FREE USE in Primitive World

Zeyra flicked the blood from her daggers with a cold, disgusted expression, immediately falling back into step behind Sol.

”Beasts,” Zeyra spat. ”They don’t even spare their own tribeswomen.”

”When a tribe is built entirely on cruelty and fear,” High Shaman Zephyra observed softly, her robes billowing in the draft of the fires, ”the moment the fear at the top vanishes, the cruelty turns inward. They know no other language.”

High Shaman Zephyra raised her staff, sending razor-sharp blades of emerald wind down the main street, slicing through the weapons and armor of any warrior who dared to turn and resist.

Beside her, Kira drew her short hunting bow, sending feather-fletched arrows through the eye sockets of rogue spearmen trying to leap the outer fence.

Within minutes, the violent, chaotic noise of the riot in the outer perimeter was entirely replaced by the clean, rhythmic sounds of Veynar weapons doing its work.

The guilty were slaughtered where they ran. The innocent and terrified civilians, realizing the Veynar were only hunting the murderers, pressed themselves flat against the walls, weeping in sheer relief as the iron grip of the Veynar restored absolute order to their burning world.

...

Seeing Veylara continue inwards, ”Where to?” Sol asked, glancing sideways at Veylara.

”The Great Lodge,” Veylara replied, her eyes narrowing as she looked toward the elevated stone plateau at the center of the settlement. ”The warrior said the high layer ones are tearing each other apart trying to claim Vane’s seat. If we take the head, the rest of the hyenas will scatter.”

”Lead the way, Warchief.”

Moments later, they reached the base of the stone plateau.

The Zharun Great Lodge was a massive, fortress-like structure constructed from blackened timber and some mammoth ribs, adorned with the dried skull totems of slaughtered beasts.

At the entrance, the doors had been violently kicked off their hinges, and the loud, violent clashing of weapons echoed from within, accompanied by roars and furious tribal curses.

Inside the grand hall, over forty Layer 2 and Layer 3 Zharun veterans were locked in a chaotic, bloody free-for-all.

Broken tables and spilled platters littered the floor.

In the center of the hall, near the massive obsidian chieftain’s throne, two prominent Layer 3 peak warriors... one wielding a spear, the other gripping an axe... were trading vicious, essence-fueled blows, both bleeding heavily from multiple gashes.

”THE SEAT IS MINE, BARKAN!” the axe-wielder roared, his muscles swelling with essence. ”VANE IS DEAD! HIS BLOODLINE IS GONE! I AM THE STRONGEST IN THE ZHARUN!”

”YOU’RE JUST A VANE’S LOYAL PET!” the spear-wielder snarled back, sweeping his spear in a whistling arc. ”AND I AM THE STRONGEST! I’LL FEED YOUR ENTRAILS TO THE HOUNDS AND TAKE THE TRIBE MYSELF!”

BOOM!

A sudden, deafening shockwave shattered the silence of the entrance.

The heavy stone pillars flanking the doorway groaned under the immense kinetic displacement as Sol stepped into the Great Lodge.

Instead of shouting around, he simply let a fraction of his stabilized Layer 3 Peak spiritual pressure bleed outward, mixed with the chilling, suffocating weight of the Great Badger.

The ambient air in the hall dropped instantly by twenty degrees.

The loose debris, scattered bones, and spilled blood on the floor began to vibrate, pinned downward by invisible pressure..

The fighting instantly ceased.

The forty brawling warriors froze mid-swing, their breath catching in their throats as a primal, hair-raising terror seized their nervous systems.

The two brawling captains slowly turned their heads toward the doorway, their maniac adrenaline evaporating like mist under a blazing sun.

Framed in the smoking archway stood Sol, his neon-crimson eyes flaring like twin embers from an ancient furnace.

Beside him stood Warchief Veylara, her body radiating a blinding, suffocating Layer 4 authority that pressed down on their skulls like a falling mountain.

”W-Who...” Captain Barkan stammered, his spear trembling in his numb grip. ”V-Veynar...? How are the Veynar here?!”

”Where is Chief Vane?!” the axe-wielder demanded, his voice cracking with rising hysteria as he recognized the Veylara. ”Where are our warriors?!”

Sol tilted his head slightly, a raspy, dry chuckle rumbling through his throat.

”Why pretend to not know? Anyway since I’m generous I’ll tell you their exact location. Your vanguard is currently fertilizing the limestone gorge,” Sol said calmly, taking a slow, heavy step forward. ”And Vane... well, he didn’t quite make it. I left his skull in the dirt.”

The hall went dead, breathless silent.

Even though they knew it all, but still hearing from the parties involved, the reality crashed through their minds like a sledgehammer.

The entire coalition force... five thousand strong, led by multiple Layer 4 warlords... had not merely been delayed. They had been utterly wiped from existence. And the very people who had executed them were standing in their hall.

”L-LIES!” the axe-wielder screamed in pure panic, his mind snapping under the impossible terror, he knew that since they all had died, his ending wouldn’t be far off. ”KILL THEM! WE HAVE FORTY WARRIORS! WE CAN—”

WHOOSH.

Since earlier he had been itching to kill, so he had already asked Veylara to let him handle the mess here.

Sol didn’t even draw the blade.

He engaged the high-frequency burst of his Dreadwing and vanished into a crimson blur.

PLUCK-CRACK.

Sol materialized directly inside the axe-wielder’s guard. His left hand snapped out, gripping the captain’s throat, while his right palm drove a concentrated needle of essence straight into the man’s brain.

BANG!

The axe-wielder’s Layer 3 brain shattered instantly. The man didn’t even have time to gasp before Sol turned his wrist and slammed him skull-first into the ground.

THUD.

The captain slumped to the floor, completely lifeless.

Sol stood atop the dais, looking down at the remaining thirty-nine warriors with cold, unblinking crimson eyes.

”Anyone else think they’re strong enough to face me?” Sol asked softly.

CLATTER! CLATTER! CLATTER!

Seeing that just this unknown guy was so strong, they couldn’t even imagine the strength of Veylara, so without a single heartbeat of hesitation, Captain Barkan dropped his spear.

To Sol disappointment, every single Zharun warrior in the hall threw their weapons to the floor, falling to their knees and slamming their foreheads against the blood-stained stone, their bodies trembling in synchronized terror.

”WE SURRENDER!” Barkan shrieked, pressing his nose into the dust. ”WE SUBMIT TO THE VEYNAR! SPARE US!”

Veylara stepped up onto the dais beside Sol, her deep blue eyes surveying the kneeling remnants of the Zharun leadership with cool, sovereign detachment.

”Thauren,” Veylara commanded, her voice ringing out to the guards entering the hall. ”Disarm them. Confiscate the weapons and take control. The Zharun tribe is no more. From this day forth, this land belongs to the Veynar.”

”Yes, Warchief!”