Aggro Litrpg || Progression Fantasy

The dot approached my village at a glacial pace, giving me plenty of opportunity to get a plan of action together.

The funny thing was, though, that I wasn't really sure how, in this new realm, to make best use of this build-up time. In my old job, hiding in wait from an unsuspecting mark was practically my entire wheelhouse. Given enough prep and enough patience, I used to be able to pretty much vanish in a corridor full of security cameras and twitchy guards and be halfway through someone's filing cabinet before anyone even noticed anything was wrong. Urban environments, woodland, tunnels, rooftops, it didn't really matter. If it had a blind spot, I'd find it. If it didn't, I'd make one.

And I was good. Cover. Concealment. Movement without profile. Timing a heartbeat to the rhythm of a passing security guard. Knowing how long someone would hesitate when they thought they heard something but weren't sure. How to turn hesitation into an opening and an opening into silence.

I'd been drilled in all the tricks. I'd been top of the class. Once upon a time.

However, the problem right now was that none of that really applied anymore.

My new Class pretty much tore the whole concept of 'stealth' out by the roots, threw it on the bonfire and topped it up with petrol. As far as I could tell, being an Iron Provocateur ensured that I was, by System design, about as subtle as a lighthouse. And thanks to my Aggro Magnetism, which had recently levelled up, just to really hammer the point home, my entire role now boiled down to waving a flag that said I'M OVER HERE, COME HIT ME in big flashing letters.

I wasn't just bad at sneaking anymore. I was metaphysically obligated to be loud.

Plus, whatever else the Well was — power source, anchor point to my old realms, and Health drainer— it was pretty clear to me that it was also broadcasting a signal for all the things that slithered and scraped at the underside of the Threshold. Even ignoring my Class, I wasn't just a guy minding his own business out here anymore, waiting for his colleague to heal up. I was sitting on a very loud Shadow magnet.

Which meant, in these circumstances, I didn't have a lot of ambush planning experience to fall back on.

I did a slow 360 of the clearing just to fix the place in my mind. Not that it mattered, everything was all pretty empty. Other than the Medical Hut and the outline of the Village Hall, there were just a few logs – I swapped out my broken stick for a new one - some half-shattered walls from the Balethor fight, and the growing pile of wood my shadow-born workers were stacking like very earnest, very haunted lumberjacks.

The dot in the minimap was still moving towards me. Not fast. Not aggressively. But moving.

Every instinct I had told me this wouldn't be like the skirmishes earlier. This thing wasn't probing for weakness or looking for an easy kill. It was moving with slow purpose, like it already knew exactly where I was—and exactly what it wanted. And I doubted, whatever it was, it wasn't going to leave without a fight.

I knelt down beside the Well again, resting my palm lightly against the stone, feeling the steady hum vibrating up through my bones. It wasn't screaming yet. That was good. But it wasn't passive either. The pressure was building again. Was there going to be another tear in the Veil?

This place was barely a village yet. Just a well, a hut, some stubborn bruises, and a couple of overenthusiastic skeletons chopping wood. It wasn't ready for a siege.

Neither was I.

Still, if I couldn't hide, and I couldn't run, there was only one thing left to do.

I prepared my ground. I moved a few fallen branches around, kicked a couple of rocks into better positions. Just little adjustments, here and there, to make sure that when whatever-it-was came through those trees, I'd have at least a fighting chance to meet it on terms slightly less suicidal than "standing out in the open waving."

Old habits don't die easy. Even when the System wanted me to be bait, I could still be smart bait.

And then the dot crossed the treeline, and all my planning went out the window.

[System Alert: Hostile Entity Detected]

> Name: Shadow-Ogrin

> Level: 95

> Disposition: Methodical | Siege-Oriented

> Notable Traits: Dense musculature, siege instincts, partial structural targeting behaviour

> Mana Affinity: [Moderate – Shadow-Aligned]

> Combat Style: Advance-and-break | High-priority anchor fixation

> [System Advisory: Entity exhibits abnormal resilience to attrition tactics.]

> [Source: Threshold Distortion – Uncatalogued]

> [Veil Integrity: Stressed | Anchor Node: Threatened]

> [Warning: Shadow-Ogrin contact with Accumulation Pool will trigger destabilisation cascade.]

> [Recommended Action: Intercept before proximity threshold breached.]

Intercept.

Sure. Why not? Level 95? I'll get right on that.

The thing coming out of the trees wasn't built the way anything natural should be. The proportions were close enough to fool me at first glance. It had arms, legs, and a thick torso like stacked slabs of broken road. But it was in the details where it fell apart. This thing's skin looked... poured on. Streaks of black seeped through splits in its hide like oil bleeding out of cracked stone. Veins beat quickly under its surface, but I didn't think they were being controlled by any kind of heartbeat. It was much too quick. Like hurricane pressure building offshore.

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The head was worse. It didn't have tusks, a heavy brow or a snarling mouth. It was just an especially heavy-boned, almost humanoid face. Its eyes were filled with a slow, inexorable focus on the centre of the clearing where the Well waited.

And its arms dragged slightly on the ground as it moved, not because of any weakness, but because there was just too much mass on board for it to carry cleanly. Every few steps, one of its shoulders shuddered, almost like it had forgotten how to stay in one piece. The talons at the end of each arm weren't sharpened weapons either, but they were thick, crude, bludgeoning tools, built for smashing through idiot tanks that stood in their way.

It moved towards me like it had all the time in the world to kill me, and no particular hurry to get it done. Which, considering the ninety-odd level gap between us, felt a bit like a foregone conclusion.

So when it opened its mouth and actually spoke with low, broad vowels twisting the words into something that sounded halfway between threat and lazy friendliness, I was more than happy to make conversation.

