest mages and warriors known to the world. He had been young then, filled with ambition and pride. In his hands, he held a crude, counterfeit version of the very coin that now rested in his palm.

He remembered the overwhelming excitement he'd felt. He had been so sure of his plan. But when the guards inspected the fake coin, they laughed, a mocking chorus that still echoed in his mind.

With a single wave of their hands, they had summoned a wall of flame, driving him back into the wilderness, scorched and humiliated.

The pain of that rejection had stayed with him for years.

The second memory was worse. He had returned, years later, wiser and more cautious.

This time, he had forged alliances with thieves and assassins—just by thinking about it, Lyerin found it funny—that time he believed that stealth and treachery would succeed where brute force had failed.

They had made their way into the heart of the Borgias territory, moving through shadow and darkness like phantoms. But just as they reached the treasure vault, they had been betrayed from within.

One of his closest allies had sold them out, and Lyerin had barely escaped with his life. His comrades were not so lucky. He could still hear their dying screams as the walls closed in, crushing them beneath tons of enchanted stone.

He only survived because they tossed him out for their amusement.

The final memory was the most painful. He had tried once more, this time as a desperate man, broken by years of failure. He had nothing left—no friends, no allies, no hope. He had approached the Borgias fortress under the guise of a humble beggar, hoping to slip past unnoticed. But they recognized him immediately.

Instead of killing him, they had toyed with him again, dragging him through the streets, humiliating him in front of the very people he had once vowed to protect.

The coin had been just out of reach, and with it, the power to change his fate. That failure had haunted him until the day he died.

---

Now, as Lyerin looked down at the coin in his hand, he felt an overwhelming sense of loss. He had done what his past self could not, but it doesn't matter to him now.

The coin was his. But he didn't feel anything.

The past, with all its regret, pain, and despair, was finally behind him but he couldn't feel anything.

Nostalgia washed over him, but he pushed it away.

The present was what mattered now. He had this coin, and with it, he could unlock the gates of the Borgias Family's territory. And he could do it anytime.

Lyerin shook off the memories of his past and reached for the magic ring on his finger.

It was new—Lord Victor had been too lazy to return his old one after their last confrontation—but it served its purpose. He twisted the ring, and with a flick of his wrist, summoned forth a vast array of materials.

He began to arrange them carefully around the base of the statue.

Each object was carefully chosen, each material vital to the tribal ceremony that was about to take place.

There was a bowl of dark soil, rich with the blood of fallen enemies; a carved wooden totem representing the tribe's ancestors; a vial of shimmering water taken from the heart of an enchanted lake; and finally, a piece of bone, still crackling with magical energy from a long-dead mana beast.

As Lyerin placed each item in its designated spot, the ground beneath them began to hum with power.

A faint glow surrounded each object as a series of magic circles appeared beneath them.

The magic circles pulsed with energy, casting an eerie light across the clearing.

Finally, a massive magic circle began to form beneath the statue itself. Its lines were intricate and precise, glowing a deep crimson as they spread outwards, enveloping the entire area in their glow.

The air grew thick with power, a heavy, oppressive force that pressed down on Lyerin's shoulders.

He took a deep breath and began to chant.

His voice started low, with barely more than a whisper rumble, but it was the ancient language of the tribe flowing from his lips like a long-forgotten song:

"Othraal… Grenth'mar… Kaarath! Vezhak dom, vekraal thaar! Koriath… Gorath'um… Zehlom da'aar...!"

The sound of his voice reverberated through the clearing, like a primal, guttural rhythm that carried with it the weight of centuries.

As the first syllables left his mouth, the soil at his feet responded, Lyerin could feel it in his feet vibrating with energy.

The bowl of dark soil began to glow, releasing thick tendrils of brownish smoke that curled into the air like the breath of the earth itself.

Soon enough, the smell of iron and blood filled the air.

"Othraal! Gorash'tum… Velkarum ozh'telam… Zaraanth ghorl!"

Lyerin's voice grew louder, and more forceful, as he called upon the spirits of the ancestors.

The carved wooden totem before him responded in kind, glowing with an ethereal blue light.

The air around it shimmered, as if the very spirits of the tribe's fallen warriors were gathering around it, lending him their strength causing him to swallow his saliva for what he's done to them.

Fortunately, the magic circle beneath the totem glowed brighter, humming with power, making Lyerin wave them off.

"Korrak narat'goreth… Yzhelm! Othraal narroth dorth'manah… Vaarm nozh tehl'malor!"

The vial of water from the enchanted lake began to react next.

