FREE USE in Primitive World - Chapter 218: Nothing Left?

Chapter 218: Chapter 218: Nothing Left?

The roar was not merely a sound, it was a kinetic, metaphysical force.

It hit the clearing like a physical shockwave. The silver mist was violently blown back, clearing the Grove in an instant. The blue-glowing moss on the ancient trees flared blindingly bright, struggling to withstand the sudden spike in atmospheric pressure. Several of the weaker initiates, already exhausted from their bindings, were literally lifted off their feet and thrown flat onto their backs.

Even the stoic Kira had to plant her boots firmly, throwing an arm over her face to shield herself from the sheer gale-force wind generated by the Storm-Tiger’s lungs.

Other elders were much better, and weren’t thrown out or anything, but were still struggling due to intense pressure.

In the baskets behind the altar, the Quartz and Star-Stones rattled against each other in sheer, unadulterated terror. The spirits inside were trying to dig themselves deeper into the mineral out of fear.

Only the ones Inside thrashed around in agitation, desperately attacking the mineral, as if to come out and swallow it too.

Only Sol, Veylara and Zephyra stood completely unmoved.

Zephra did that thanks to her mysterious powers, Veylara for obvious reason, as it was her summon, it would have been a joke, if she was thrown away, as for Sol? While the world around him was caught in a hurricane of spiritual pressure, the heavy, Golden Liquid inside his chest acted as a flawless, gravitational anchor. He didn’t even flinch. He just stood there, his dark cloak snapping wildly in the wind, watching the Storm-Tiger with deep, appreciative awe. Now that, he thought, a slow smirk touching his lips, is a proper boss-level summon. The particle effects alone are a ten out of ten.

Chief Veylara raised her hand, her expression twisted into a mixture of grief and pure unadulterated rage.The Storm-Tiger snapped its massive, tusk-like jaws shut, its lightning-filled eyes glaring at the Blood-Jades one last time with absolute disgust before it dissolved back into the Chief’s aura. It left nothing but the sharp, biting smell of scorched ozone in its wake.

Veylara didn’t speak immediately. The silence that followed the roar was deafening. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and hovered her palm inches over the crimson stones.

“They are dead,” she whispered. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it reached everyone. The absolute despair in her voice was somehow heavier than the tiger’s roar.

“Chief?” Elder Harkan stepped forward, his scarred face paling. “What do you mean, dead? They are Ancestral Jades. They cannot simply die. The wards—”

“The spirits inside… they are gone,” Veylara cut him off, her voice rising, thick with a volatile mixture of sorrow and burning, murderous rage. “No. Worse than gone. They have been hollowed out. Rotted. There is a vile, creeping shadow infused into the jade. A poison of the soul. If any warrior had attempted to anchor these, the corrupted essence would have instantly flooded their mind. They wouldn’t have just failed… the black rot would have shattered their sanity. They would have been turned into feral, rabid husks, right here in the Grove.”

A collective, horrified gasp echoed through the clearing. The initiates stared at the Blood-Jades as if they were venomous serpents waiting to strike. Varn, who was still clutching his bleeding chest at the edge of the circle, suddenly looked as pale as a fresh corpse. He fell to his knees, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at the crimson stones. He realized just how agonizingly close his arrogant, blind pride had brought him to a fate infinitely worse than death. If he had managed to trigger that stone… he would have slaughtered everyone here before his own body tore itself apart.

Elder Thorne’s face went entirely rigid, the blood draining from his sharp features until he looked sculpted from wax. His heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped bird beating itself to death against a cage.

How? his mind screamed, panic threatening to claw its way up his throat and shatter his composure. The Zharun bastards swore the liquid shadow was utterly undetectable! It leaves no physical trace, no scent, no thermal footprint! How in the names of the ancestors did this outsider sense it?!

Thorne’s dark eyes darted frantically toward Sol. He didn’t know if it was his guilty conscience playing tricks on him or if it was real, but the boy was just standing there, arms casually crossed over his broad chest, watching him with a calm, piercing, intensely knowing gaze that made his skin crawl. It was the exact look of a seasoned hunter who had already seen the trap, bypassed it, and was now just waiting to see what the panicked prey would do next.