"How wide's your aura, then?"

I answered without thinking, instincts screaming while my mouth got ahead of my brain. "You're about three metres short of it."

"Reckon I'll stay just here then," it said. "Wouldn't want to lose my mind an' squish you 'fore we had chance to speak."

"Sure," I said, because what else do you say to that? "I wouldn't want that either."

It turned its head, slow and deliberate, and scanned the clearing. Its gaze caught on my shadow-labourers, still dutifully scraping wood together in that mindless rhythm.

"Remnant bones?"

"Yeah," I said. "Found some stuck to my boots. Figured it was a sign."

"Good workers," it rumbled. "Treat 'em right, mind. They remember."

I nodded, mostly because I was terrified and also, honestly, how do you mistreat undead shadow labourers? Give them unpaid overtime? Shine lanterns on them? I decided it wasn't the time to ask.

A long silence stretched between us. Every part of me was still expecting the inevitable lurch forward. The crash of muscle and bone as this thing tore me apart without thinking, and then moved on to destroy the Well.

However, the creature just stood there, massive arms loose at its sides, the rain running off its bulk like it didn't even notice. "Weren't sure," it said eventually, "if another Warden would rise."

"Think 'rise' is doing a bit of heavy lifting there," I said. "I'm still trying to figure this all out if I'm telling the truth."

The creature rumbled a sound that wasn't quite a laugh, but the depth of the vibration set the ground underfoot to humming.

"Bayteran's not for us," it said. "Never was. Not for our kind. But the tear..." It slowly shook its broad, stone-like head. "The tear calls. Calls the wild-blooded. The untethered. Fools, mostly. Young ones that haven't learned what waits past the hunger."

It lifted one huge hand, flexing fingers like uprooted tree stumps, and stared at them as if remembering something sour. "They run through the breach without sense. They think Bayteran will welcome 'em. That they'll carve a place here. Instead, they find dust. Hunger. Fear. And death. So much death. Of your kind and ours."

I said nothing.

The idea that this creature was standing there talking to me like a disappointed uncle who pitied the things I'd been slaughtering all day was... disorienting. I'd thought the Shadows were a mindless tide. Creatures of malice and void. But this thing? This thing had perspective. Regret.

"I don't much like losin' my kin to hunger an' dust," it said, quieter now. "Better they stayed beyond. Better they remembered what we are meant to be. And you," it said, "kin of a Warden. Do you know what you stand guard over?"

"I'm starting to get the idea," I said, keeping my hands loose and visible. No point pretending we were anything close to equals here.

"Did Margaret train you well?"

"You knew Aunt M?"

"Knew her?" it said, with a sound like boulders grinding together. "No. 'Knew' is too small a word. Respected her? Aye. Feared her, even. She wasn't just another Warden. She was acknowledged as the Guardian. The last true one left to hold the shallow places when the deep ones failed."

It shifted its massive weight slightly, as if uncomfortable with the memory. The rain hissed off its shoulders like smoke.

"She bore the weight of the Threshold when others turned away. Held the breaches closed with mind and will and blood, when lesser souls would have fled. And when they came for her, when the debt came due, she stood until the standing killed her."

It paused, and for the first time, there was something almost human in its voice. "She didn't deserve how it ended. Not for all she gave. And I'm glad another stands now," it said. "Glad her bloodline still answers the call. Hope you hold, lad. Hope you last."

I had all sorts of questions. "And if I don't?" was the first one that bubbled to the top.

"Well, then I come back. And we dance different, lad."

"Awesome."

It looked at me properly then. Its heavy gaze travelled from my torn clothes to the stick still half-clenched in my hand like some idiot hero out of a bad folk song.

"No weapon?" It said, and then reached up into the air with a casual push into a part of the world I couldn't see. Like it slipped its hand into the folds of an invisible coat. The mist around its arm thickened and coalesced as it rummaged - properly rummaged – until its fingers closed on something unseen, and with a grunt of effort, pulled a shape out of the air. Heavy. Blunt. Ugly.

Without ceremony, without a word, it tossed it toward me.

The ground thudded under the impact, the force of it rattling up my boots and into my knees. Dust puffed out from the crater it left, and lying there, half-sunken into the wet earth, was a weapon.

It wasn't pretty. It wasn't sleek or polished. It looked like it had been built by someone who thought subtlety was a waste of metal.

It was perfect.

A rough-forged morningstar, black iron banded over a thick oak haft.

[System Notification: New Equipment Acquired]

> Name: Threshold-Warped Morningstar

> Class Compatibility: Iron Provocateur – Confirmed

> Type: One-Handed Blunt Weapon

> Rarity: Growth Item

> Current Level: 3 (Auto-Sync to User Level)

> Base Damage: 24-32

> Effects:

> – +5% Stagger Chance

> – +5% Impact Force

> – Rage Strike: Striking a target under Rage Debuff applies [Unbalance] (5s duration)

System Commentary:

Some gifts are heavier than they look.

Swing well.

I moved forward slowly, the creature stepping back to keep the distance between us, and hefted it. It felt... right. Heavy enough to matter. Light enough to move.

"Gift," the Ogrin said. "I suspect you'll need it."

He turned then, slow as the tide, and loped back toward the trees, fading into the misty shadows between the boles like he'd never been there at all.

"Be watchin'," he called back. "Don't disappoint me, kin of Margaret."

And then he was gone.

I stood there for a long moment, the morningstar in my hand, the Well audibly sighing with relief behind me and the shadow labourer scratching at their endless work.

Then—and only then—I let out a long, insane breath I hadn't realised I was holding.

Holy shit.