FREE USE in Primitive World

Sol stood atop a burning bone barricade, Dreadwing Blade dripping green blood, his silver-crimson eyes narrowed as he scanned the heart of the enemy settlement. The outer perimeter was already collapsing, thick black smoke curled into the sky, screams and the clash of weapons filled the air.

But the center remained eerily quiet.

No roar of elite guards charging out. No overwhelming spiritual pressure exploding from the command tents. No sign of the Zerith Chief or their High Shaman.

”Where the hell are their leaders?” Sol muttered in a low voice.

Zeyra appeared at his side, breathing slightly hard, her dual blades coated in fresh enemy blood and a savage, obsessive light burned in her eyes as she looked at him.

”They should have reacted by now,” she said, voice low. ”A Chief and High Shaman... they wouldn’t just sit there while their camp burns.”

Kira landed lightly beside them after jumping down from a watch platform, her bow still in hand. She wiped sweat and blood from her cheek with the back of her hand.

”Something’s wrong,” she agreed, frowning. ”Even if they were caught completely off guard, the reaction is too slow. It’s like... they weren’t expecting an attack at all. Or they’re not here.”

Sol’s frown deepened.

The Zerith warriors they were slaughtering were mostly lower-tier fighters... mostly Layer 1. The stronger layer 2 and layer 3 were few and far between, and even they seemed confused and disorganized, as if they had been caught completely unprepared.

It didn’t add up.

But soon, his lips curled into a cold, dangerous smile.

”Doesn’t matter,” he said, voice low and rough. ”If they want to play games, let them play, it’s just making it easier for us.”

He looked out over the burning camp, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Anyway, the first step of the plan had been a great success and had taken a massive, bloody bite out of the Coalition’s lines.

Their main forces which should have been rushing here would be for a nasty surprise and their pride was about to be thoroughly humiliated.

And by the time they finally understood what was happening, Sol’s strike force would have already moved on to hit the Gray Marauders’ camps as well.

Then, when the enemy’s entire thousands-strong army finally mobilized in rage and came sprinting to crush them...

They would simply bait them straight into the narrow mountain pass they had prepared earlier... leading them directly into the mouth of the butcher’s shop.

...

Sol stepped down from the burning bone barricade, the dark green blood of the Zerith captain slowly drying on his boots. He didn’t waste another second looking at the smoke. He waved his hand, and Joran immediately blew two short, low notes on his bone-whistle.

The one hundred and eighty spirit warriors didn’t celebrate their easy victory. They moved like a single, quiet shadow, slipping out of the burning swamp outpost and melting right back into the deep undergrowth.

Their next target was already locked.

The squad ran hard for fifteen minutes, transitioning through completely different environments as they moved away from the low, wet basin.

The damp, foul-smelling swamp grass and thick grey mist gradually gave way to hard, rocky ground. The giant petrified ironwood trees here grew further apart, replaced by scratchy thorn-bushes, dry scrub, and broken grey stone ledges.

The air also grew thinner and cooler as they climbed toward the dry southern ridges.

Despite the rapid, grueling pace, all the spirit warriors...stayed right on Sol’s heels.

Their lungs were pumping hard, but their faces were bright with an intense, raw energy. The total destruction of the Zerith camp without a single major casualty had washed away every shred of their initial war nervousness.

They didn’t feel like prey anymore.

They felt like hunters.

Sol kept his eyes on the trail ahead, his mind completely focused on the internal map he had drawn.

Beside him, Kira kept her bow raised, her cat-pupils darting across the rocky crevices, while Zeyra stayed close to his right hip, her stride smooth, her eyes tracking every tilt of his head with that quiet, heavy devotion.

”The environment is completely dry up here,” Kira whispered, her voice low as she stepped over a jagged stone. ”The Zerith bugs hate this ridge. The ground is too hard for their burrowing traps.”

”That’s why the Marauders took it,” Sol muttered, his voice casual but rough. ”They’re too heavy to move fast in the mud, and they like the high ground because it fits their pride. Joran, how far to their outer huts?”

Joran, the speed-based assistant commander, shifted his position to run level with Sol. He pulled a small piece of dried skin from his tunic, checking the rough markings. ”Just past the next rocky gorge, General Sol. The ridge drops into a flat stone shelf. That’s where their forward units keep their hide-tents.”

Sol had chosen the Gray Marauders as their second target for a very specific tactical reason.

Compared to the lanky, hyper-reactive Zerith stalkers, the Marauders were massive, broad-shouldered, and heavy.

They possessed terrifying physical strength and thick, durable hide that could easily deflect a standard bone-spear in a direct fight, but they were significantly slower on their feet.

Their agility was laughable to say the least.

This asymmetry was exactly what Sol wanted to weaponize.

With the Veynar squad’s superior speed traits... they could easily control the distance of the engagement.

Even if a mistake happened during the raid and the core camp managed to wake up early, the spirit warriors could simply use their fast legs to break contact and run away through the rocky terrain without the heavy giants ever being able to catch them.

The squad reached the lip of a deep, grey stone gorge and dropped onto their bellies into the dry thorn-bushes. Sol crawled to the very edge of the rock shelf, carefully parting the scratchy grey leaves to peer down into the Marauder territory.

The moment the camp came into view, the sheer, uncivilized roughness of the tribe became entirely clear.