At a moment like this, he knew he had to act, and act flawlessly, or he would be executed before the sun fully rose. He forced his facial muscles into a mask of horrified outrage. He stepped forward, raising his hands to the heavens.

“Sacrilege!” Thorne bellowed, his voice trembling with perfectly feigned fury. He even managed to summon a look of tearful devastation to his eyes. “Absolute sacrilege! Who could have done this?! The Blood-Jades are the very soul of the Veynar! What monster would poison our most sacred heritage?!”

Sol’s internal monologue practically gave a standing ovation. Oh, beautiful pivot, Thorne. A solid 9 out of 10 for the quick recovery. Give the man an Oscar already. He didn’t know for an absolute, verifiable fact who did this yet, but rule number one of the classical Betrayal Arc was universal: the loudest voice demanding justice in the room is almost always the guy desperately trying to hide the bloody knife.

.

But Sol kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t time to spring the trap on Thorne yet. If it was really him, he needed concrete proof, not just suspicion, and gut feeling to take down a senior elder of the tribe.

“This… this is a catastrophe,” the first Elder stammered, the man who had insulted Sol moments ago now looking entirely deflated. He dropped to his knees, his previous arrogance had evaporated like mist. He looked at the ruined stones as if looking at the corpses of his own children. “Without the Lord-Beasts… we will have no apex beast in our next generations.”

Other elders weren’t much better, these battle hardened veterans who didn’t even flinch upon countless deaths, looked as if their souls had left the bodies.

“We are defenseless at the top,” Harkan muttered, his massive fists clenching helplessly.

Zephyra leaned against the altar, looking suddenly ten years older. The crushing weight of the tribe’s lost history seemed to crush her thin shoulders. “Generations of blood, spilled to claim those beasts… gone.”

The High Shaman slowly turned her milky, sorrowful eyes toward Sol.

“You have saved the lives of our finest, Sol,” Zephyra said, her voice thick with genuine, overwhelming emotion. Slowly, painfully, she bowed her head to him… a gesture of profound, unprecedented respect from a High Shaman that made the grieving initiates and other elders widen their eyes in shock.

Chief Veylara immediately followed suit. She turned fully to Sol, standing tall, and slammed her armored fist over her heart in the highest tribal salute. The heavy THUD of bone on bone echoed in the quiet Grove.

“The Veynar owe you a debt we cannot easily repay,” Veylara stated, her piercing eyes meeting his with absolute sincerity. “If you had not spoken… if some genius of our tribe had talent and attempted the binding… the resulting feral explosion would have definitely killed the initiates in this Grove, even greatly damaging the whole tribe.”

“But the tragedy remains,” Zephyra continued, gesturing weakly to the baskets with a trembling hand. “Our heritage is ruined. The Blood-Jades are now poison. And for a warrior with a core as vast as yours… the remaining Stone will definitely not suffice. I am deeply , profoundly sorry. We have nothing better left to offer you.”

The Grove descended into a heavy, mourning silence. The initiates looked down at the moss in despair. The great Awakening, which was supposed to herald their salvation and turn the tide of the encroaching war, had just revealed a crippling, fatal vulnerability. The savior had arrived, but the armory was empty. He had no weapon.

“Nothing left?”

Sol’s deep, rumbling voice broke the silence.

It didn’t hold a single trace of disappointment. It didn’t hold sorrow or pity. In fact, to the absolute bewilderment of the grieving Elders and the weeping youths, it sounded almost… amused. Honestly, it would have been an absolute lie, if he said that he wasn’t disappointed, but he knew that it would be useless to just mope around and it’s not like he really had no way.

He uncrossed his arms. The heavy, Golden Liquid in his chest surged, a tidal wave of anticipation crashing against the metaphysical walls of his sun core. He stepped forward. He walked right past the mourning Warchief, who looked up at him in confusion. He stepped past the sputtering, sweating Thorne, who flinched as Sol’s shadow fell over him. He walked right past the ruined basket of Blood-Jades without a second glance.

He stopped at the very edge of the monolithic stone altar, planting his boots firmly, and looked out into the deepest, darkest corner of the ravine.

“You’re wrong, High Shaman,” Sol said, a feral, confident grin slowly spreading across his face.

He raised his hand and pointed a single finger directly into the unnatural darkness. To normal eyes, there was nothing there but shadows and gnarled roots.