FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 162: Chapter 162: Modern Analogies In Front Of Primordial Goddess

She gestured to the ground… or rather, the network of glittering tunnels that seemed to weave through the void.

“The Earth Realm,” Isylia said, her voice dropping to a heavy rumble. “Massive underground kingdoms made of precious gems and living stone. There is no sky here, only the ceiling.”

The illusion showed vast caverns lit by glowing crystals the size of houses. Small, stout figures… Gnomes and Earth-Elementals… moved through the rock as if it were water.

Sol squinted at the illusion. “So basically dwarves with OCD. Hoarders who live in caves and polish rocks all day.”

Isylia blinked, frowning. “What is… ’O‑C‑D’? Is that a tribe? A clan of dwarves you know?”

Sol groaned. “No, it’s… never mind. Forget it. Just… obsessive. Like, they collect shiny crap and never stop.”

Isylia tilted her head, unimpressed. “That is not obsession. That is wisdom. They cultivate ’Crystal Crops’,” Isylia pointed out. “Gemstones that grow like corn, storing solar energy for centuries. They are hoarders, Sol. They value silence, solidity, and accumulation. They believe that if you wait long enough, everything eventually turns to stone.”

Sol muttered under his breath. “Yeah, sounds like my grandma’s attic. Except with more glowing rocks.”

Isylia narrowed her eyes. “Your grandmother keeps solar gemstones in her attic?”

Sol threw his hands up. “No! It’s an analogy! Forget it. You wouldn’t get it.”

Isylia smirked, clearly enjoying his frustration. “You speak nonsense, bug. Strange words, strange comparisons. Yet somehow you think it makes you clever.”

Sol jabbed a finger at the illusion. “I am clever! Look at this place… underground hoarders farming crystals like potatoes. That’s not wisdom, that’s Minecraft with better graphics.”

Isylia’s brow furrowed. “Mine… craft? You mortals craft mines now?”

Sol groaned, dragging his hands down his face again. “Oh my god. I give up. Forget it. Just… keep talking before I lose my mind.”

Isylia chuckled, her solar eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “You already lost it, bug. That’s why you keep spitting out these strange words no one understands. You really are a poor soul. May the Goddess bless you… wait—” she tapped her chest with mock solemnity, “I am the Goddess. Ahem. Well, I won’t waste blessings on a mortal like you. You’re better off lost.”

Sol groaned, muttering under his breath, “Yeah, thanks for the pep talk. Really motivational.”

Ignoring him, Isylia raised her hand again. The illusion shifted, the chaotic swirl of fire and water dissolving into a calmer, airy expanse.

Finally, she pointed to the sky, where islands floated in a sea of clouds. Vast landmasses drifted lazily, tethered to nothing, their edges glowing faintly with lightning. Bridges of storm‑thread connected some of them, while others spun freely, like colossal dice thrown across the heavens.

“And the Wind Realm.” she declared, her voice carrying a faint echo, as though the air itself bent to her words. “A world of floating islands and perpetual flight. Avian humanoids, Sylphs and other wind elementalists live in cities woven from cloud-silk and solidified lightning. They never touch the ground because there is no ground. If you fall, you fall forever until you starve or hit a wind shear that tears you apart.”

Sol squinted at the illusion. “So basically… sky islands. Great. Looks like someone ripped off a video game level.”

Isylia frowned. “Video… game? You keep saying these things. What is a ’game’?”

Sol groaned. “It’s… never mind. Just imagine mortals pretending to fight monsters for fun.”

Isylia tilted her head, unimpressed. “Mortals already fight monsters for survival. Why would they pretend?”

“Because it’s fun!” Sol snapped. “Unlike falling forever until you starve or get shredded by wind shear. Jesus, this place is like a nightmare designed by a sadistic sky‑engineer.”

Isylia smirked. “Sadistic? No. Efficient. The Wind Realm weeds out the weak. Only those who master the currents survive.”

Sol jabbed a finger at the drifting islands. “Efficient my ass. That’s not efficiency, that’s cosmic trolling. ’Oops, you tripped, now enjoy falling for eternity.’ What do they even do up there? Build cloud houses? Host bird‑man tea parties?”

Isylia’s solar eyes gleamed with amusement. “They weave palaces from storm‑threads and lightning. They ride the winds like chariots. They sing songs that can split the sky. And yes… they drink tea. But it is brewed from thunderclouds.”

Sol blinked. “…Thundercloud tea? That sounds like something a hipster would sell for fifty bucks a cup.”

Isylia narrowed her eyes. “Hip… ster? Another of your nonsense tribes?”

Sol threw his hands up. “Forget it. Just… keep talking before I lose the last two brain cells I have left.”

sylia chuckled, her voice sharp as a blade. “You already lost them, bug. That’s why you keep babbling about tribes that don’t exist. But fine. The Wind Realm is a place of freedom, danger, and endless sky. And you? You would be a splatter mark on the first island you missed.”

Sol glared at her, muttering, “One day, I’m gonna survive one of these damn realms just to shut you up.”

Isylia smirked, folding her arms. “And when you fall screaming into the abyss, I’ll laugh so hard the winds themselves will carry the sound forever.”

The illusion warped violently, the neat quadrants of fire, water, earth, and wind collapsing into a blinding storm of colors. Sol winced, throwing his arm over his eyes as the kaleidoscope stabbed at his vision. He peeked through his fingers, squinting at the changing scene again. “So, it’s not just chaos,” he murmured, his brain scrambling to impose order on the madness. “It’s organized chaos. It’s a resource map.”

“Precisely,” Isylia said, her tone sharp but faintly approving, as if she were surprised he managed to keep up. “And it is populated by all kinds of Elemental Spirits born from pure elements. Not biological life, but sentient energy.”

