FREE USE in Primitive World - Chapter 204: I Am Not A Hero!

Chapter 204: Chapter 204: I Am Not A Hero!

The weight of the silence that followed the salute was more oppressive than the boom of the explosion. Hundreds of people, their foreheads pressed against the soot-blackened floor, were waiting for a word from a “Saviour” who felt like he was barely holding onto his own skin.

The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of fists against chitin armor was a sound that vibrated not just in the air, but in the very marrow of Sol’s bones. He stood motionless amidst the soot of the pulverized Sun-Stone, a lone figure of rugged leather and silver-bark caught in a shaft of light that felt less like sun and more like special effects from the heavens.

The fervor in the room was suffocating. He saw the weeping faces of the elders, the wide-eyed devotion of the children, and even the silent, mountain-like salute from Warchief Veylara.

Sol looked at his hands. The white light beneath his veins was finally receding, leaving behind a dull, thrumming warmth that made his entire body feel like a forged blade… dense, sharp, and humming with potential. He looked at Warchief Veylara.

Her fist was still clenched against her chest, her stormy eyes, once filled with the cold, calculating skepticism of a ruler, were now locked onto his with an intensity that made his skin crawl. It wasn’t just respect, it was a frighteningly intense devotion, the kind of look a starving man gives to a feast, or a dying soldier gives to a god.

For a heartbeat, Sol felt a surge of something intoxicating. A thick, syrupy vanity rose in his throat, threatening to drown his common sense. Who wouldn’t be overwhelmed? He was a guy who, weeks ago, was worrying about word counts and rent.

Now, the most powerful beings he had ever encountered… beings who could literally tear trees out of the ground with their ghost-pets… were kneeling in the soot of their own history just to catch a glimpse of his shadow.

The ego boost was a drug, pure and unfiltered. For a second, he wanted to stand taller, to command them to rise, to play the part of the ’Sovereign’ they so clearly craved.

But then, he felt it.

The stinging, venomous eyes of Korash were a cold splash of mountain water to his face. Through the haze of his newly awakened core, Sol could feel the boy’s hatred like a physical needle pricking his skin. Behind Korash, Elder Thorne’s shadow seemed to writhe with a predatory hunger that had nothing to do with worship.

It was a stark, brutal reminder: fame in this world was a double-edged sword, and one edge was already pressed against his throat.

I am not a hero, Sol reminded himself, his jaw tightening as he forced the vanity back down into the dark corners of his mind.

He knew the tropes. He knew the stories. Heroes were the ones who stood on the walls until they were turned into pincushions. Heroes were the ones who sacrificed their own happiness, their own lives, and most importantly, their own loved ones for the “greater good” of people who would forget their names in two generations.

Sol looked at the sea of bowing heads. He didn’t feel a shred of the self-sacrificial nobility required to lead them. He didn’t care about the ’Veynar Saviour’ or the ’Sacred Heartwood.’ His world was smaller, fiercer, and infinitely more selfish. His world was the warmth of Lyra’s bed, the quiet obedience in Nia’s eyes, and the fierce fire in Evara’s touch.

If it came down to a choice between saving this entire tribe and saving one of his girls, he wouldn’t even blink before letting the Heartwood burn to ash. He wasn’t hero material. He was a survivor who had accidentally stumbled into the raiment of a deity. He was a man, who had just slept with a goddess and now seemed like he being asked to pay the bill in miracles.

I need to get out of here,

Sol thought, his pulse beginning a frantic, staccato rhythm against his ribs.

The air in the hall was too thin, too heavy with the scent of burnt obsidian and desperate hope. If he stayed another minute, the silence would break, and the demands would begin. They would ask him to heal the unhealable, to slay the unslayable, to be the shield that broke against the Earth-Blood Kings.

He didn’t have those answers. He barely had a Sun Core that didn’t feel like it was going to explode.

“Warchief,” Sol said, his voice rasping… a sound that seemed to make the kneeling crowd shiver in unison. He didn’t wait for her to speak. He didn’t give them a chance to turn their devotion into a cage.

He turned on his heel, his new leather boots crunching loudly on the pulverized remains of the Sun-Stone. He kept his eyes fixed on the massive Void-Oak doors, his posture stiff and unyielding.

“I need… silence,” he commanded, the authority in his voice surprising even himself. It was the tone of a man who had been bored of power plays like these, but he could swear that he was just copying what he saw the emperors and kings did in period dramas.

Veylara blinked, the spell of the moment breaking just enough for her to realize that their “Saviour” looked like he was about to collapse from the sheer sensory overload. She lowered her fist and turned toward the crowd, her voice regaining its razor-edged command.

“The Sun has risen!” she roared, her voice echoing out through the hole in the roof. “But the Sun needs the sky! Clear the path! Let the Divine One return to the Spire to anchor his core! Anyone who touches him without leave will answer to my phantom!”

“The Sovereign is weary,” Zephyra’s voice also boomed, she was much more gentle than veylara, her voice amplified by the blue-bone pipe she still clutched. “The First Dawn is a heavy burden. Let him pass! The forest demands his rest before the Rite!”

The crowd didn’t need to be told twice. Even though people were a bit reluctant, they didn’t just move, they evaporated from his path, pressing themselves against the bone-ribbed walls to create a wide, trembling lane of bodies.

Kira stepped to his side, her eyes red-rimmed but shining with a fierce, protective light. She didn’t say a word… no congratulations, no questions, and simply guided him out with her.

Lumi, who had been hovering near the doorway like a frantic moth, hurriedly tagged along. The bubbly girl was uncharacteristically silent, her mouth hanging slightly open as she stared at Sol with literal stars in her eyes. To her, the “weird guest” had just become a living legend.

Sol followed her, his boots crunching on the obsidian dust. The sound was abrasive in the quiet hall, a reminder of the thousand-year-old relic he had just reduced to ash. Every step felt heavier than the last.

As they passed the rows of kneeling tribespeople, he could hear their whispered prayers, “The White Sun has come,” “Ancestors, we are saved”—the muffled sobbing of mothers who clutched their children tighter as he passed, and the frantic, rhythmic chanting of the younger warriors who were already looking for a war to fight in his name. It was intoxicating and terrifying all at once.