The liquid inside shimmered, glowing with a silvery light that pulsed in time with his chant. Lyerin felt the fine mist rise from the water on his face, and then he felt it swirled around him, touching of light and fluid as if it were dancing to the rhythm of his words.

Not long, the magic circle beneath it flared up, the energy cascading outward in rippling waves.

"Lathr'un korrath… Gor'maar thal… Ashlak dur'neth koran'al! Ozh'marath vehrum!"

The bone, still crackling with latent magical energy, began to pulse with a fierce red light, its power growing stronger with each chant.

The air around it grew dense, heavy with a destructive force that seemed ready to burst forth at any moment. The magic circle below it began to glow brighter, its lines twisting and shifting as the energy built within it.

"Thaar'nem… Othraal vehrak! Karrath ghol'marath! Vorath dal'ethno!"

Lyerin's chanting grew louder, more intense, his voice booming like the roll of thunder across the landscape.

The essences from the objects began to emerge in the center of the magic circle beneath the statue.

The air around him was thick with magic, so dense it felt like he was breathing in pure power.

The essence swirling in the air grew denser, the particles becoming heavier, more oppressive, as though they were being drawn toward something greater.

"Othraal! Thaar'nem vohrathal... Karrath grenthum vehlor!"

The magic circle beneath the statue glowed crimson, casting the entire clearing in a bloody light. The ground began to tremble beneath him, the power coursing through the air making it difficult for him to stand.

Yet Lyerin's voice did not waver.

He chanted with increasing fervor, his eyes glowing with an almost mad intensity.

"Zaarath! Gorath! Karrath zhool'marath! ZENTHRAH!"

The magic in the air thickened to the point of suffocation that made his chest feel heavy, like they were swirling around him in a violent storm of raw, untamed energy.

The essence was now like a heavy fog, dense and suffocating. The power of the ritual was reaching its peak, the combined energy of the soil, the totem, the water, and the bone swirling together in a chaotic dance of magic.

"Othraal KORRA'THUM! ZENTHRAK VEK'MAL! DAL'KARRATH GOR!"

The chant reached a fever pitch, and the ground beneath him began to crack and split open as the magic circles emitted beams of light so intense they cut through the fog like blazing swords.

Lyerin felt the overwhelming pressure on his body, his muscles tensing, and he could feel the air around him become electrified.

And then it happened.

From the center of the magic circle beneath the statue, a thick plume of smoke rose into the air, swirling faster and faster until it began to take shape.

Pssshh..

The smoke twisted and condensed, forming into a massive figure that towered over Lyerin.

The being that emerged was unlike anything Lyerin had ever seen. It was a centaur-like beast, its lower half a muscular combination of horse and bull, its upper half a monstrous human with thick arms, rippling with muscle, and two enormous, curved horns jutting from its forehead.

The spirit's eyes glowed with a fierce red light, and he could feel its overwhelming presence—tough, massive, destructive, solid, and unbreakable. It exudes power in a way that makes the very ground tremble beneath him and it.

Soon, the magic circle beneath the statue pulsed with life, feeding the spirit with energy.

Lyerin could barely contain his amazement. He hadn't expected the spirit to take this form, but it made sense.

The current tribe was filled with horned mana beasts, and the spirit had manifested as a reflection of their combined power.

Lyerin's lips curled into a smile—this was beyond anything he had imagined.

"Manifestation of Spirit!"

He spoke and he stepped back, watching in awe as the spirit stood before him, its presence like a living mountain of pure strength. And then, he began to laugh.

"Hahaha!" Lyerin's laughter erupted from deep within him, a sound that started small but quickly grew louder, reverberating across the clearing like the roar of a madman.

"HAHAHAHA!" He couldn't stop.

The power, the success, the culmination of everything he had worked for—it was intoxicating. He had never felt more alive, more invincible. His laughter echoed in the air, bouncing off the trees and mountains, a declaration of his triumph.

"This… This is how it all begins!" he shouted, his voice filled with wild excitement. "I will make sure the apocalypse becomes my paradise! I will never experience that hell again! Do you hear me? Borgias Family? The world will bend to my will!"

Lyerin's laughter grew even louder, his chest heaving with the intensity of it. He could feel the magic surging through his body, amplifying every emotion, every sensation.

"I will conquer everything. And no one—no one—will stand in my way again!" His voice was raw with power, each word a promise to the universe itself.

Finally, as the laughter subsided, Lyerin stood tall, looking at the centaur spirit with a calm, calculating gaze. He took a deep breath, feeling the last traces of his manic energy fade away.

"It's time," he whispered to himself, "to go back to the real world."