FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 293: Chapter 293: Battle Plan & Tension In The High Hall

The smug, arrogant smirk on Prince Gorr’s face shattered instantly. The bloodless gray of his skin seemed to darken, a furious, ugly purple flush creeping up his thick neck. The rotting ash aura surrounding him flared violently, hissing as it lashed out against the ambient energy of the room.

To be shut down so casually, so coldly, in front of both his own elders and the Veynar court was a massive, humiliating blow to his ego.

Seeing the diplomatic situation turning violently sour before the negotiations had even officially begun, Elder Thorne panicked. He hurried forward, physically stepping between the seething Prince and the Warchief’s dais, waving his hands in a frantic, placating gesture.

“Please, please! Let us not misunderstand each other!” Thorne practically shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. He turned to Gorr, bowing his head subserviently. “Prince Gorr, the Veynar are extremely grateful for the Zharun’s swift response to our call for aid! We know the risks your warriors are taking, and we will definitely repay this profound gratitude. The Warchief is merely stressed by the impending war. Please, take a seat of honor!”

Thorne gestured frantically toward a large, ornate chair carved from dark stone that had been placed opposite the Warchief’s throne.

Gorr stared at Veylara for a long, murderous second, his oily eyes seeking violence. But he forced a harsh, grinding laugh from his throat, recognizing that drawing a weapon in the heart of the enemy stronghold was a foolish move.

“Of course, of course, Elder Thorne,” Gorr laughed, the sound entirely devoid of humor. He swaggered over to the stone chair and threw himself into it, slouching back and throwing one heavy, bone-plated boot up onto the low wooden table separating the two factions.

He sat not like a guest, but like a conquering king who had already claimed the throne room. “Stress makes women sharp-tongued. I am a forgiving man. Let us start the meeting.”

With the immediate threat of violence narrowly averted by Thorne’s groveling, the high-stakes meeting officially commenced.

The elders from both sides leaned forward, unrolling large, crudely drawn maps of the Great Orrath on the low table. For the next hour, the hall was filled with the tense, rapid-fire discussion of vital logistics. The Veynar elders desperately tried to coordinate a unified front.

They discussed the specific, terrifying numbers of the Marauder packs, the estimated speed of the Zerith and their reinforcements, and the exact placement of their spirit warrior forces along the southern wall.

They argued over the rationing of high-tier essence-meat to keep the warriors fighting, the distribution of obsidian-tipped arrows, and the reinforcement needed. It was a grim, mathematical breakdown of their survival.

Sol leaned against his pillar, absorbing every single piece of tactical data like a sponge. He cross-referenced their deployment strategies with the geographical knowledge he had gained from the Vault of Ancestors, silently mapping out the choke points and kill zones in his head.

But throughout the entire, painstaking conversation, Prince Gorr remained entirely silent.

He didn’t look at the maps. He didn’t offer a single piece of tactical insight regarding the Layer 4 Blood Kings his tribe was supposed to help fight. Instead, he slouched heavily in his chair, picking dirt from beneath his fingernails with a bone dagger, acting profoundly, insultingly bored by the details of the impending war.

As the elders argued over food rations, a side door opened, and a small group of young Veynar girls scuttled into the room, carrying heavy wooden trays laden with precious nectors and water.

The atmosphere around the Zharun delegation was so incredibly toxic and oppressive that the serving girls visibly trembled. Most of them instinctively avoided the center table entirely, hastily serving the Veynar elders on the periphery before retreating to the walls.

Because no one else dared to step into the dense, rotting pressure field surrounding the Prince, Lumi was forced to serve him.

Sol’s silver-crimson eyes narrowed, his grip on his Void-Oak spear tightening imperceptibly as he watched the bubbly girl approach the table. Her hands were shaking so badly the wooden cups rattled against the tray.

As Lumi leaned forward to place a cup of wine on the table next to his booted foot, Gorr didn’t even try to hide his actions. He stopped picking at his nails and turned his head, taking an especially long, incredibly greedy look at the young girl. His oily eyes raked over her trembling form, lingering on her waist and chest with undisguised, predatory hunger.

Lumi gasped softly, dropping the cup onto the table with a clatter, and practically scrambled backward, retreating into the shadows near the wall as fast as her legs could carry her.

Gorr chuckled, a low, wet sound of amusement. He finally pulled his boot off the table and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, effectively interrupting a Veynar elder mid-sentence.

“Enough,” Gorr spoke, his grinding voice easily cutting through the tactical chatter of the room. He let out a harsh, dismissive laugh, waving his gauntleted hand over the detailed maps. “There is no need for so much useless, cowardly talk. Deployments? Rations? You speak as if we are already besieged and starving.”

Veylara couldn’t help but frown deeply, her storm-colored eyes flashing with irritation at his blatant nonchalance.

An older, heavily scarred Veynar elder sitting near the map couldn’t hold his tongue. “Prince Gorr, with all due respect, this concerns the absolute future and survival of our tribes! We are facing a coalition led by Layer 4 entities. We must plan these choke points carefully, or our walls will be overrun in a matter of hours!”

The mocking smile vanished from Prince Gorr’s bloodless face.

His iridescent, oily eyes snapped toward the elder who had spoken. Suddenly, the oppressive, rotting gray aura surrounding the Prince flared violently outward.

It wasn’t a physical attack, but the sheer, concentrated metaphysical malice of a peak Layer 2 core slammed into the Veynar elder like a physical weight. The old man gasped, clutching his chest as he was shoved backward in his seat, his own weaker spirit cowering in terror.

“Don’t you believe us Zharun?” Gorr asked, his voice rising, echoing loudly off the vaulted ceiling. He didn’t just speak the words; he weaponized them. “I said there is no need for useless things. When the enemy attacks, we Zharun will always be your most solid backing. We will stand at your gates, and together we will easily slaughter them all. We will show those mindless beasts the true power of humanity.”

He leaned further over the table, staring down the remaining Veynar elders, punctuating each word with a heavy tap of his bone-gauntleted finger against the petrified wood.

“As. I. Have. Said. It. Will. Be. Okay. So. It. Will. Be. Okay.”

The sheer, domineering arrogance of his statement, backed by the suffocating pressure of his toxic aura, completely paralyzed the room. The Veynar elders, realizing that arguing strategy with a tyrant who only respected brute force was entirely pointless, couldn’t help but look helplessly at each other.

One by one, they lowered their heads and fell into a bitter, resentful silence. They were trapped in a deal with a monster to fight other monsters.

Seeing the entire Veynar council forced into silent submission, Prince Gorr smiled in deep, arrogant satisfaction. He leaned back in his stone chair, swirling the cup of nectar Lumi had left him.

“Good,” Gorr rasped, taking a slow sip. “Now that we have finalized everything and agreed on the battle plan… it’s time for you guys to show your sincerity.”