FREE USE in Primitive World

Their laughter swelled again… wet, obsessive, and full of genuine, deranged love for the horrors they described. To them, this wasn’t war. It was foreplay. It was romance. It was the highest form of pleasure.

Sol remained motionless on the branch above them, thirty feet up, hidden in the thick leaves. His blood had gone ice-cold, but beneath it burned a murderous fury hotter than anything he had ever felt.

It wasn’t the kind of hot, blinding fury that made a man scream or lose his head. It was a freezing, clinical disgust. He had transmigrator knowledge; he knew he was in a savage, unforgiving world where people died every day.

He had already killed plenty of things since waking up in this accursed world. But listening to these lanky, yellow-green freaks talk about eating human kids like they were listing items on a restaurant menu turned something off deep inside his brain.

These creatures didn’t just want to conquer Veynar.

They wanted to devour it. Slowly. Creatively. Lovingly.

It wasn’t just the casual cruelty. It was the sheer, gleeful certainty in their voices … as if the conquest of Veynar lands, the enslavement of its people, and the systematic torture of everyone he had come to care about was already a foregone conclusion.

Every person he had protected, every smile, every innocent life… these monsters saw them only as future toys to be raped, roasted, and consumed with sadistic joy.

They spoke of Kira’s people like livestock. They spoke of Zeyra and the other girls like future playthings and food. They laughed about roasting children alive.

Enough.

His jaw clenched and his hand tightened around the Dreadwing Blade until the grip creaked, the dark vortex of golden essence in his core beginning to churn with a quiet, lethal velocity.

He didn’t care about their plans, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let them leave this clearing alive. It was time to show these lanky bastards exactly how tough a human skin-bag could be.

The cold, mechanical anger that had settled in his gut didn’t make him want to draw his blade for a clean, silent ambush anymore.

The plan to slip down and take their heads before they knew what hit them completely evaporated, replaced by a dark, vicious disgust that burned hotter than the golden furnace of his Sun Core.

If these lanky, yellow-green freaks liked the sound of high-pitched, frantic screaming so much, Sol was going to give them a personal concert.

He was going to make sure they felt every single bit of the terrifying, helpless agony they had planned for the tribe’s children.

“Six targets,” Sol whispered into the dark leaves, his voice completely devoid of any human warmth. “No survivors. But you don’t get to die yet.”

He dropped all stealth. He didn’t use a weapon, and he didn’t give them the courtesy of a warrior’s battle cry.

Suddenly, the third stalker… the one with the damp, yellowish-green skin and the bloated belly… tilted its elongated head. Its flat, black nostrils twitched violently against the sweltering, humid air of the gully.

“Wait… you smell that?” it clicked, its horizontal orange eyes flaring with a sudden, sharp light. “Human scent. Fresh. Very close.”

He simply stepped off the branch.

He dropped straight down like a boulder of solid iron, actively engaging the full, crushing tectonic mass of his Layer 2 Great Badger spirit to multiply his falling speed.

The air pressure in the clearing violently imploded as he broke the canopy.

BOOM.

Sol hit the exact center of the dirt clearing with a deafening, explosive thud.

The sheer kinetic force shattered the bedrock beneath the mud, sending a massive, blinding shockwave of black muck, broken stone splinters, and rotting ferns blasting outward in a thirty-foot radius.

The six Zerith elites let out wet, startled clicks, their skeletal, seven-foot-tall bodies twitching with a freakish, spider-like agility as they tried to scramble backward into the brush to reset their formation.

For a moment, none of them moved. They simply stared at the lone human who had revealed himself without fear, without weapons drawn, as if he were taking a casual stroll.

“You…” the largest one hissed, its slit-mouth curling with surprised delight. “A bold little morsel.”

Sol’s voice was quiet, almost gentle. “I heard everything you said about my people. About the children. About the women. About how beautifully they scream.”

He rolled his shoulders once, cracking his neck.

“I’ve decided you’ll get to experience every single thing you described. Personally.”

The stalkers burst into wet, clicking laughter, thinking it was a bluff.

But Sol was already moving, and his Layer 2 Dreadwing perception made their twitchy movements look like they were dragging themselves through thick honey.

He didn’t draw the sapphire blade.

He wanted his bare hands on them, he wanted to feel their flesh tear, their bones splinter, their organs pulse under his fingers.

Before the first stalker… the one who had been bragging about how children’s bones didn’t even require cracking… could even raise its bone-spear, Sol blurred.

He appeared directly in its space, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over the lanky monster. He reached out with lightning speed, his calloused hands clamping like iron clamps around the creature’s freakishly long, extra-jointed wrists.

The Zerith hissed, baring its rows of yellow, needle-sharp teeth, its orange eyes pulsing with panic as it tried to yank its arms back. It couldn’t move an inch. Sol’s grip was an immovable vault.

“You said you liked the sound of bones cracking, right?” Sol murmured, looking directly into the freak’s horizontal eyes.

Sol twisted his arms. Slowly. Deliberately.

CRACK. CRUNCH. POP

The sound of the Zerith’s extra joints being violently forced in the wrong direction echoed sickeningly through the quiet clearing.

Sol used his raw physical strength to systematically crush the bone structures inside the wrists, then slid his hands up to the elbows, popping the joints out of their sockets with a sickening, wet pop.

The creature’s mossy, yellowish skin split under the pressure, leaking a thick, foul-green fluid into the mud.

A.N:

Guys, it’s almost end of month and only a few days left before the end of event.

And we’ll, our current ranking is miserable, so I hope that you’ll be a bit generous and send some gifts.

And don’t forget we are having a mass release on 31st my BIRTHDAY.

Don’t disappoint me.