FREE USE in Primitive World

The more that poured into him, the brighter and more ferocious the radiant wave of Golden Dominion became.

Every soul devoured fed the inferno burning within his core. The golden light surged outward with renewed hunger, pressing harder against the stronger warriors who still resisted in the distance.

The weaker Layer 1 fodder had become nothing more than kindling... their lives, their essence, their very existence fuel for Sol’s ascension.

Soon, the weak mid-level warriors... Layer 2 elites... staggered and fell to their knees, gasping for breath as their bodies fought a losing battle against the golden suppression.

Only the high-tier Layer 3 and Layer 4 commanders somehow remained standing, though even they were visibly slowed, their movements heavy and labored.

The thirty-three Zharun Layer 3 captains, who just moments ago had been grinning over the slaughter of the Veynar elders, felt their blood turn to ice. The heavy marsh essence they cultivated inside their veins lagged, and they struggled to breathe under the weight of Sol’s aura.

”What is this?!” one captain shrieked, his knees violently trembling as he tried to use his spear as a crutch to keep his body upright. ”Why can’t I move? The ancestors have abandoned us!”

Beside him, three of his veteran squad-mates collapsed onto their faces, their mouths open in silent gasps as the gravity of the aura flattened them into the dirt.

The Coalition army collapsed into complete chaos. Warriors tripped over each other, axes fell from numb fingers, spears dropped uselessly to the ground. The ones still trying to push forward stumbled and fell, creating even more pile-ups in the narrow corridor.

Sol’s eyes burned with cold, divine fury as he stepped forward.

The Golden Silver energy continued to surge, the field expanding further, making every enemy feel as if they were moving through heavy swamp water while Sol and his allies remained unaffected.

Even the twenty-foot Grand Chieftain of the Gray Marauders stopped his laughing.

His colossal body stiffened, his eyes dilating in genuine shock as he felt the reality-breaking density of the pressure radiating from Sol. The heavy bone club in his hand felt twice as heavy under the sudden weight in the air.

Sol didn’t look at the giant chief, and he didn’t look at Chief Vane’s pale, fracturing mask. He stood in the center of the golden-silver storm like an angry, vengeful god who had just descended from the star-pastures to clean the stain off the earth.

His silver-crimson eyes were glowing with a light so bright it cast long, sharp shadows across the valley, and his hand was already pulling the Dreadwing Blade from its sheath to begin the true, unmitigated harvest.

...

Sol kicked off the ground, his body transforming into a blurred black streak as he shot straight toward the Zharun right flank. He didn’t go for the coalition forces; he went directly for the traitors who had turned against them.

No matter how vile or bloodthirsty, other enemies could be forgiven, but traitors can not, especially knowing what they did with Lumi.

They are the worst of the worst, and he happens to hate the traitors the most, so Zharun deserved to be clean off first.

The nearest Zharun block consisted of about fifty spear warriors, led by two Layer 3 captains who were earlier busy shouting orders to move their men into the Veynar’s rear.

They didn’t even see Sol coming until the air in front of them compressed.

Sol arrived like a lightning God, driving his armored shoulder directly into the chest of the front Zharun warrior.

BANG!

The physical force of the impact caved the man’s chest inward, snapping his spine and sending his body flying backward into his own squad like a heavy stone.

Three more warriors were knocked off their feet, their spears clattering against the gravel as they tumbled into the dirt.

Before the remaining fighters could react, Sol’s right hand flicked out. The Dreadwing Blade sang its high-frequency song, its sapphire edge flashing through the dust cloud.

SHUCK. SHUCK. SHUCK.

The blue blade sliced through five throats in a single, fluid horizontal arc.

The spears they held dropped uselessly into the red mud as their heads popped off their shoulders, their bodies standing for a split second before collapsing forward like empty sacks.

...

After taking off the first five heads, Sol stepped deeper.

The ground here was slick with the fresh blood of the Veynar elders, not that he cared about elders, they totally deserved it, but the death of other Veynar warriors couldn’t be in vain.

Sol took a cursory look at Zharun forces, even with all the Layer 1 fodder dropped dead across the plain, the Zharun force still had plenty of warriors.

They had about three hundred Layer 2 veterans and nearly a hundred Layer 3 warriors left, all of them hardened by countless wars.

Under normal conditions, a block of this size could trample an entire small tribe in minutes.

But right now, they were just standing targets.

Sol kept his Golden Dominion pushed to the absolute maximum.

The radiant golden-silver wave kept pressing down on the clearing, making the air so heavy that the Zharun warriors could barely lift their feet. Their muscles were locked, their internal energy pathways lagged, and their weapons felt like lead.

Sol moved through them like a scythe through tall grass.

He lunged toward a group of Layer 2 warriors who were trying to form a small defensive ring.

The front warrior tried to thrust his bone-tipped spear, but under the heavy pressure, his strike was slow and clumsy. Sol casually leaned his body to the side, letting the point pass by his ribs.

His left hand shot out, grabbed the spear shaft, and yanked the warrior forward. With a quick flick of his wrist, Sol drove the handle straight into the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe, before swinging the Dreadwing Blade in a wide, low circle.

The sapphire edge cut through three more pairs of legs at the knees. The Layer 2 warriors hit the dirt, and due to pressure couldn’t even howl in agony.