God Of Velmoryn [ LitRPG, Progression, High Fantasy ]

Lucas first reached the Yellow and Blue Tribes' squad. Dariel was nowhere in sight. Instead, Akrion stood at the center of a heated exchange with a warrior who wore light leather and carried twin blades strapped at his sides.

"Are you telling me those brainless creatures lured our frontliners into the open by retreating only to surround them?" Akrion's voice thundered, the thick vein on his forehead pulsing as his hand twitched near the hilt of his sword.

"Yes! And unless we send reinforcements right now, they'll be crushed!" the warrior shouted back, stepping closer until only a pace separated them.

"Know your place, warrior!" Akrion snapped. His voice dropped to a venomous hiss. His fingers wrapped around the pommel of his blade, knuckles whitening. "Raise your voice to me again and I'll see your head parted from your shoulders."

The twin-bladed warrior's hands darted to his hilts by instinct. His crimson eyes burned, but the moment passed with a sharp exhale. He forced his hands back to his sides, chest heaving. "I… apologize. I let anger speak for me. But the danger is real; we must act quickly."

Akrion's gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer before easing. His lips curved into a faint smile as he turned toward the front, where their line was being strangled by the encroaching swarm.

"I warned Dariel not to throw our strength away," he muttered, almost to himself. "Better to let the mages grind them down. Time is against the beasts."

"Vael Akrion." Lucas stepped forward, voice cutting through the noise. "I bring orders from Vael Lyle."

"Orders?" Akrion's head snapped around, his eyes narrowing with disdain. "I'm not hers to command."

Lucas pressed his lips together, holding his tongue.

"She asked me to deliver information. The pale spiders are commanding the rest. They must be our priorities. She also said the Crimson and Brown tribe's squad is going to push toward the Silver and Green. She urges you to do the same and unite our forces."

Akrion studied him in silence, the weight of his glare heavy enough to make Lucas shift uneasily. Finally, Akrion gave a curt nod and turned back.

"Then first we break the noose around our useless allies," he said, drawing the massive sword from his back in one clean motion. The blade gleamed in the dim light as he raised it high, his voice booming for all nearby to hear. "Rescue the frontline, then push to join the Silver and Green tribes!"

The twin-bladed warrior straightened immediately, his earlier anger sharpening into focus. He gave a brief nod and vanished into the ranks to pass the order.

Lucas dipped his head as well, but hesitated. His gaze lingered on the surrounded frontline.

"Should I aid Vael Dariel… or continue the mission?" The thought pressed hard on his consciousness. He clenched his jaw, forcing the decision, and turned around.

A moment later, he blurred, rushing toward the Green and Silver Tribes' squad.

…

Avenor had rejoined his group, chest rising and falling in heavy bursts. He wasn't exhausted - his body still held the strength to keep fighting, but his flesh was failing him. Most of his face had begun to rot, skin darkening in patches where veins bulged and pulsed with sickly green. Tiny boils, swollen and glossy, pocked his cheeks and hands, threatening to burst with every movement.

He staggered toward the section where other frontliners with similar afflictions waited. It was a grim ritual. Warriors marched forward to fight until they were poisoned or torn apart, then staggered back to the healer, only to be patched up and sent forward again. The cycle would continue until the nest was destroyed, or their bodies gave out for good.

When Avenor tried to crouch onto the bench, his legs gave way and he collapsed onto the seat. He had no clean blade wounds, but the blood of the pale gray spider had clung deeper than the others, and the rot spread faster, crawling under his skin like fire. The smell of it was even more unbearable; a sweet, sickly stench of flesh turning soft.

"I… n-need a healer," he forced out, his jaw moving unnaturally. The word tore a wound open, one of the boils bursting across his cheek. A stream of green pus ran down to his chin, stinging as it touched the fresh sores along his neck.

"We all need…" a Velmoryn beside him growled. But when his eyes landed on Avenor's face, he froze. The man's pupils widened. His jaw set. Then he roared, "Sebille! Sebille, now!"

Heads turned. The urgency in his voice attracted the attention of every wounded warrior nearby. Soon Sebille was rushing through them, her pale robe swaying, the half-moon pendant bouncing against her chest. Her hands already glowed with green light.

"Curses…" she breathed, her eyes darting over Avenor's face, his chest, his hands. "Why didn't you use your tribe's fruit?!" Her voice cracked as the aura around her palms flared brighter, the pendant at her neck responding with the same light.

Avenor's mouth twisted into something close to a smile, though the motion tore another wound open near his lip. His voice came low, ragged, nearly drowned by the bubbling hiss of his own rot.

"I'm not dead yet. Those are for when we can't stand at all."

Sebille's silver brows lifted, and for the briefest instant, a small smile softened her face. "Then I will make sure you never reach that point. Hold on, brave warrior."

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Light swelled. The green glow seeped into his skin, burning against the rot as though she pressed hot iron into him. His body jerked at the shock, and his hands searched for something to hold. They found Sebille's ankle beneath her robe. His fingers tightened until her pale skin blanched, but she gave no sound of pain, no sign of distraction or displeasure.

Sebille leaned closer, her hair catching the light. The rot shriveled where her mana touched it, flesh knitting back together one patch at a time. The stench lessened. The boils began to collapse, leaving raw but living skin in their place. And still Avenor clung to her leg, trembling as he endured the agony of being burnt alive.

