Aggro Litrpg || Progression Fantasy

Lia's breathing was shallow, raspy and laboured in a way that suggested something inside had gone very, very wrong. The internal bleeding, possible lung-perforation, do-not-pass-go kind.

The clearing had gone so quiet after Balethor's death that Lia's gasps sounded indecently Only Fans – she was making wet little sounds that clawed at the air. The kind of sound that might be funny in the right context. But not here. And certainly not now.

I'd heard far too much breathing like that.

Jakarta, the second time around. Bloke called West was hit in the chest a few steps outside our hotel. He was still trying to crack jokes as the blood bubbled up in his mouth. Said he just needed a minute to catch his breath. Died two minutes later with a punchline half-spoken.

Then in Yerevan. Erebuni Street, if memory served. It had been the winter in a tight alley with plenty of freezing fog. I'd been tipped off that the local contact was compromised, but we'd been far too slow getting out. A kid called Tomas who'd been our guide took a round to the stomach. He'd bled out into the snow, asking if we'd remembered to grab his phone charger. His voice had cracked just like Lia's was, but worse because I'd not yet learned how to lie properly.

And then, just at the start of the month, down in the Docklands where I'd been waiting for a delivery of something contraband. Rando took a shot to the chest clearly meant for me. He'd died trying to light a cigarette, all the time saying he wasn't ready. He'd said it three times before he stopped saying anything at all.

So, yeah. Lia's breathing like this sucked the big one. Because I knew what came next. Or at least, what usually did. Maybe things might work out differently in Bayteran?

I dropped to my knees beside her, eyes scanning for the worst of it. Prioritise. Triage. Do the thing. Her right pauldron was wrecked, little more than torn leather and blood-soaked padding at this stage. I peeled it back gently, my hands far steadier than they should've been, and found one of the worst of the wounds. It was deep, just below the ribs. The blood oozing out was dark red and moving sluggishly. Her liver, maybe. At least it wasn't arterial, that was something.

"Alright, Jorgensdottir," I said, already tearing strips from the hem of her undershirt. "Time to see if all that fancy Warrior levelling included a bit of regeneration." She didn't respond, which wasn't unexpected. She was still breathing, and still - relatively – warm. At least that meant she was still here.

Which meant I still had a chance to turn this frown upside down.

I wrapped and bound the wound as tight as I dared, using pressure, elevation, and what clean water I had left. I reckoned if she made it through the next hour, I could stabilise her. If not…

Well. That wasn't going to happen. Because I'd been trained for worse. And because she'd trusted me to catch her fall. And if there was something I'd determined was going to be true about my new life, it was that I didn't drop people. Not anymore.

Tell you what, though, I'd absolutely kill for a "Quick Heal" option right about now.

But in lieu of that, what was my next move? I crouched beside her, fingers checking her pulse—weak, but still ticking—and tried to do that thing where you look calm and capable even when your brain's a punch-up of bad options. The clearing was still. No sound but the wind hissing through the leaves and Lia's ragged breathing.

I was sure I could find my way back to Sablewyn. That wasn't the issue, I'd obviously mapped out the route we'd taken in my head. But leaving her here? No. That was out of the question - she wouldn't last five minutes out here alone. Wolves, goblins, and God knows what else. If I'd learned one thing thus far, it was that there were things in these woods that didn't give a toss about the geopolitical implications of murdering a half-dead Level 7. They'd just eat her and crack the bones after.

So. Going solo was off the table.

But carrying her back? Also not ideal. Lia was all armour and muscle and blood-soaked leather. I might've just been juiced up on temporary Breachwalker power long enough to punch an alchemist through the floor, but that buff was gone now, and I was back to being Level 2 me. And that version of "me" wasn't hauling an unconscious Warrior through league after league of murder-forest without bottoming out on Stamina. Especially when I was fairly certain I'd be Aggro Magnetising every possible baddy.

I needed a third option.

Looking around, I took in the layout properly for the first time since the fight. The trees hemming in the clearing weren't young, they were knotted things with thick, low limbs and bark-like scar tissue which were pretty good for cover and even better for concealment. I could work with trees like this. Likewise, the ruins of the well offered a low stone ring I could use for partial shelter, and the earth around it was flat enough. Here wasn't exactly luxury digs, but it was better than nothing.

My notifications weren't pinging with any obvious signs of new Veil activity either, which I was taking as a bonus.

So, there we had it. Option three: dig in. Hold position, make safe and ait. Not elegant. But I wasn't exactly spoilt for choice. And right now, workable beat elegant by a country mile.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I started by getting Lia off the open ground. Her breathing was shallow, yes, but steady, and when I pressed fingers to her wrist, her pulse thudded back against mine like a slow drum. Still fighting. That was all I needed to know.

I shifted her carefully toward the lee of the well, laying her out in what passed for the driest patch of moss. I propped her up against one of the flatter stones, her back supported, her blade still in hand. She hadn't let go of it, even now. Part of me respected that. The other part really wanted her to let it go, so I could bind the worst of the bleeding.

