FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 132: Chapter 132: Elite At Mercy

Sol stood in the center of the glade, his silhouette etched in the fading golden light, looking down at Vurok with a cold, unwavering indifference.

“And what’s with the getup?” Vurok sneered, his voice cracking slightly despite his attempts at bravado. He gestured with his bronze sword toward the matte-black Cobra hide. “Found a dead snake and decided to play dress-up? You really look like a freak you are, Sol. A crippled, pathetic freak.”

Sol didn’t answer. He stood perfectly still, his center of gravity low and immovable. To his enhanced, Charcoal-tinted vision, Vurok wasn’t just a man; he was simply a map of vulnerabilities. He could see the frantic, uneven pulse in Vurok’s neck, beating like a trapped bird. He could hear the wet, hitching rattle in Vurok’s lungs and smell the acrid, sour scent of fear leaking through the man’s arrogant front.

Even the slightest twitch of his thumb on the hilt of his dagger, was laid bare in high-definition.

“Haaah…” Vurok exhaled, a sharp, jagged sound as he began to circle Sol, his boots crunching loudly on the dry leaves. “You know, this is actually perfect. I was just thinking about how much I needed to kill something today. Drogg and the others… they were trash, and went ahead and died without any reason, But you? Killing you will be a pleasure.”

“You talk too much, Vurok,” Sol said, his voice a low, dry rasp.

“Oh, do I?” Vurok’s eyes flashed with a bruised, manic rage. “You think because you survived a few hours in the woods you’re a man? I’m the elite! I’m the one who’s going to rule this tribe!”

Then without any warning, at least according to him, he lunged forward.

He was fast, his training evident in the way he channeled his weight into the thrust. The dagger whished through the air, aimed directly at Sol’s throat with lethal intent.

Sol didn’t parry. He didn’t jump back. He moved like the Cobra. With a slight, fluid twist of his hips,he moved an inch to the right, letting the bone dagger pass close enough to feel the cold wind of the dagger against his skin.

Whoosh.

Vurok stumbled forward, the momentum of his missed strike pulling him off balance. “What—?”

Before Vurok could even begin to recover, Sol’s hand shot out. It wasn’t a clumsy punch; it was a strike as fast and precise as a viper’s tongue. His palm slammed into Vurok’s ribs.

THUD.

“Oof!” Vurok gasped, the air being driven from his lungs in a wet, pathetic puff. He skidded across the dirt, clutching his side.

He scrambled back to his feet, his eyes wide with a burgeoning, watery disbelief. “How… how did you…?”

“Is that the best the ’elite’ can do?” Sol mocked, his voice entirely devoid of human emotion.

Vurok’s face turned a deep, bruised purple, the veins in his neck bulging like writhing worms. The color was a sickly mix of exhaustion and the absolute, shattering humiliation of a man whose worldview was being torn apart.

“You little piece of shit!” he roared, his voice cracking with a frantic, lethal edge. “I’ll gut you! I’ll peel that skin off your back while you’re still screaming! I’ll make you beg for death.”

He attacked again, this time with a wild, desperate kick aimed at Sol’s head. It was a clumsy, heavy-footed strike. Vurok wasn’t thinking as a warrior anymore; he was merely reacting to the agonizing shatter of his own ego. His training, his status, his “elite” pride… all of it was being mocked by the silent boy in the black scales.

Sol didn’t lunge or jump away. He didn’t even lift his hands to block. He simply shifted his weight. With a fluid, economy of motion that looked almost casual, he stepped a single inch to his right.

Whoosh.

The boot whistled through the air, missing Sol’s ear by a hair’s breadth. Vurok stumbled, the momentum of his missed strike pulling his body off-balance, forcing him to catch himself on a protruding root.

“Nngh!” Vurok grunted, his teeth bared in a snarl. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and watering, seeing Sol standing there… untouched, unbothered, and utterly indifferent.

“So, you rat bastard have learnt how to dodge… hmm!” Vurok hissed, his breath hot and smelling of raw meat and bile. He wiped a glob of foam from his lip, his voice trembling with a dark, festering malice. “But still, I’m going to kill you today. And then I’m going to find those little cousins of yours. I’m going to make them watch while I—”

Sol’s eyes turned cold…not the cold of ice, but the flat, empty cold of a grave. They shifted into a reptilian, Charcoal Grey, swallowing what little sunlight was left in the glade.

“Bad choice of words,” Sol whispered coldly.

In a blur of motion that Vurok’s eyes couldn’t even track, Sol moved. He didn’t punch. He didn’t even slap. He stepped into Vurok’s space, closing the distance in a heartbeat.

Sol’s knee flew upward, slamming into Vurok’s stomach with the terrifying force of a battering ram.

CRACK.

The sound of ribs snapping was loud and crystalline, echoing through the quiet glade like a dry branch breaking in a winter storm.

“Aaaagh! H-haaa…!”

The scream was cut short as the air was violently evacuated from Vurok’s lungs. He doubled over, his body folding around Sol’s knee like a piece of wet, discarded parchment. He clutched his stomach, his fingers digging into his own flesh as he finally collapsed.

He fell to his knees, his forehead hitting the dirt.

Splatter.

A thick, dark mixture of bile and blood hit the mud between his knees. His entire frame began to shake, a rhythmic, pathetic tremor of a body sliding into deep physiological shock.

“Gulk… h-haa… ohhhhh…” Vurok wheezed, retching again.

He coughed, the sound wet and bubbling, as more blood stained the emerald grass. He looked down at the mess he was making, his mind finally registering the staggering reality: the elite, the future chief, the master of the longhouse, was currently kneeling in the dirt, bleeding out before the “cripple” he had spent a lifetime mocking.

Meanwhile, Sol stood over him, his shadow engulfing Vurok’s shivering form. He didn’t look down with pity. He didn’t even look down with anger anymore. He looked down with the deep, cold satisfaction of a debt finally beginning to be paid.

“Y-you… !” Vurok spat, his voice a jagged edge of panic and primal rage. He tried to scramble to his feet, his fingers clawing at the dirt, leaving dark trenches in the soil. In a final, desperate act of ego, he swung a wide-arced, clumsy punch. “I’m the elite! You’re nothing! You’re just a broken—”

Sol didn’t even blink.

“Nothing?” Sol whispered, his voice a low, predatory hum that seemed to vibrate in Vurok’s very bones.

THUD.

Sol’s fist buried itself in Vurok’s cheek. The sound was heavy, the noise of meat hitting meat. Vurok’s head snapped back, his eyes rolling. Before he could fall, Sol jerked him forward by the hair and delivered a sharp elbow to the temple.

CRACK.

“Gah! H-haa…” Vurok slumped, his legs turning to jelly, but Sol caught him again, refusing to let the “Elite” find the mercy of the ground.