FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 358: Chapter 358: Radioactive Green Medicine

It’s just that she was a bit curious and wanted to see if it was still here, as she was the one who had been healing him for the past few days.

She looked at Sol, then looked down at his stomach, staring directly at the angry pink scar.

The old shaman muttered something rapid and guttural in the old tribal tongue to the two younger acolytes standing behind her. They both leaned in, their eyes widening in pure, unfiltered shock as they stared at Sol.

The lead shaman looked back at his face. Her expression had shifted from clinical detachment to something dangerously close to awe.

“Honestly looking at this wound, you should be dead,” the old woman said. His Veynar common tongue was heavily accented but clear. “When the Warchief’s daughter dragged you into the inner rings, your core was an empty void. You had completely burned your own essence, Your veins were scorching hot, cracking under the strain.”

The shaman pointed a long, bony finger at the scar on Sol’s stomach.

“And that wound. A Layer 3 Rockhorn Beetle. Its chitin is coated in a natural, necrotic deterrent. A wound from that beast does not simply close. It rots. It spreads. It eats the flesh until there is nothing left but bone.”

The old woman leaned closer, her dreamy eyes searching Sol’s face. “We pumped you full of pure dawn essence for three days and three nights just to keep your heart beating. But even then we could not heal that scar. Your own body did that. The moment we gave your core the fuel, your foundation aggressively purged the necrotic rot and stitched the meat back together at a speed I have never seen in my sixty years.”

The old woman stood up straight, offering Sol a slow, respectful bow, touching her hand to his forehead. It was a gesture he hadn’t given Sol back when he was just some kid who fought Vurok in the dirt.

“Your foundation is terrifying, Divine One. You have the resilience of the earth itself.”

Sol didn’t bother correcting the title. If they wanted to think he was blessed by some local god, let them. It kept them useful.

“That’s great,” Sol muttered, his head falling back against the wood. “But I feel like a hollowed-out log. I can’t move.”

The shaman nodded sagely. “Your pathways are empty. The essence we fed you was entirely consumed by your body to repair the physical vessel. Your core is starved. Normal recovery would take months of deep meditation and eating high-tier beast meat.”

The old woman gestured to one of the younger acolytes. The younger woman quickly stepped forward, pulling a heavy, corked clay vial from a leather pouch on her belt. She handed it to the head shaman.

“Drink this,” the old woman said, holding the vial out toward Sol.

Sol looked at the clay bottle, but he didn’t reach for it.

“What is it?” he asked, his paranoia flaring up immediately.

The shaman popped the cork.

Instantly, the entire room smelled like a mix of rotting swamp mud, rusted iron, and fermented blood. It was a foul, aggressive stench that made Sol’s stomach physically turn over.

Sol leaned forward slightly, looking into the vial. The liquid inside wasn’t a normal potion. It was thick, viscous, and glowing with a sickly, bright, almost radioactive neon-green light. It looked incredibly dangerous. It looked like something a witch would brew in a cartoon to melt a hole through a castle floor.

“Hell no,” Sol said flatly, leaning away from it. “I am not drinking glowing sludge.”

The old shaman didn’t look offended. She just sighed.

“It is a highly concentrated marrow-extract, brewed from the spine of a Layer 2 Bonejackal, refined with Sun-Fire lotus, and countless other precious herbs,” the shaman explained patiently. “It took months to just collect the ingredient and even more time to brew it, we have extremely few of them in the whole tribe. You should be grateful that Warchief had personally given orders to spare no efforts, you should be thankful to her, as normally even elders don’t get this thing.”

Hearing this, Sol raised his brows, ’hmmm,seems like this is something really ultra rare.’

The old woman continued, “And it’s like anyone can just take it. It is extremely potent and volatile. For a normal warrior, drinking this would boil their blood and burst their veins. It is poison to the weak.”

The old woman held it closer. “But for a Layer 1 Spirit Warrior with a foundation as dense and greedy as yours? It is exactly the fuel you need to kickstart your core. It will bypass the slow digestion of meat and violently force essence back into your dormant pathways.”

Sol stared at the glowing green sludge.

His transmigrator instincts warned him. In all the novels, drinking sketchy, glowing potions given by creepy old guys was a fast track to getting poisoned or mind-controlled. But his cold, rational logic cut through the paranoia.

If the Veynar wanted him dead, they had a hundred chances to do it while he was in a coma for three days. Kira wouldn’t let them touch him. And more importantly, the Warchief needed him. He had proven his combat value. They wouldn’t waste a perfectly good living weapon by poisoning him in a bed.

Sol gritted his teeth. He hated being weak more than he hated taking risks.

He snatched the clay vial out of the shaman’s hand.

Without giving himself a second to think about the smell, Sol tipped his head back and downed the entire vial in one go.

Gulp…Gulp…Gulp

And as expected, it was absolutely horrific.

It tasted exactly like it smelled… thick, metallic, and aggressively foul. It coated his throat like hot sludge. He gagged heavily, his eyes watering, forcing his throat to swallow it down before he threw it right back up onto the furs.

He slammed the empty clay vial onto the bedside table, coughing violently, beating his chest with a fist.

“That is really disgusting,” Sol rasped, spitting a wad of foul-tasting saliva onto the floorboards.