God Of Velmoryn [ LitRPG, Progression, High Fantasy ]

"What took you so long?" The Velmoryn scout sneered, voice low but biting, his gaze sweeping across Cellia and her followers with the sort of slow, invasive scrutiny meant to study them. "You sent the signal two weeks ago. If you'd delayed even one more day, I wouldn't have waited... and our Vael shall not like this. I don't know how you handle things in your weak little tribe, but here, in the Blue Tribe, we don't tolerate incompetence."

Cellia's face fell, though she held herself still. She didn't turn to look, but the weight of her followers' stares pressed against her back all the same - sour with disappointment, silent with judgment. A single lookout was dressing her down in front of them, and no one dared to say anything. Her promises about freedom, power, respect… were already beginning to become less real.

"We came," she said at last, pressing her lips involuntarily. "What's done is done. Your Vael will understand the delay once he hears what happened." Her hand lifted slightly, indicating the faintly glowing stones placed in a ring around the snow-packed clearing. "These runes… are they what kept the beasts away?"

She pointed toward them, feigning curiosity. The question landed smoothly, her tone even, but it made her look even less confident. She was clearly changing the subject. Redirecting attention from the trace of amusement tugging at the scout's mouth.

"Yes," he replied, nodding once. The smirk didn't vanish entirely, but it dimmed. "They're our warding arrays."

Then his gaze sharpened. "What about you? How did you make it this far, with the forest full of winter beasts?"

He glanced past her as he spoke, like a man checking for signs of an ambush. I saw the brief shimmer of mana pulse along his skin as his pupils got brighter, just slightly.

Cellia hadn't brought anyone beyond the handful now huddled near the campfire. No scouts in hiding, no extra blades waiting in the trees. But someone else had come with them, or rather had followed close behind. I'd already decided none of them would reach the Blue Tribe. Not with what the information they carried. Even if the fear of possible penalties made me unwilling to use the divine power directly, that didn't mean I was helpless.

Still, I waited. I wanted to learn as much as I could; killing them now or a few hours later made no difference.

"I used my father's artifact your Vael gave him," Cellia said, reaching beneath her coat and withdrawing a bone necklace; each ornament was etched with runes, now faintly pulsing with mana. She held it out for the scout to see. "They seem to be the same runes..."

"That so?" Scout murmured, eyeing it. "That reminds me - where is your father? I was told to escort Joriel back to…"

"He's dead," Cellia cut in, the words flat and cold. "The Yellow Tribe is no longer ruled by the council. They are… I'll explain the rest to your Vael once we arrive."

She likely realized that telling the scout everything now would be foolish. She was probably hoping to trade it for leverage later. Information was all she had left after all. That and the power of fifty Velmoryns

The scout's expression stiffened.

"You've called Lord Akrion 'your Vael' thrice now," he said with disdain, taking a step closer to Cellia like he was challenging her. "If you want to join our tribe, then he's your Vael too. Isn't it time you started acting like one of the Blue Tribe?!"

The scout had been plainly mocking her. He wasn't just a lookout; he was gauging her. Likely ordered to probe how desperate Cellia and her followers were, how low they might stoop just to be accepted. And right now, her silence, the way she swallowed every insult without flinching, was doing more damage than she realized. It would definitely mark her not as a guest or ally, but as expendable. The kind of burden the Blue Tribe would gladly throw into the fire when war came.

But I had no intention of letting her reach the Blue Tribe.

Roughly two hundred meters out from the camp, scales darker than dried blood slithered through the snow, slicing it apart with slow, unhurried force. Obsidian plates shifted with each movement, carving a jagged trail in the white. I had sent the basilisk ahead long before Tekla and the others had reached the Yellow Tribe. Before the beast wave struck the settlement.

It had no other role anyway. Right now, its existence was a cycle of growth - hunt, devour, get stronger. So I had placed it near Tekla's path, just in case.

And now, it would finally be tested.

The Velmoryns around the fire weren't elite warriors. Cellia was the only one emanating any significant magical pressure. Still, their numbers made them a threat, and I had no way of knowing what artifacts they might be hiding. Cellia, for one, was definitely concealing several enchanted items she must have inherited from her father. And while I doubted the Blue Tribe had entrusted a mere scout with anything valuable, I couldn't outright disregard the possibility.

