FREE USE in Primitive World

The blinding crimson blur of Sol tearing through the Coalition’s forces had completely shattered the enemy’s chain of command.

The high-layer warriors, who moments ago were standing as an impenetrable wall around the broken Veynar, were now scrambling in blind, frantic terror.

Every swing of Sol’s daggers brought down another one; every soul dragged into his chest hollow mended his broken internal pathways and poured gasoline onto his roaring body.

The four Layer 4 warlords... the Marauder Chieftain Bruga, the second Marauder giant, Chief Vane of the Zharun, and the Zerith Chief... were completely occupied, screaming in rage as they chased a ghost that used their own men as meat shields, not like they really cared about their men, but it’s just he is too damn fast.

...

While the four Layer 4 warlords raged, bellowed, and fruitlessly smashed the ground in their desperate attempt to pin down Sol, On the northern flank of the Veynar line, bathed in the copper stench of fresh gore, Captain Thauren spat a mouthful of dark, clotted blood onto the gravel.

His left shoulder was deeply gashed from a Maradurer’s axe, his leather cuirass torn by multiple slashes, but his golden pupiled eyes burned with a fierce, savageness.

Looking at Sol, effortlessly slaughtering the enemies and their Layer 4 leader running around trying to catch him, regain his confidence, and suddenly got an idea. He saw the only window of opportunity his tribe would ever get.

He looked back toward the center.

Elder Thorne stood preening like a vulture, his curve dagger held high, entirely absorbed in shouting hysterical, triumphant commands to his remaining lineage traitors as they pressed the shrinking ring of Veynar loyalists.

”He thinks the mountain has fallen,” Thauren whispered, his gravelly voice dropping to a low murmur. He turned his head sideways toward the surviving twenty or so members of his elite squad... men who had bled beside him through a dozen border skirmishes. ”He thinks the Warchief’s silence gives him the crown.”

Thauren’s hand tightened around the wrapped grip of his heavy broadsword.

”Move,” Thauren signaled his men. ”Silent tread. Cut the traitors down from behind. Leave none to beg.”

Like silent shadows breaking away from a burning wall, they disengaged from the confused Coalition warriors running around and swept inward, encircling Thorne’s traitorous lineage guards from behind.

They didn’t shout a war cry or openly screamed the name of the tribe.

They moved with the terrifying, practiced efficiency of hunting hounds closing in on wounded prey.

Before Thorne’s men could even turn their heads to notice anything, Thauren’s team struck with cold, concentrated hatred.

CRACK! SLASH!

Spears drove straight through the back-armor of traitorous lineage guards, pinning them to the limestone earth before they could draw their weapons.

And without even waiting a second, they moved forwards, two of Thorne’s lineage guards... men who were laughing as they pressed a kneeling, bleeding loyalist ... never even heard the air split behind them.

CRUNCH!

Thauren’s broadsword sheared through the first guard’s neck in a blinding, golden arc, sending his head spinning into the dust before his body hit the ground.

Simultaneously, two of Thauren’s veterans lunged forward, their bone spears thrusting straight through the second traitor’s armpits, pinning his lungs to his spine.

”Surround them!” Thauren roared, his voice finally exploding across the clearing like a crack of thunder. ”Purge the rotten wood!”

Before the traitors could even grasp the sudden situation, Thauren’s squad closed the circle, plunging their blades into the backs, ribs, and throats of Thorne’s lineage guards.

The surprise attack was short, swift, and merciless. Within three agonizing heartbeats, half of Thorne’s elite twenty-man guard lay bleeding out in the dirt, their ambitious sneers frozen into masks of sudden, terrifying realization.

”You foolish, arrogant brute!”

Elder Thorne shrieked, staggering back as his protective ring dissolved into blood and screaming men. His face, previously flushed with manic triumph, twisted into a hideous mask of cornered rage.

He drew his curved obsidian blade, his small eyes locking onto Thauren with venomous spite.

”You blind, dogmatic brute!” Thorne screamed, taking a heavy stance as dark, foul essence began to ripple off his skin like stagnant marsh gas. ”Do you truly think you can turn back the tides of destiny with a handful of dying and injured kids?!”

Thauren didn’t waste breath on words. He kicked a traitor’s corpse off his foot, raised his heavy broadsword, and lunged directly for Thorne’s throat, aiming to end the elder’s pathetic life in a single, decisive thrust.

”Die, traitor!” Thauren growled.

CLANG!

A blinding shower of orange sparks erupted between them.

Thauren’s broadsword did not split Thorne’s skull.

Instead, it was brought to a dead stop four inches above the elder’s head, caught neatly in the curved guard of Thorne’s dagger.

The ground beneath Thorne’s boots cracked, but the old man’s arms didn’t even tremble.

The sniveling, desperate persona he had worn like a mask while bowing to Coalition Chiefs vanished instantly. His back straightened, his bent frame swelling as a thick, suffocating wave of dense, sickly green essence erupted from his pores.

Thauren’s eyes widened in genuine shock.

Thorne stood his ground, his knees bent low, his body radiating a cold, dense pressure that he had hidden behind his frail, cautious elder routine for decades.

He sneered, his quivering lips curling into a cruel, mocking smile as he slowly raised his left hand, spreading his fingers wide.

”Tch... it seems you children have spent so many years hiding behind Veylara that you have forgotten who fought beside her father,” Thorne sneered, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly, resonant hiss.

His eyes glowed with a sickly, iridescent light. ”Did you really think I survived all these tribal wars on caution alone? I was a Layer 3 peak practitioner before your mother ever laid you in a cradle! you arrogant whelp!”

With a sudden, violent twist of his wrist, Thorne redirected Thauren’s massive blade into the dirt and slammed his palm directly into Thauren’s chest.

BANG!