FREE USE in Primitive World - Chapter 205: Emotional Blackmail

Chapter 205: Chapter 205: Emotional Blackmail

As they walked out of the side hall, Sol caught one final glimpse of Elder Thorne. The man was like he had seen a ghost. The very man who had been so full of smooth, serpentine logic minutes ago was now drained of all color, his skin looking like grey parchment, was now staring at the empty pedestal where his political future had just been incinerated.

Beside him, Korash was a portrait of absolute, venomous envy. He was still on his knees, his expensive robes tattered and stained with soot. His fists were buried deep in the obsidian dust, his knuckles white, his shoulders shaking with a silent, murderous rage. He didn’t look like a warrior; he looked like a predator that had just seen its territory claimed by a superior beast.

…

But it was the world outside the doors that truly changed.

As the heavy wooden doors swung open, and Sol crossed the threshold, the emerald quiet he had expected from the Greatwood was nowhere to be found. Instead, he was met with a literal wall of sound… a commotion of thousands of voices that cut through the air like a physical blade.

The plaza, usually a place of somber mourning or disciplined drills, had been transformed into a sea of humanity. Men, women, and children were packed shoulder-to-shoulder, their faces illuminated by the flickering amber of torches and the steady, pulsating sapphire of the city’s runes.

It was a chaotic mosaic of raw, unfiltered emotion: the terror of the recent massacre, the exhaustion of a tribe on the brink of extinction, and now, a desperate, terrifyingly bright thread of hope.

Seeing this, he couldn’t help flinch, feeling even more overwhelmed, as he knew that he definitely wasn’t some hero or savior they wanted him to be, and no matter what he definitely wouldn’t be one, I mean if he could he’d definitely help them as they had been helping him too, but if it involved jumping in a pit of fire, then he’d definitely buck out without hesitation.

Being a hero or some savior was good, but his life was supreme. His loyalty belonged to Lyra and the girls back home, not to a group of strangers who saw him as a biological weapon. Being a hero was a death sentence, and Sol intended to live forever.

He looked at the thousands of eyes fixed on him and felt a crushing weight settle on his shoulders.

Savior. Hero. Divine Envoy.

For a moment, Sol considered getting back inside, he felt the muscles in his jaw tighten as he fought the urge but he didn’t want to come out as some coward, and ruin his importance in their eyes, so he gritted his teeth, forcing his features into a mask of unbothered, stoic obsidian.

He channeled every “Overlord” trope he had ever written, straightening his spine until he felt the leather of his Veynar vest strain against his chest. He made sure his face remained as dignified as possible, maintaining a hollow, regal distance as if this level of worship was a regular, somewhat tedious occurrence in his daily life.

The moment Sol took his first step forward, a sudden, suffocating silence swept across the plaza. It was a silence so absolute it felt violent… the kind of stillness that precedes a landslide or a tectonic shift.

One by one, the people began to buckle. It wasn’t the forced pressure of an Earth-Blood King; it was a spontaneous collapse of the spirit. They saw the man who had walked into the hall as a “Lost One” emerge with eyes that still carried the afterglow of a white-hot star.

“THE DAWN!”

The shriek came from an old woman near the front, her voice cracking with a lifetime of buried grief. She threw herself forward, her fingers clawing at the air as if trying to catch a spark of his light. “THE DAWN HAS RETURNED TO THE VEYNAR! THE ANCESTORS HAVE NOT ABANDONED US!”

The cry was like a spark in a dry forest.

“THE WHITE SUN!” another roared.

“THE SAVIOR!”

The cry was taken up by others. A low, rhythmic chanting began to vibrate through the crowd, a sound so primal it made Sol’s new Sun Core pulse erratically. To these people, Sol was no longer a guest, a stranger, or a “Divine One.” He was a miracle. He was a living weapon forged by the gods to answer the blood-cries of their fallen brothers.

Sol didn’t stop. He didn’t smile and he certainly didn’t wave. He knew that any acknowledgement would be seen as an invitation for further devotion, a way for them to tie their survival to his neck.

He kept his face a mask of stoic, unbothered obsidian, his crimson eyes scanning the horizon,as if he were looking at a world they couldn’t even perceive.

As he walked, the sea of people parted before him like water before the prow of a battleship. He could hear the sobbing of people who had lost everything in the Breach, now weeping with a frantic, delirious joy because they thought his coming here meant their suffering was over.

Emotional blackmail, Sol thought, his eyes narrowing. They’re trying to guilt me into being their saviour with their tears. I see what you’re doing, world. You want me to care. You want me to feel responsible for the kid whose dad died at the ridge.

He pushed the thought away, hardening his heart against the raw desperation of the crowd. He could understand their emotions… he really could… but he wasn’t going to let them consume him. He wasn’t going to be the “savior” who died so they could live in peace.

Kira hurried after him, her feline phantom flickering in and out of existence as she struggled to push through the kneeling crowd.

…

The news of Sol’s “Five-Minute Awakening” didn’t just walk through Veynar; it roared through the Great Heartwood like a gale. By the time Sol had pushed through the crowd, the story had been told a thousand times, each iteration adding a new layer of impossible myth.

In the lower weaving sheds, women who couldn’t make out in time to witness all of this paused their looms to whisper about the boy who had turned the High Hall into a star. In the armories, hunters sharpening their bone-spears spoke of how the atmospheric pressure had made the very sap of the Heartwood boil.

Even the scouts perched on the outermost branches… hardened men and women who usually only cared about wind direction and predator tracks… were looking back at the tribe with eyes full of a new, terrifying hope.

The atmosphere of the city underwent a violent, chemical shift. The heavy, suffocating numbness of grief that had settled over the tribe since the massacre at the ridge was being burned away by a frantic, almost delirious optimism.

If a “Divine One” had truly descended… if he carried a core so dense that a thousand-year-old test stone had surrendered to his touch… then perhaps the laws of the world were being rewritten. Perhaps the Marauders could be driven back into their damn hellhole. Perhaps, most importantly, the Zharun merger wasn’t the only path to survival.

“The ancestors haven’t left us,” a young weaver murmured, her fingers trembling as she worked a thread of white silk into a pattern of a rising sun. “They sent us a Saviour.”

But while the upper spires hummed with the fever of a new religion, a different kind of energy was gathering in the damp, shadow-drenched roots of the lower city.