Even so, I didn't question the basilisk's strength. It had been formidable the day I created it. And since then, it had only grown fiercer, its body honed on a steady diet of powerful beasts. I'd noticed it shared something in common with Avenor - the ability to grow stronger after each kill. Though the gains were smaller, much smaller.

The basilisk had halted now, settling just a hundred meters from the camp's edge. Its crimson eyes locked onto the clearing with eerie stillness. The warding runes meant to repel beasts hadn't worked. Not on this one. Not even slightly.

Its tongue flicked out, again and again, involuntarily. A reflex. Despite my consciousness riding beneath its skin, the creature's instincts still bled through. I doubted it even needed the tongue to sense anything - its eyes saw better than most forest predators, and its sense of smell was honed to an unnatural degree, putting the bloodhound to shame. But still, it obeyed its nature, indulging the ancient impulses buried deep in its mind.

It crouched low, silent and motionless, coiled and watching. Waiting for my command.

"Did you bring what you promised?" the scout asked, tightening the straps across his leather jerkin while simultaneously kicking the snow into the fire. Steam hissed up as the flames sputtered and shrank beneath the slush.

"Don't… we are tired and need to rest," a female Velmoryn almost cried behind Cellia, her voice muffled by the thick veil wrapped around her. One hand slipped free from the cloth, calloused and trembling, and her rounded belly jutted out from beneath a fraying rope sash.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The scout didn't so much as glance at her. His eyes stayed locked on Cellia, his brow lifting with the indifference of someone who believed he held all the leverage. The unspoken question in his stare was clear: Why hadn't she answered?

"I'll explain everything to y… Vael Akrion," Cellia began, but the words barely left her lips before he cut her off.

"No," he said flatly, irritation clinging to his tone. "You'll tell me now. Because if you haven't brought it, I've been told to leave you and your... servants behind."

His gaze drifted over her followers as he said the last word, and the way his lips curled in disdain sent a sharp twinge through me. It wasn't subtle. He looked at them like one might glance at a trail of muddy footprints left across a polished floor. Unwanted. Filthy. Below him.

And the worst part was, it felt familiar.

I had spent much of my former life convinced that same look was on every face around me. Whether it truly was or not didn't matter. I had seen it in mirrors more than anywhere else. Cast from my own eyes. My own self-loathing, projected like a curse.

Watching him wear that same expression now… it stirred something primal. Even though his glare wasn't aimed at me, I felt the urge rise - overwhelming, irrational. A flash of divine impulse. I could have smitten the bastard on the spot. Turned him into a smear of heat and regret.

But I didn't.

I had to refrain from using divine power directly on mortals, and besides, I needed to hear what Cellia had promised them.

Her face turned a shade redder, flushed not with embarrassment but with the sort of rage that shows itself just beneath the skin. She bit down hard on her lower lip. Blood welled there, dark and sudden. For a moment I thought she might snap. But she didn't.

"Here," she said, voice trembling.

She flicked her wrist like an illusionist. Light bent for the briefest moment, and then something appeared in her palm - a stone, yellow-gold in color, smooth and faintly glowing. It shimmered in the dull light of the snow-muted afternoon, catching the dim reflection of the fire the scout had tried to kill. But the visuals aside, what caught my attention was the faintest trace of divine power I felt from it. It was decided, I needed that stone no matter what.

"But I'll only give it to the Vael." Cellia's voice grounded me back to the real world.

The scout stared at the stone for a beat too long. Then he smiled. A thin, satisfied curve of the mouth, as if all was now proceeding exactly as expected. For the first time, his gaze held something close to approval.

"Get ready," he said. "We leave immediately."

That was all the signal I needed.

Letting them pack and prepare would only make things messier. The basilisk was still in place, watching from beneath the trees, crimson eyes fixed on the camp like twin coals in the dark. I gave the command and prepared for what came next.

I was both curious and resolved.

Curious to see how strong my precious basilisk was.

Resolved to make sure none of them reached the Blue Tribe alive.