"I swear, healing magic hurts worse than the wounds themselves," he said with a crooked grin. Only half his face obeyed, the other half stiff and unresponsive, locked by the lingering pain.

Sebille didn't take offense. She smiled brightly, and for a moment her hand brushed Avenor's palm that still clutched her ankle. His grip was iron, as though he feared letting go would drag him back into pain.

"Please… release me," she said gently, her voice warm and out of place amid the groans and shrieks around them.

Avenor flinched, snatching his hand back as if burned again. His head turned aside, long, pointy ears reddening against the pale ruin of his face.

"I… apologize…" The words came out broken, almost swallowed.

"I'm glad it distracted you." Sebille chuckled softly, the sound only deepening Avenor's shame.

He opened his mouth to speak again, to insist he hadn't meant to overstep, but Sebille was already withdrawing her hands. The green glow faded from her palms, and she produced a vial filled with thick red liquid.

"Drink this, then return to the front. They need your strength there," she said, her tone now firm, her silver eyes leaving no room for refusal.

Avenor snatched the vial, tilting it back at once. The liquid was bitter-sweet, pleasant to drink, but his trembling hands nearly spilled some before he gulped it down.

"I just…"

"Apologize after we've vanquished the evil," Sebille cut him off, eyes narrowing with sudden fire. She swept her hair back over her shoulder and darted to the next wounded Velmoryn without looking back.

For a long moment, Avenor remained still. His gaze followed her retreating figure until she vanished behind the injured Velmoryn, following her everywhere. Slowly, his lips tightened into a smile.

"Verde, I'm starting to like these people…"

He rose, adjusted the straps of his armor, and checked the balance of his blades before heading toward the front once more.

Each step was lighter than the last as the strength in his limbs returned, and with it, a sense of duty. He flexed his hands, testing the healed flesh. His lungs drew a steady rhythm again, though he winced after taking a deep breath - the air was sickly and heavy.

Then he heard Aria's voice.

"Vael Othrien, the mages request permission to consume another mana potion."

The old Vael leaned hard on his staff, the wood groaning under his weight. He wiped sweat from his brow, his long white beard clinging damply to his chest.

"How many has it been?" he rasped.

"This will be the third," Aria replied quietly.

"Third already…" Othrien muttered. His gaze shifted to the nest's heart, where the Mother's silhouette shimmered behind a veil of shadows. "We are not even halfway in, and they are already reaching their limits..." His eyes turned back. "Aria, what do you suggest?"

The question froze her. She hadn't expected him to ask, let alone in front of others.

"Without mana, the mages cannot support the frontline. And without our help, the warriors will collapse," she answered.

Othrien's lips parted as he drew a long, uneven breath.

"Then perhaps…" His tone faltered before hardening. "Perhaps we should call upon your God."

And with those words, regret coursed through me. My gaze shifted to the red notification window hovering at my side since Avenor had stepped into the nest.

The only good news the window had shown me was that Avenor was still considered my vessel. That meant reestablishing our connection was possible. But the rest of the information had stripped me of any chance to directly influence the battle. It was the same reason I hadn't brought the basilisk into the nest. Unlike Avenor, its rank was higher. Even if Gold was not extraordinary, two vessels fighting in the same place would almost certainly trigger a penalty, one I could not afford.

As I brooded over my uselessness, Aria sharply responded to Othrien.

"We do not ask our Lord for aid. The ways of High Father are beyond comprehension!" she declared, voice ringing with fervor. Her head was raised high, eyes bright with zeal.

Her conviction startled me more than Othrien. She meant every word.

Before the old Vael could respond, a bloodied warrior staggered toward them, his arm dangling limp at his side.

"Vael Othrien, the monsters are pulling back. What are your orders?"

Othrien's gaze hardened. "Where is Vael Shelya?" he asked, irritation curling in his tone.

"Still on the front, fighting them head-on," the warrior answered, his grimace splitting into something close to a grin. "I think she's the reason they're falling back."

"They are not retreating."

The voice cut in, and a crimson blur resolved into Lucas. He didn't waste a second before turning toward Othrien.

"Vael Othrien, I just saw the Yellow and Blue tribes. Their lines were dragged into the same trap - monsters feigning retreat, then circling back to surround them."

The old Vael's eyes widened, shock breaking through for only a heartbeat before he mastered it.

"Why are you here, warrior?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing.

"Vael Lyle sent me," Lucas responded, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "She requests that you push forward with full strength instead of bleeding ourselves dry slowly. The other squads are already advancing to regroup with you…"

And then, just as Lucas spoke, the cavern trembled.

It wasn't the ground but the air itself that shook, vibrating with a force so raw it made teeth chatter and armor hum. A sound followed, like thunder rolling through stone.

Most eyes snapped toward the Mother. But she remained unmoved. The monstrous form sat still in the shadows as though mocking their panic. But not all were fooled. A handful of Velmoryn, those whose magical perception was extraordinary, turned elsewhere. Their heads swiveled toward the Blue Tribe's position.

That pressure, that weight…

I knew it immediately. It was no spell. Not mana, not any natural force.

It was divine power.

Father of the Night and the Moons…