FREE USE in Primitive World

”Nothing is impossible,” Veylara said softly.

With a casual twist of her wrist, Veylara crushed the solid stone head of the mattock into fine gravel. In the same fluid, terrifying motion, the tip of her spear flashed forward like a beam of pure sunlight.

PUNCH-CRUNCH.

The spearhead drove cleanly through Skal’s hide cuirass, punching through his breastbone and bursting out of his spine in a shower of dark, venomous blood.

The force of the thrust lifted him off the timber platform.

Veylara flicked her wrist, hurling him over the wooden railing.

He crashed into the stagnant canal below with a massive splash, his dark blood spreading rapidly across the murky surface, mixing with the already fouled water.

While Veylara dominated the platform, Sol moved through the western walkway with cold, unstoppable lethality.

The Dreadwing Blade thrummed in his grip, like a silent predator sensing the kill. Discarding grand displays of power, he waded into the fray with the rhythmic, terrifying detachment of a man processing livestock.

A pair of Zerith veteran skirmishers lunged at him from the roof of a storage shed, their elongated legs propelling them through the air as they thrusted two bone daggers toward his neck in a coordinated pincer.

SWISH.

Without even looking up. The sapphire blade traced a clean, crescent backhand arc above his head.

SLASH-SLASH.

Both daggers were sheared cleanly in half, followed an instant later by the chests of the two skirmishers. They fell to the wooden walkway in four distinct pieces, their dark blood staining the timber planks before Sol even took his next step.

Ahead of him, three Zerith guards armed with spears tried to form a choke point on a narrow footbridge. Seeing their comrades cut down like dry grass, the three men screamed and charged together, swinging their spears with wild, desperate abandonment.

There was no formation left in the attempt... only the raw refusal to die quietly.

Sol leaned into the charge, his boots barely touching the wet wood.

CRACK!

He ducked beneath the first wild swing and drove his left shoulder straight into the lead guard’s chest. The impact, backed by Layer 3 Peak physical density, shattered the man’s ribs instantly and launched him backward off the bridge. The body hit the canal with a heavy splash and did not surface again.

Without pausing, Sol’s left hand shot out and gripped the second guard by the throat. With a brutal pivot he slammed the man face-first into the wooden railing. The timber beam snapped under the force. So did the warrior’s neck. Sol released the body and let it fold over the broken rail.

The third guard froze mid-stride.

His club trembled violently in his scaled hands as he stared into the glowing neon-crimson eyes fixed on him. Whatever defiance had carried him this far evaporated in a single look. The spear slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the boards.

”P-P-Please...” the guard whimpered.

THWACK.

Sol didn’t waste a blade stroke; he brought the flat of the Dreadwing’s pommel across the side of the man’s skull, knocking him into eternal unconsciousness.

All across the settlement, the brutal, one-sided purge reached its climax.

The Veynar vanguard moved in coordinated squads, clearing the peat huts and sweeping the walkways with ruthless efficiency. Any Zerith who raised a blade, a stone, or a claw was slaughtered on the spot without any type of discrimination between age and gander.

Narrow canals that had once served as simple waterways began to fill with dark, floating corpses. Bodies drifted against the stilts of the huts and collected in the slower-moving bends.

The air grew thick with the heavy copper stench of death, mixing with the ever-present sulfurous reek of the bog until every breath tasted of iron and decay.

Small fires still burned in a few of the outer structures, sending thin columns of smoke into the humid evening sky, but most of the settlement remained intact... a deliberate result of Veylara’s restraint earlier in the assault.

Within fifteen minutes of Veylara issuing the kill order, the last remnants of the Zerith’s fanatical resistance were completely broken.

As the scale of the massacre became bigger and bigger, the Zerith’s frantic, sacrificial zeal evaporated, instantly replaced by the cold, primal paralysis of imminent death.

The fanatical fever that had driven them to defiance broke, shattered by the horrific realization that there would be no glory in their end, nor would there be any legendary last stand sung by future generations of swamp-dwellers.

There would only be an inevitable, grisly silence.

The reality of the situation finally crashed through the minds of the surviving population.

Unlike their expected mutual destruction, only they were being killed and not a single Veynar warrior had been killed until now.

And not just that, their chieftains were dead, their strongest warrior was floating in the canal, their barricades were like kindling to the enemy, and the terrifying force of invaders was cutting through their warriors as if they were nothing more than dry weeds. The imbalance was so complete it left no room for comforting lies.

CLATTER! CLATTER! CLATTER!

Bone daggers, wicker shields, pitchforks, and crude bows were hurled onto the wooden planks from every doorway and alley.

The sound of weapons hitting timber rolled through the settlement in a ragged wave as the will to fight collapsed.

Hundreds of surviving Zerith... mostly trembling women, terrified youths, elderly clan members and the last of the fighters who had finally understood the reality... fell to their knees along the wet walkways.

They pressed their elongated clawed hands flat against the bloody timber, bowing their heads in deep, weeping submission, their bodies shivering uncontrollably in the damp swamp air.

”WE SURRENDER!” an old man who seems to have pretty high status cried out, throwing his bone dagger into the dirt. ”SPARE US! THE ZERITH SURRENDER TO THE VEYNAR!”

Other voices took up the cry in broken, overlapping desperation and helplessness.

The words spread from walkway to walkway until the entire settlement seemed to be repeating the same plea in the guttural dialect of the marsh and in the shared trade-tongue of the region.

For a short time after the first clear surrender call, a stunned silence hung over the battlefield. The Veynar did not immediately lower their weapons. Experience had taught them that a broken enemy could still produce a final, stupid surge of violence.

Squad leaders held their positions, eyes moving across the kneeling figures and the shadowed doorways, waiting for any sign of renewed resistance.

But none came.

The cacophony of battle slowly died down into a heavy, breathless quiet, broken only by the crackle of a few burning huts, the soft dripping of swamp water from broken roofs, and the occasional low sob from someone kneeling in the bloodied timber.

Veylara walked to the center of the high staging platform and planted the butt of her blood-stained spear onto the timber floor.

The sound was small, but it carried throughout the settlement as a signal for the Zerith’s surrender.

Her deep blue eyes swept over the hundreds of kneeling, subdued Zerith with cold, sovereign judgment.

There was no triumph in her posture, none of the hollow, boastful celebration common to a lesser commander who might have mistaken this massacre for glory. Instead, Veylara surveyed the carnage with a grim, contemplative seriousness.