FREE USE in Primitive World

So instead of putting your hopes on illusory things or mercy of others. In this cold and cruel reality, it was better for the individual to take things in his own hands and through constant efforts, change his own fate... since most who tried without sufficient strength simply died.

So, without any surprise, Sol’s arm blurred slightly.

The Dreadwing Blade left his hand like a thrown spear, spinning once as it crossed thirty meters in the span of an eyeblink. There was no flashy technique, no surge of visible essence, no warning shout.

THUNK

The sapphire blade punched straight through the Layer 3’s chest with perfect accuracy, the force of the throw carrying the man backward and pinning him firmly against the stone behind him.

The spear slipped from his fingers. His mouth opened in a silent, unfinished rallying cry. Eyes wide with pure disbelief stared down at the blade buried in his torso.

Sol walked over at the same calm pace he had maintained all along.

He stopped in front of the pinned warrior and looked at the man’s face for less than a second... just long enough to register the mixture of shock, confusion, and fading hope still frozen there.

”Idiot,” Sol muttered flatly.

He reached out, grabbed the hilt, and pulled the blade free with a wet squelch. The Layer 3’s body slumped forward and collapsed onto the rock, lifeless.

Sol didn’t spare him another glance.

He simply picked his blade once more and kept moving without breaking stride, already scanning for the next cluster of surviving warriors.

...

The Dreadwing Blade became a continuous streak of sapphire light. Every swing released controlled arcs of cutting force that carved through clusters of men with precision.

He no longer aimed for single targets. He aimed for groups. Ten men. Fifteen. Twenty at a time.

Whenever he saw a group, Sol walked straight into them. One horizontal slash bisected the entire front rank. A rising vertical cut split the second.

By the time the third rank raised their weapons, Sol was already among them, blade moving in short, brutal strokes that left nothing standing.

Bodies fell in neat, horrifying rows.

Blood ran in rivulets between the white stones, pooling in the shallow depressions of the limestone. The copper scent of death thickened in the air until it became almost suffocating.

Sol felt every soul enter him.

But more soul power. More mysterious vanishing.

But he still continued as the slaughter became almost rhythmic.

Slash. Bodies fall. Soul power enters. Vanishes upward.

Step. Thrust. Another life ends. Another stream of energy disappears into his head.

The sensation was strange... almost addictive in its mystery. The more he killed, the more energy poured into that unknown space.

Throughout it all Sol’s neon-crimson eyes remained calm. There was no rage on his face. And definitely no sadistic pleasure. There’s no way he was enjoying the slaughtering, yeah... there is absolutely no way.

Seeing him many Zharun Men threw down their weapons and fled in every direction.

Some ran toward the Coalition remnants further out. Others scrambled for the canyon edges, hoping the rocks would hide them.

Sol did not chase every single runner. Definitely not because he was too lazy to go after them.

He simply continued moving through the densest concentrations of remaining resistance, and death followed him like a loyal shadow.

Whenever a larger group tried to form, he released a slightly wider arc of sapphire-gold force. Dozens of men would fall in a single motion.

Whenever a particularly fast or desperate warrior tried to attack from his blind side, the reaction speed of the Dreadwing bloodline made the counter almost automatic... a short cut, a precise thrust, another body on the ground.

All the while, the strange absorption continued.

Every death fed something in his head. Sol could feel the flow clearly now. The energy was not being wasted. He could feel it accumulating somewhere just out of reach, like water filling a hidden reservoir.

Yet no matter how much he poured into it, there was no sense of fullness. No pressure. No sign of approaching a limit.

How much will it take to fill you? he wondered coldly as he walked through another cluster of screaming men. How much until you burst?

He decided to find out.

Sol stopped holding back even the small restraints he had still been using. His movements became slightly faster. The arcs of the Dreadwing Blade grew a fraction wider.

The efficiency of each kill increased. Where before he had cut down groups of eight or ten, now he was clearing fifteen to twenty at a time with almost the same expenditure of effort.

The white limestone floor of the valley turned red in widening patches.

Bodies piled in uneven heaps. Severed limbs and weapons lay scattered like discarded toys.

The air grew thick with the copper stench of blood and the fading echoes of terror.

At one point, a small group of Zharun tried to surrender.

There were seven of them left from a larger squad that had already been cut down. Seeing no path of escape and watching their comrades die in clean, efficient waves, they finally dropped their weapons.

Spears and short blades clattered against the white limestone.

The men fell to their knees, raising empty, bloodied hands high above their heads.

”Please!” one of them shouted, voice cracking. ”We surrender! We yield! Spare us!”

Sol stopped walking.

He looked at them for half a second, neon-crimson eyes calm and unreadable.

In that brief pause, a quiet calculation ran through his mind.

He felt no particular hatred toward these Zharun warriors. They were humans, just like the Veynar.

Most of them were simply soldiers following orders, not the masterminds behind the betrayal, of course that didn’t mean they were free of blame.

Still, in another life, under different circumstances, he might have considered taking them prisoner and giving them another chance.

But this was not another life.

And he was still too weak.

Sol understood his current position with clarity. Despite everything he had accomplished today, despite the Layer 4s he had killed and the army he was slaughtering, he was not yet strong enough to afford unnecessary kindness.

This world was not a children’s fairy tale where sparing an enemy earned lifelong gratitude and peaceful endings.

Mercy here was a gamble... and weak people who gambled with mercy usually ended up dead.

Sparing these men would mean letting potential future enemies walk free.

Who could say what fortune they might encounter later? A hidden inheritance. A sudden breakthrough. A powerful backer.

In the stories he read in his previous life, protagonists often returned from the brink of death with overwhelming power and a burning need for revenge.

He had no intention of becoming the cautionary tale that allowed such a thing to happen.

The strong could afford to be merciful.

The weak could not.

And right now, he was still among the weak.

The Dreadwing Blade flashed once.

A short horizontal arc of sapphire-gold force swept through the kneeling group.

And seven heads separated from seven necks in the same instant.

The bodies remained kneeling for a heartbeat longer before toppling forward onto the stone, blood spreading in neat, dark pools beneath them.

Despite some slight, just a tiny bit of bitterness deep in his heart, Sol watched them fall without expression.