FREE USE in Primitive World - Chapter 212: The Primordials
Chapter 212: Chapter 212: The Primordials
Every youth in the clearing, regardless of their arrogance or fear, held their breath. The damp, mist-heavy air of the Shamanic Grove suddenly felt as though it had been pulled thin, replaced by a crushing, invisible gravity.
Even Sol felt a strange, involuntary tightening in his chest. The endless sky within him seemed to darken slightly, the golden liquid bubbling with a sudden, violent hunger.
“These are the undisputed kings of their respective territories,” Zephyra said, not looking at the youths, but staring down at the three Blood jades with a mixture of awe and terror. “They do not run in packs, they lead them. They do not scavenge; they conquer. Even if an essence born do manage to get strong, much stronger than others, other beast will still not follow him, but an omen one can easily command them.
They are highly intelligent, ancient, and their bloodlines are incredibly pure. Like A Four-Winged Razor-Griffin that claims the highest peaks. A Magma-Drake that sleeps in the boiling earth. A Silver-Backed Behemoth that can flatten a forest by walking through it.”
She looked up, her milky eyes finding Sol’s crimson gaze.
“And even though they are unranked right now, their potential is vast. A Lord-Beast can reach Layer 8. They can anchor a warrior into the realm of the sky itself.” Zephyra’s voice trembled slightly with the weight of the lore she was imparting. “The Rarity Rule here is even more absolute. A warrior who binds a Lord-Beast defies the natural order. They can cross layers to fight. A Layer 3 warrior anchored with a Lord-Beast could easily, effortlessly slaughter a Layer 4 warrior who possesses an Omen beast.”
Zephyra paused, letting the brutal mathematics of survival sink into the teenagers’ minds. “As for common essence-born? Even Layer 1 warriors anchored with a Lord-Beast can defeat a Layer 3 commoner. The Lord-Beast provides a massive, overwhelming multiplier to all physical and spiritual stats. It is the path of a Chief. The path of a conqueror.”
She was about to stop. That was the end of the standard tribal lecture. Flesh-Bound, Essence-Born, Omen-Bloods, Lord-Beasts. It was a clean, four-tiered system that every Veynar child learned before they could hold a spear.
But as Zephyra looked at Sol, she hesitated.
She saw the way he was standing. He wasn’t looking at the Lord-Beast stones with the naked, desperate greed of the other youths, nor was he trembling with the fearful reverence of the uninitiated. He was looking at the Blood-Jades with a terrifying, cold calculation. It was the look of a master craftsman evaluating a set of tools, weighing their specific usefulness against an internal scale she couldn’t possibly comprehend.
Driven by a sudden, inexplicable instinct she didn’t fully understand, Zephyra gripped her staff tighter. The ancient, forbidden teachings of the High Shamans, secrets usually reserved for the ears of the Chief and elders, whispered only in the deepest crypts of the High Hall… rose unbidden to her tongue.
“In fact…” Zephyra began, her voice dropping so low the youths had to strain perfectly to hear her. “There is one more grade. A grade mentioned only in the most ancient, crumbling stone tablets hidden beneath the High Hall.”
A wave of visible confusion swept through the circle. The voluptuous girl frowned deeply, the predatory smirk finally vanishing from her lips. The arrogant boys, who had been puffing out their chests moments before, exchanged bewildered, nervous glances. Even Kira, who had been watching silently from the edge of the misty ravine, stepped forward, her stormy grey eyes widening in genuine surprise. She was the Chief’s daughter, yet even she had never heard this.
Sol, however, didn’t move a muscle. His crimson eyes simply darkened, the silver rings around his irises flashing with a sudden, intense brightness in the fog that mirrored the sudden spike in his heart rate.
“Even I don’t know if they really exist,” Zephyra whispered, the word itself seeming to lower the temperature of the Shamanic Grove by ten degrees. “But in the writings of one of our greatest High Shamans, who had ventured far out into the wider world beyond the Orrath Forest, there was the record of a final grade. They are known as… The Primordials.”
“The Mythic Grade. The Legendary Bloodlines.”
The humming of the moss beneath their feet seemed to stop entirely. It was as if the earth itself was holding its breath, listening out of profound respect… or perhaps deep-seated terror.
“They are beasts of pure legend,” Zephyra continued, her milky eyes locked entirely on Sol, as if she were speaking to him and him alone. “They are practically walking forces of nature, born when this world was young and the sky was still a sea of fire. They do not have ’territories,’ like the Lord-Beasts. They are the environment. Where they walk, the world changes to suit them.”
Sol’s heart, recently evolved and pounding with the force of a war-drum, skipped a single beat. Deep within the endless sky of his Sun-Core, the viscous, heavy ocean of Liquid Gold erupted. It crashed against the metaphysical shores of his soul, roaring with a deafening, violent demand. It wasn’t salivating anymore. It was demanding a sacrifice worthy of its weight.
“Their potential…” Zephyra’s voice was barely a breath now. “Their ceiling is limitless. The ancient tablets say a Primordial can reach Layer 9… The Eternal Sun… and perhaps even beyond, piercing the veil of the gods.”