She gestured, and the storm parted to reveal tiny, glowing specks drifting like fireflies.

“Elemental Wisps,” she said. “Pure energy lifeforms. They are the bottom of the food chain, used as messengers or resources. Disposable, but necessary.”

The illusion shifted again, showing colossal shapes lumbering through the void — walking storms, living waves, mountains of flame and tide.

“And above them,” she continued, “the massive Elementals. Barely sentient, but powerful. They are forces given shape, storms that walk, waves that think.”

She looked at him, her solar eyes suddenly serious.

“Status here is determined by one thing: Purity. How pure is your elemental blood? A fire spirit with a trace of smoke in its soul is a servant, a lower-caste worker. A fire spirit made of white-hot plasma is a King. A water spirit made of muddy river water is a peasant; one made of glacial purity is a Queen.”

Sol nodded, his “cultured” brain processing this. “So, it’s a caste system based on chemical composition. Great. Racist elements. Love it. Now I can be fully racist without being judged.”

Isylia’s solar eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a cruel smile. “Racist? You mortals invent strange words for things that are simply truth. Purity is power. Impurity is weakness. That is the law here.”

Sol snorted. “Yeah, sure. Sounds like every shitty aristocracy I’ve ever read about. ’Oh, your plasma isn’t hot enough, guess you’re stuck scrubbing lava toilets.’ Real progressive system.”

Isylia tilted her head, clearly not understanding the analogy. “Lava… toilets? You mortals defecate in fire?”

Sol groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “No! It’s a joke. Forget it. You wouldn’t get it.”

Isylia smirked, enjoying his frustration. “You are right. I do not get it. But I do get this: in the Elemental Realm, impurity means servitude. And purity means dominion. That is the way of things.”

The illusion pulsed, the swirling biomes collapsing into a blinding storm of colors. Sol winced again, shielding his eyes.

“Jesus Christ, my retinas!” he shouted. “What now? Did someone shove a rainbow into a blender and hit max power?”

Isylia’s voice dropped to a hiss, heavy with disdain. “It is not a rainbow, bug. It is the faction you must avoid at all costs. A faction that hates all others.”

“The Prismatic Kings,” she whispered.

Sol saw them. They weren’t humanoid. They were geometric shapes of pure, shifting light… tetrahedrons of neon blue, spheres of burning gold, fractals of violent violet. They moved with jerky, glitch-like motions.

“Beings of pure color and light,” Isylia explained, a trace of genuine disgust in her voice. “They view ’flesh’ as a disease. They believe biological life is a mistake… a wet, sticky corruption of pure energy. To them, blood is filth. Bones are dust.”

She looked Sol up and down.

“They are very hostile to flesh-living beings like you. If a Prismatic King sees you, he won’t talk to you. He won’t trade with you. He will unravel your atomic structure just to ’clean’ the stain you leave on the air.”

Sol stumbled back, swearing. “Oh, fantastic. Rainbow fascists. Cosmic janitors with genocidal tendencies. Perfect. Can’t wait to get atom‑vacuumed by a glowing Rubik’s Cube.”

Isylia smirked. “They would not vacuum you. They would unravel you. Piece by piece. Until nothing remained.”

“Fuck that. Fuck rainbows,” Sol spat, waving his arms at the kaleidoscope storm as if he could shoo it away. “I always knew rainbows were cursed, but damn, this is a whole new level. Anyways… flesh is good. I like my flesh. So, fuck rainbow people.”

“Wise,” Isylia noted dryly, her solar eyes gleaming with amusement.

Sol, trying to claw his way back to something useful, cleared his throat. “So… hypothetically… if I were to visit one of the safer realms… like the Earth Realm… could I bring back those Crystal Crops? You know, shiny rocks that grow like corn. Sounds profitable.”

Isylia smirked, her lips curling into that cruel little smile she wore whenever she smelled greed. “Greedy bug. Yes, you could. But remember… the realms are at war. The Fire Realm hates the Water Realm. The Earth Realm ignores the Wind Realm. If you carry the scent of one, the others will hunt you. You’d be marked the moment you crossed borders.”

She waved her hand, dismissing the elements. The storm of fire and ice vanished, leaving them back in the obsidian silence of the Void Temple.

“And that,” she sighed, rubbing her neck, “is the Elemental Realm. A bomb waiting to go off. Full of riches, full of death, and full of people who hate you because you have skin.”

She looked at him, her expression bored.

“Any questions before I move on? Or has your little brain melted?”

“One question! Why is every realm you show me just another creative way to kill me? Fire cultists, drowning politicians, OCD rock hoarders, sky‑engineer sadists, and now rainbow death‑squads. Is there any realm where I don’t immediately implode?”

Isylia chuckled, her voice sharp as a blade. “No. That’s the fun part.”

Sol glared at her. “Fun for you. For me, it’s just a cosmic slideshow of creative death. You’re basically running a travel agency for nightmares. ’Come visit the realms, guaranteed to kill you in five seconds or less.’”

Isylia chuckled, her voice sharp as a blade. “And yet you keep asking for more. Greedy bug. You want riches, power, glory… but you whine when I show you the cost. You mortals are hilarious.”

Sol jabbed a finger at her. “I don’t whine, I complain. There’s a difference. Whining is pathetic. Complaining is… survival commentary.”

Isylia tilted her head, smirking. “Survival commentary? You won’t survive long enough to write one.”

Sol groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “God, you’re insufferable. Fine. What’s next? What’s the next realm in your little death‑tour? Let me guess… the Flesh Realm, where everything is made of meat and the floor is tongues?”

Isylia’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Not Tongue, but we do have a close one.”