But she didn't wake and she didn't stir. But she didn't get worse either.

That counted.

Once I was sure she wasn't about to check out the moment I turned my back, I got to my feet and scanned the clearing properly. I needed materials—branches, clean moss, anything vaguely medicinal or structurally useful. I could rig a lean-to. A fire if I got lucky. Bandages if I was clever.

And, of course, I needed to do something about the body of the Alchemist.

Balethor Voidwalker lay exactly where I'd pulverised him into the dirt. Still, silent and ever so pulpy. I'd half-expected him to vanish—like the Goblin had, or poor Ivor after he got himself perforated. Some neat little poof of particles, a fading shriek, maybe a flash of light and a "Well done, you've passed the murder quiz" pop-up. But no. the remains of Balethor Voidwalker were still very much present and accounted for. And he was still very, very dead.

Now, I'm worried I might be starting to give you the wrong impression about me here. I'm not some soulless psychopath who keeps a little scrapbook of all his corpses. However, I'll admit that I've seen more bodies than most people my age and more of them than I'd like were directly connected to actions I'd taken. That's not pride, it's just terminal maths.

However, even with all of that grim experience behind me, I can promise you that I've never stuck around long enough to watch one start to 'glow.

Which, weirdly enough, is what was happening now. Balethor's body had begun to pulse with a deep gold light. Not steady. Not peaceful. More like a warning light on a detonator, getting impatient.

And then—

[System Quest Complete: The Well at the Edge Loot Window Active]

Loot Source: Balethor Voidwalker [Lvl 10]

Rarity: High

Remaining Time: 01:00:00

Unclaimed loot will be lost.

Well. That was a little on the nose.

I stared down at what used to be a rebel-slash-war-criminal-slash-moustache-enthusiast, now radiating loot potential. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained . . .

[System Notification: Loot Claimed]

Source: Balethor Voidwalker [Lvl 10]

Item Unlocked: Carapace of the Unwanted Honour

Classification: Rare (Bound – Iron Provocateur Only)

Slot: Chest Armour

Description: Hammered together from shattered expectations and stitched with obligation. Once worn by a general who won every battle he never chose to fight. It does not intimidate. It absorbs.

Stats:

- Armour Rating: Moderate

- Charisma: -1

- Endurance: +1

- +10% Threat Generation when under direct fire

- [Passive Effect: Burden Taken Willingly]

→ When guarding an ally, incoming damage is reduced by an additional 5%.

→ Gain +5% movement speed when outnumbered (3+ hostile entities nearby).

Set Synergy Detected: Vestments of the Reluctant Anvil (4/5)

→ Additional Set Bonus Unlocked:

- Unwelcome Mat now restores 15% Health and Stamina if damage is survived

- Aggro Magnetism no longer breaks on first Critical Hit

System Advisory:

They call it a burden. You call it Tuesday.

The mail sat heavy in my hands—dull metal, patchworked and scorched. It didn't gleam and it didn't shine. But the fit? It was disturbingly natural. And yeah, I felt the tug when the last buckle clicked home. A kind of low, magnetic hum in my chest. Like I'd just slotted another piece of the puzzle into place.

I wasn't wild about the Charisma drop. Like, going into the negatives? That couldn't be good, could it? What did that even mean?

In most of the games I'd played—back in the days when I still had thumbs unbroken and Friday nights to kill—Charisma was your silver tongue stat. Charm. Persuasion. Whether you could talk a barmaid out of a bar tab or convince a lich to lend you his phylactery for the weekend. Going into the red there… well, I figured it meant I'd stop being remotely charming and start being the conversational equivalent of a particularly nasty rash. Not just unable to win people over—I'd be actively pushing them away. Which… yeah.

Still. I wasn't here to seduce dragons or negotiate trade routes. I was a tank now. A big, angry sponge with a stick. And if the stick hurt more because my enemies couldn't stop looking at my big, off-putting gob, so be it.

Besides, the rest of the set bonuses? That was where the real gravy was.

Aggro Magnetism no longer getting kicked off by the first crit? Beautiful. Having that Rage Debuff stick around for longer would mean more focus pulled my way, more attacks soaked, and more space for everyone else to breathe. And Unwelcome Mat now gave me an extra 15% Health and Stamina if I survived the hit. That was basically free healing for doing my job. Bargain.

Sure, actually wearing this armour set would make me look like a crazy homeless guy who'd lost a fight with a scrapyard and wandered in from the Renaissance fair. But you couldn't argue with the stats. And, well. Maybe this whole 'build' was starting to make sense.

Then the notification dinged.

[System Alert: Level Up Achieved]

New Level: 3

Stat Points Available: +2

Trait Slot Unlocked: 1

I stared at it for a long moment. Still kneeling in the moss. Still covered in someone else's blood. Still holding onto the last breath of a girl who might yet die in my arms.

Level 3.

That was one more rung up the ladder. One more brick laid in the wall of whatever this version of me was going to become.

"Right then," I said to no one in particular. "Let's see what that gets me."