FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 77: Chapter 77: Public Anger

The sun was fully up when the procession reached the village square. It was the peak of the morning rush… hunters sharpening spears, women gathering water, elders gossiping in the shade.

The procession was a strange, almost ceremonial sight. Sol, looking handsome and surprisingly sturdy in his clean tunic, led the way, carrying the heavy, steaming cauldron with ease. Behind him, his three beautiful cousins walked in formation, carrying the various utensils and baskets like temple handmaidens, followed by Lyra, who walked with a new, serene confidence, carrying stacks of bowls made from dried gourds.

On the way, people looked at them with strange and curious gazes, wondering what they were doing.

“Is that… Sol?” a woman whispered, nudging her companion. “He looks… healthy.”

“What are they doing?” a man grunted, eyeing the heavy pot. “Moving house? Why are they carrying hot water across the village?”

Mockery rippled through the onlookers.

“Maybe the fever finally took his mind,” a hunter sneered. “Look at them, parading around like they caught a Mammoth.”

Strange and curious gazes followed them. Some were mocking, expecting the outcast family to trip and spill everything. Others were confused. But Sol ignored them all. He walked with a singular purpose, his eyes fixed on the center of the square.

Looking around he found a perfect spot under the massive Spirit Tree. He set up the cauldron on an empty raised platform that was usually reserved for drying herbs. Veyra and Arelia stood on either side like guards, while Liora arranged the stack of wooden bowls.

Sol didn’t shout. He didn’t hawk his wares like a desperate merchant. He stood with his arms crossed, leaning casually against the rough bark of the Spirit Tree, his eyes scanning the gathering crowd with a calm, almost arrogant detachment. He knew that in a world of bland boiled roots and charred meat, the nose was the strongest salesman.

He waited. He let the murmurs build. He let the mockery ferment.

“Look at them,” a woman whispered loud enough for her friends to giggle. “The cripple thinks he’s a Chief now, standing on the platform.”

“Maybe he’s boiling rocks,” a hunter scoffed, spitting on the ground. “Finally lost his mind completely. It’s sad, really.”

The ring of onlookers grew, drawn not just by the enticing smell, but by the spectacle of the “mad” outcast family making a fool of themselves. They expected a show of incompetence. They expected Sol to trip, or the pot to crack, or the water to be nothing but mud, anything to make fun of.

Sol watched the skepticism harden into derision. He waited until the tension was a physical weight in the air.

Then, he grabbed the lid of the pot.

“Behold,” he whispered, the single word cutting through the chatter.

He lifted the lid.

WHOOSH.

A cloud of thick, white steam billowed out, carrying the weaponized scent of the soup. It hit the cool morning air like a physical force, expanding rapidly outward, like a slap to their senses.

The smell was indescribable to them. It was savory roasted meat, but richer, deeper. It was the creamy, coating scent of rendered fat. It was the caramelized earthiness of the ’Root of Resilience.’ And cutting through it all was the spicy, tingling undertone of the chili… a scent that tickled the nose, watered the eyes, and woke up salivary glands of anyone within a fifty-foot radius.

It cut through the usual smells of the village… fruits, raw meat, dust, like a hot knife through butter.

The effect was immediate and violent.

Heads snapped around as if pulled by strings. Conversations died mid-sentence, mouths hanging open.

A group of women carrying water jars stopped dead, sniffing the air like hounds, their eyes dilating due to this strange scent. A couple of old men talking paused, their mouths watering uncontrollably, drool pooling at the corners of their lips.

Even a few hunters, usually arrogant and aloof, slowed down as they walked past, their nostrils flaring against their will, their stomachs betraying them with loud, traitorous growls.

“What… by the Spirits… what is that smell?” someone whispered, their voice thick with sudden, painful hunger.

“It smells like… meat? But stronger. Richer. Like the best feast I never had.”

The crowd began to drift toward the tree, drawn by an invisible hook. The skepticism wasn’t gone, but it was being violently assaulted by a primal need.

Sol stood behind the pot, arms crossed, wearing his best “mysterious chef” smile. He grabbed a large wooden ladle, dipped it into the thick, golden-red broth, and poured it back in from a height. The liquid glistened in the sunlight, pearls of red chili oil floating on the surface like jewels.

“This is called Soup,” Sol announced to the gathering crowd, his voice calm, inviting, and utterly confident. “The Ancestor’s Broth, taught by ancestors in my sleep, is guaranteed to warm your blood and lift your spirit.”

Immediately there were murmurs around him, discussing this strange thing called soup, some were skeptical about his claim, some believing him completely, due to their beliefs.

Suddenly, a large woman with a necklace of polished shells pushed her way to the front, using her elbows to clear a path. She was the wife of a skilled tanner, wealthy by tribal standards and used to getting what she wanted. She eyed the pot, licking her lips hungrily.

“I want some,” she declared, thrusting out a hand full of colorful beads. “I will trade these good beads. River glass. Absolutely rare.”

Sol didn’t even look at the beads. He shook his head smoothly. “No beads.”

The woman was immediately stunned, it was the first time someone had rejected these precious beads, otherwise she was the one always rejecting people.

Not caring about her reaction, a man offered a woven mat, holding it up. “For the mat? It is good weave, tight, and guaranteed to be comfortable.”

“No mats,” Sol said, his voice flat.

Another woman offered fur. “Then what about this soft fur?”

“No fur either,” Sol said, his voice still flat.

Then what?” the woman demanded, her face flushing with annoyance. The smell was driving her crazy, and his refusal was irritating. “What do you want? Clay vessel? Spearheads? Shells?”

“No, no, No, I don’t want any of that useless stuff,” he said.

“Then what?” shouted someone angrily.

Sol leaned forward over the pot, letting the steam frame his face.

“Food,” he announced, his voice carrying over the murmurs. “I only trade for food.”

There was an instantly ripple of loud murmurs, as if they couldn’t believe their ears. The hunger turned instantly into shock, and then into mocking anger.

“Food for food?” a hunter sneered from the back, laughing harshly. “That’s stupid! If I had food, why would I want yours? I can boil my own meat!”

“He’s mocking us!” another woman shouted. “He wants us to give him our hard-earned meat for his boiled water? Who does he think he is?”

“Greedy waste!” someone yelled. “He thinks because it smells good, he can rob us! You want my meat for a sip of broth? Dream on!”

The mood turned ugly. They felt tricked. The smell promised heaven, but the price seemed like a scam. They couldn’t afford to trade precious protein for soup, no matter how good it smelled. Survival came first.