FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 350: Chapter 350: Cannibalizing the Core

But well, seemed like he wasn’t on good terms with any of them, as no miracle happened.

It was a slow, agonizing grind.

Sol could literally feel the armor giving way. The tough fibers woven into the leather were snapping one by one under the sheer, desperate weight of the monster. They whined like overstressed metal, popping and fraying as the spike dug deeper into the padding.

“Die,” Sol spat. Hot, foamy blood bubbled past his teeth, spilling down his chin and dripping onto his gauntlets. He pushed down on the hilt with everything he had. “Just fucking die!”

But the spike kept coming.

The tectonic hum of his armor… that comforting, heavy vibration that made him feel like an untouchable juggernaut… finally hit its absolute breaking point. It stuttered, whined one last time, and died completely.

Finally his strongest defense was gone.

The sharp, serrated tip of the chitin spike broke through the inner lining.

And hit his skin.

A searing, white-hot flare of pure agony tore through his left side. Sol couldn’t stop the choked, ragged scream that tore out of his throat.

The jagged edge bit deep into his flesh. It dragged and tore, the serrated barbs catching on his muscle tissue as it forcefully pushed inward. He could literally feel the hard, cold chitin scraping right up against his lower ribs. The friction burned like actual fire.

Time seemed to completely stop.

The bright morning sun beat down on his back. The smell of brain matter and his own fresh blood filled his nose. He could feel the exact, sickening millimeter-by-millimeter progress of the spike inside his body.

Another inch. Just one more damn inch and it would slide past his ribs. It would puncture his lung. It would turn his internal organs into a bloody soup and he would die right here, drowning in his own blood on top of a giant bug.

Finally, a bit of panic tore through his mental defense, and his arms were shaking so badly he could barely hold the sword.

He knew that he was losing. Even if the beast was dead, it was still going to win.

No. Sol refused. He absolutely refused to die in the mud like this.

He looked inward, searching frantically for anything he could use.

His Sun Core was empty. The golden liquid that usually raged like a river through his veins was gone. He had burned it all fighting the horde, fighting the apes, fighting this walking mountain, and most importantly racing down to catch up to it.

There was nothing left but dry, aching pathways.

He looked towards the hollow in his chest, that silver free use power, but unfortunately it’s main function was controlling the mind, so in this situation, where the beast totally lost it’s mind, it wasn’t gonna work, and the passive strength it used to provide was almost negligible compared to the amplification of Sun Core now.

So, he turned his mind back on the Sun Core.

I don’t care. Give me more. Sol scraped the absolute bottom of his core, and ruthlessly wrung every bit of it out. He forced his body to cannibalize itself, pulling every single hidden, residual drop of dawn essence from his own flesh, his own bones, even the spirits of Dreadwing and Great Badger..

His veins bulged against his skin, turning dark and rigid. It felt like they were filled with crushed glass and battery acid. The pain of forcing an empty core to produce essence was almost worse than the spike buried in his side.

But it worked.

A tiny, pathetic, but hyper-concentrated spark of golden essence flared to life in his chest.

Sol shoved it all straight down his arms. He locked his jaw, his teeth cracking under the pressure. He ignored the spike grinding against his ribs. He ignored the blood pouring out of his side and pooling on the shell.

With a feral, blood-curdling roar, he violently wrenched the hilt of the Dreadwing Blade with both hands.

And the blade responded to his will.

Fueled by that last, desperate drop of his life force, it detonated inside the confined, bony box of the thick skull.

The muffled, popping thud vibrated up through his body. The concentrated burst of air pressure completely shredded whatever was left of the beast’s brain, turning the vital nerve clusters into a fine, bloody paste.

Instantly, the Rockhorn Beetle went completely, terrifyingly rigid.

The massive spiked foot, currently buried a full inch deep into Sol’s side, scraping right against his bone, jerked to a violent, shuddering halt.

Sol froze. He didn’t dare breathe.

The leg just stayed there, locked up hard as the beast’s rudimentary nervous system finally, permanently shut down.

And slowly, the tension in the massive muscles completely evaporated.

A heavy, wet rattle bubbled out of the beetle’s crushed mandibles, spilling a final wave of green ichor onto the mud.

Then, dead weight.

Only now, did Sol finally gasped. He sucked in air so fast he choked on his own spit and blood. His vision swam heavily with dark, fuzzy spots, the bright morning sky blurring into a blinding white smear.

He slumped heavily against the hilt of his sword, his arms giving out completely. His whole body was shaking so badly his teeth rattled together. Every muscle in his back and legs was twitching with severe exhaustion.

He slowly, painfully forced himself to look down at his left side.

The massive, serrated spike was wedged right up against him. It was buried in his torn silver armor, the tip digging deep into his flesh. His own dark, red blood was trickling steadily down the jagged chitin edge, dripping onto the beetle’s shell.

He let out a shaky, hysterical breath.

A hair. He had survived by a damn hair’s breadth. If his core had been empty a second longer, if he had hesitated to tear his own veins apart to find that last drop of power, he would also be a corpse right now.