She closed her eyes, reciting the names like a prayer to stave off the dark.. “The World-Serpent, whose shedding scales create mountain ranges, and whose coils crack the continents. The Thunderbird, whose wings blot out the sky with eternal, raging storms, its heartbeat the sound of the thunder. The Sun-Eating Wolf, the shadow between the stars, who heralds the end of days.”
Zephyra opened her eyes, looking at the stunned, pale and utterly terrified faces of the tribal youths, and then finally back to Sol. The warning in her gaze was clear.
“But hear me well, lest you dream too high, and remember it’s all just theoretical, as this world is a magical place, who knows what will happen.” she said, her voice rising to break the spell she had cast over the clearing. ” Let’s suppose, just a what if you find a primordial ranked beast.”
“DO NOT ever try to bind them. To bind a Primordial is to invite death. Their souls are so unimaginably heavy, so dense with the wrath of the world, that attempting to pull one into a mortal core is suicide. The core shatters. The mind snaps into a thousand fractured pieces. The physical body simply explodes into a fine mist of blood and ash, unable to contain the sheer mass of the spirit.”
She slammed her staff into the moss. “They are not meant to be anchored by the flesh of men. They are meant to be worshipped.”
Silence reclaimed the Shamanic Grove. The initiates stared at the baskets, the reality of their choices, their limits, and their fragile mortality crashing down upon them. They were no longer just looking at glowing stones; they were looking at their absolute destinies, bound by the unforgiving laws of the Beast Bloodline Hierarchy.
Zephyra took a deep breath, leaning her weight back onto her staff, visibly exhausted from the heavy exposition. The lore had been spoken. The paths had been laid bare for the new generation.
“The history is told. The limits are set,” the High Shaman declared, stepping back into the shadows of the monolithic altar. “Now… who steps first into the fire?”
The High Shaman turned her gaze back to Sol, gesturing with a smooth hand toward the primary basket of glowing stones. “You are the Divine One, blessed by the White Light. It is only fitting that you claim the first right of choice. Step forward, Sol.”
The dozen tribal youths stiffened. The arrogant ones scowled, their pride wounded by the preferential treatment, while the more timid ones looked relieved to have someone else test the waters.
Sol looked at the baskets. His new, mutated Crimson-Sight flared to life without him consciously commanding it, bleeding the color from the world and replacing it with a stark, thermal landscape of spiritual density.
To the naked eye, they were just polished rocks… cloudy quartz, speckled Star-Stones, and deep crimson Blood-Jade… pulsing with a faint, rhythmic inner light. But to Sol, the world shifted into a monochromatic spectrum of heat and energy.
He didn’t just see stones; he saw prisons.
Trapped inside each rock was a violently compressed ball of spiritual energy. He could see the faint, ghostly outlines of the beasts thrashing against the mineral walls: the frantic pacing of a shadow-cat, the heavy, sluggish rage of a mud-boar, the sharp, erratic fluttering of a razor-hawk.
As he looked at the quartz and star stones. His internal ocean of Golden Liquid sloshed. It wasn’t excited. It was… bored. The energy radiating from those common and rare stones felt like a light, unsatisfying snack to a starving titan. Only the Blood-Jade, holding the vaunted Lord-Beasts, elicited a ripple of interest from his core.
Sol’s mind raced, processing the variables. If I step up now, he calculated, and casually absorb a beast…even a Lord-Beast… I will learn absolutely nothing about the baseline limits of this world’s magic system. I don’t know the friction of the soul-meld. I don’t know what a rejection looks like.
He needed data. He needed to see how normal people did it to understand the exact scale of his own anomaly. He couldn’t risk exposing the unnatural weight of his Golden Liquid without first establishing a baseline.
Sol made a split-second tactical decision.
He raised a hand, taking a deliberate step backward, melting slightly into the outer ring of the fog.
“I appreciate the honor, High Shaman,” Sol said, his deep, resonant voice projecting effortless authority. “But I am a guest of the Great Heartwood. These are the children of your forest. They have bled for this tribe, trained in its shadows, suffered its hardships, and waited their entire lives for this dawn.”
He swept his gaze over the stunned youths, locking eyes briefly with the voluptuous girl and a terrified young man.
“Let them claim their birthright first,” Sol declared, his tone magnanimous, perfectly playing the role of the benevolent, humble savior. “I will wait my turn.”
A ripple of surprise washed over the clearing. The arrogant boys blinked, their hostility momentarily derailed by the display of unexpected humility. They had expected him to snatch the finest Blood-Jade without a second thought. The voluptuous girl’s eyes practically sparkled with renewed, intense interest, her gaze tracing the broad line of his shoulders.
Zephyra studied him for a long moment, Her ancient eyes searched his face, looking for the arrogance of youth or the deceit of a politician, but found only a calm, impenetrable stillness.
A hint of a smile touched her lips, warming her stern features.
“A leader who knows how to yield the path,” she murmured, tapping her wooden staff against the moss. “Very well. The Ancestors favor patience. and so do I.”
She turned her gaze back to the tense, waiting youths, her voice regaining its sharp, commanding edge.
“Who steps first into the fire?”
