FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 242: Chapter 242: Dangerous, Intoxicating Idea!

But as he sat there in the shadows of the purple canopy, a deeply dangerous, intoxicating thought began to creep into his mind.

The Lord Beast bloodlines.

He looked away from the crater, his crimson eyes peering through the dense canopy toward the distant North, where the two Layer 3 Lords… the gargantuan Dreadwing and the colossal Great Badger… are fighting.

Sol knew… he absolutely knew… that going back for them was incredibly, monumentally risky.

It was the kind of monumentally stupid, arrogant risk that usually got side-characters killed in the middle Chapters of a fantasy novel.

He had just escaped a gruesome, agonizing death by the absolute skin of his teeth, relying on a combination of extreme luck, infinite stamina, and suicidal wits to kite hundreds of monsters into this exact meat grinder.

Going back out there, or trying to capitalize on this current war, meant exposing himself to the apex predators of the Great Orrath all over again.

But… he couldn’t let the thought go. It gnawed at him, a relentless itch in the back of his mind.

Opportunities like this didn’t just come around daily. In a video game, you could farm a boss. In the living, breathing, unpredictable ecology of the Great Orrath, witnessing two Layer 3 Lords… creatures capable of leveling mountains and commanding vast territories…fight was a miracle akin to winning the cosmic lottery, and in every fight there is always a winner and a loser, and since these beasts don’t have much to do with the souls, so that would be his opportunity.

And then, there was the queen of this very colony. A hive this massive, capable of fielding Layer 2 Omen-Blood Commanders and wiping out hundreds of high-tier beasts, didn’t just spawn from nothing.

The heart of this colony, the slumbering monarch deep within the earth, had to be an entity of unimaginable power. Perhaps even a Layer 3 herself.

Initially seeing so many ants, he didn’t even dare stay here, but now saw the beasts kill each, he had a very dangerous and intoxicating idea.

He touched the center of his chest, feeling the heavy, rhythmic thrum of his Golden Liquid core, and the cool, ethereal presence of the Silver Liquid resting near his heart.

I can’t just walk away from a Layer 3 Lord soul, Sol reasoned with himself, his crimson eyes narrowing. If I anchor a common beast, or even a Layer 2 Omen-Blood, my progression is bottlenecked. I’ll be strong, sure. But if I can secure a Lord Beast blood spirit… I become a true powerhouse.

Furthermore, the ticking clock was deafening in his ears. The Veynar tribe wasn’t just sitting peacefully in their wooden palisades; they were on the brink of an existential war. The Zharun, a rival faction described as ruthless and overwhelmingly powerful, was marching on the Great Heartwood.

If he returned with a mediocre spirit, he might survive, but what about the tribe? Chief Veylara, Kira, the High Shaman Zephyra.

Sol closed his eyes, recalling the faces of the people who had taken him in.

He thought of Chief Veylara, the stern but fiercely protective leader who had manifested a storm-summoning tiger to intimidate the elders. He thought of the High Shaman Zephyra, whose ancient eyes held the wisdom of generations, and who had entrusted him with the sacred, untainted Blood-Jades. And he thought of Kira, the fiery, spear-wielding warrior who had guided him, fed him, and looked at him with a mixture of awe and hope.

They had placed the weight of their survival on his shoulders, hailing him as the Divine Envoy.

Sol wasn’t some kind hero, nor did he even considered himself one, heck, if he had to label himself he would definitely choose to be a villain. He was a pragmatic, slightly cynical transmigrator who viewed the world through the lens of benefits, risks, and survival.

But… he wasn’t ungrateful, either.

Without the Veynar tribe, without their food, their shelter, their bone-armor, and their specific warnings about the terrors of the deep woods, he doubted he would have survived his first twelve hours in this primordial hellscape. He owed them. He owed them a debt of life.

He didn’t want the Veynar tribe to be annihilated. He didn’t want to see their wooden walls burned to the ground and their people slaughtered by the Zharun. He had to stay in this world for the foreseeable future, and he needed a secure base of operations. He needed allies.

If he could secure a Lord Beast spirit, he could completely change the tide of the upcoming war.

A normal beast spirit won’t cut it, Sol concluded, his eyes snapping open, blazing with a mixture of gold and crimson light. If I want to protect the Veynar, if I want to actually matter in the upcoming war, I need a game-changer. I need a Lord Beast.

With the entire massive ant colony currently swarming the surface to eradicate the Badgers and Dreadwings, their heavily fortified subterranean hive was left entirely vulnerable. The soldiers were outside. The commanders were outside.

The path into the heart of the colony was wide open.

So, he made up his mind.

Sol secured his waterskin, tightened the straps of his leather armor, and made sure his bone knives were firmly sheathed so nothing would rattle. He gripped the heavy shaft of his Void-Oak spear and slowly, silently shifted his weight off the branch.

He began his descent. He didn’t use the explosive, gravity-defying power of his Golden Liquid to jump, that would create too much noise and potentially release an aura that the beasts could track. Instead, he used the sheer, physical density of his essence to anchor his muscles.

He gripped the deep, jagged fissures of the massive bark, his fingers sinking into the wood like iron pitons, and climbed down the colossal trunk with the agonizing, meticulous stealth of a hunting panther.

Every single inch of downward movement was calculated. He carefully navigated around glowing clusters of cyan fungi, avoiding the snapping, carnivorous vines that clung to the lower sections of the tree.

The sensory overload increased exponentially the closer he got to the ground. The noise from the crater…just a hundred yards away through the dense ferns…was deafening. The ground literally vibrated against his feet. The air was thick with the suffocating stench of formic acid and vaporized blood.

Sol pressed his back against a massive, petrified root, staying deep in the heavy shadows of the underbrush. He began to edge his way carefully around the perimeter of the battlefield, his Crimson-Sight sweeping the gloom for any stray beasts that might have flanked the main engagement.

His heart pounded a steady, high-stakes rhythm against his ribs. He was completely exposed now. If a Layer 2 Commander ant spotted him, he would be swarmed in seconds.

THUD-SQUELCH.

Suddenly Something massive, heavy, and wet violently slammed into the mud right beside his left boot. A spray of thick, acidic green fluid splashed violently against the side of his dark leather armor, hissing as it began to eat into the material.

Sol’s heart almost stopped completely. The breath vanished from his lungs.

He froze entirely, instantly turning into a statue. His Golden Liquid core flared violently in his chest, ready to flood his limbs with explosive power. His knuckles turned white as he gripped his spear in a reverse hold, fully prepared to thrust it blindly into whatever apex predator had just ambushed him from the shadows.