The Velmoryns began moving with visible reluctance, slowly packing their half-unpacked bags and quietly complaining that they hadn't even had time to warm their frozen and numb limbs. None of them noticed the death that had already begun stalking them, coiling through the trees.

The basilisk moved like a shadow between branches, its obsidian, dark red scales catching only the faintest gleam of snowlight. It had grown clever. After tearing through dozens of varnoks, it had learned that the trees offered more than concealment - they offered height, momentum, the perfect vantage for a killing strike. There was no defense against something ten times your size suddenly crashing down from above.

And then it struck.

A blur of crimson and black dropped from the treeline like a collapsing star, the weight of its body snapping branches as it fell. Its jaws opened wide. Its fangs aimed directly at Cellia. She had been marked the moment it sensed her - the strongest presence, the greatest threat. Magic clung to her like a second skin. To the basilisk, that made her the first to die.

But death miscalculated.

One of the Velmoryns lunged toward her in a panicked burst of motion. Whether out of loyalty or reflex, he collided with her at the last possible moment, shoving her aside just as the basilisk's shadow fell over them.

Its jaws closed not on Cellia but on him.

There was no resistance. No scream. The sound of his body snapping in half echoed like dry wood cracking in a furnace. But the beast didn't linger. It tossed the corpse aside and surged forward again, slithering with unnatural speed, bearing down on Cellia, who was still reeling on the ground, her hands scrambling in the snow.

She started to cast.

But she wasn't Aria. Her casting speed wasn't even close.

The magical diagram began forming above her, lines of dark green etching themselves into the air, but she knew it was too slow. The basilisk wouldn't wait. She severed the spell mid-channel, willingly receiving a backlash that hit her like a punch to the skull. Blood spilled from her nose and ears. Her hands shook violently as she reached for the veilspace, which she clearly had.

She brought out a hidden artifact, looking like a bird's skull, with a gasp of pain.

The runes appeared on the skull as she forced mana into it, and just before the basilisk's teeth could close around her head, a golden barrier erupted into being, hexagonal and humming. Its surface cracked under the impact, but held.

The basilisk recoiled, jaws repelled. It studied her again, tongue flicking as if in annoyance.

Then it turned from her entirely.

It wasn't mindless. It realized that there was no reason to waste time and effort on Cellia now, not while the artifact held. She was trapped, injured, and bleeding mana just to survive. She wouldn't be running anywhere.

So the basilisk moved on.

It shifted direction and began its work in earnest.

The camp descended into chaos.

Velmoryns scattered like insects from a shattered nest. No formation, no coordination. Just panic. Without Cellia to lead them, no one tried to rally the others. Everyone was too busy fleeing.

The basilisk ignored the weak. It went after the ones it sensed as threats - those who burned with stronger life, or carried something it deemed dangerous. It tore through them with ease, striking only when it saw opportunity. And always, it kept angling in one direction.

Toward the scout.

He was running now, truly running. The smug look was gone, the mockery gone. His legs pumped desperately through the snow, but outrunning a basilisk on foot was unreal, especially for someone who seemed not to have a skill designed to improve mobility.

Still, the man struggled as hard as he could. He whistled nonstop, likely trying to summon a skalvyr and flee, but no beast would willingly get close to the basilisk, which was already just a few steps away.

The giant snake lunged like a spring uncoiled, faster than anything that size should be allowed to move. The scout tried to dodge, throwing himself sideways into a clumsy dive, but it was no use. Fangs closed around his leg. He screamed. Blood smeared the snow behind him as he tumbled, rolling once, then twice, before landing hard on his side.

The basilisk reared back, ready to finish it.

Then something flickered in the scout's hand.

He fumbled beneath his jacket, blood soaking the snow beneath him, and pulled a small circular disk, dark metal etched with glowing red runes.

He pushed a sliver of mana into it. Just enough.

A pulse. Then a shimmer. A half-moon symbol on it.

Beside him, the air split in a jagged vertical seam, folding inward to reveal a glowing purple portal. It was unstable - vibrating, distorted, barely large enough to fit a single grown Velmoryn. But I knew it.

I'd seen it before. I had felt that same energy.

Father of the Night and the Moons…