FREE USE in Primitive World - Chapter 272: Suicidal Bravery And Miraculous Luck
Chapter 272: Chapter 272: Suicidal Bravery And Miraculous Luck
The silence in the square was profound, broken only by the crackling of the nearby braziers and the ragged, bloody breathing of Elder Thorne, who still lay crumpled in the dirt under the watchful, spectral gaze of Warchief Veylara’s Storm-Tiger.
Every single eye in the Veynar tribe was locked onto Sol. Even though she had tried to lower her voice, but thanks to the unleashed form of her phantom, her question hung in the air, echoing the collective disbelief of hundreds of seasoned hunters and gatherers.
“How did an unranked human possibly manage to kill and anchor a creature like that?”
Sol looked at Veylara’s intense golden eyes, then glanced at High Shaman Zephyra, whose milky gaze was sharp with analytical suspicion. He knew he was standing on a razor’s edge.
He had the power, yes, but the Great Orrath was a world built on logic, brutal food chains, and undeniable physical truths.
If he told them the actual truth… that he possessed a tyrannical, Silver Liquid that allowed him to mind-control a colossal Hive Mother, orchestrate a massive insectoid war, and casually absorb two Layer 3 Sovereign souls like a bottomless black hole… they wouldn’t revere him.
They would be utterly terrified of him. They would see him not as a divine blessing, but as an apocalyptic parasite that needed to be eradicated before it devoured the entire jungle. Of course, it was just a possibility and the reverse could happen too, but still, he wasn’t going to risk revealing his ultimate trump card.
He needed a story. A half-truth. Something that explained the residual scent of acid on his clothes, his ragged appearance, and the sheer impossibility of the kill, while simultaneously painting him as a fearless and cunning hero.
Sol let out a long, heavy sigh, expertly feigning the deep, bone-weary exhaustion of a warrior who had just walked through hell and back. He leaned casually against the smooth shaft of his Void-Oak spear, looking over the crowd.
“You’re right, Warchief,” Sol began, his voice steady, carrying a solemn weight. “It is impossible for an unranked human to kill a Layer 3 Lord Blood in a fair, head-on fight. If I had simply walked up and challenged the Lord Dreadwing, I would have been vaporized into red mist before I could even blink.”
A ripple of nervous murmurs washed through the crowd. That made sense. That aligned with their reality.
“Then how?” an older, heavily scarred hunter called out respectfully from the front row. “How do you hold the sky-demon’s essence?”
Sol’s silver-crimson eyes narrowed, taking on a distant, haunted look as if he were reliving a nightmare. He thought back to the apocalyptic crater, the melting flesh, and the apocalyptic clash of the titans.
“I didn’t kill it,” Sol said clearly. “I outsmarted it. And I survived.”
He paused, letting the dramatic tension build, ensuring every ear was hanging on his next word.
“I tracked deep into the jungle, moving in the shadows for hours. But then, the earth began to shake. The canopy above me was violently torn apart. I didn’t stumble upon a sleeping beast… I stumbled into a warzone.” Sol looked directly at Veylara. “There wasn’t just one Layer 3 Sovereign in that valley. There were two.”
Gasps erupted from the surrounding elders. Veylara’s grip on her spear tightened until her knuckles turned white. “Two?”
“A Lord Dreadwing,” Sol confirmed, nodding slowly, “and a Lord Great Badger. A true titan of the earth. They were locked in a death match that was leveling the entire forest. The Dreadwing was raining down geysers of corrosive, superheated plasma, melting the bedrock itself. The Badger was retaliating with tectonic force, shattering the insect’s armor with phantom claws the size of our watchtowers.”
He gestured to his ruined, acid-singed leather clothes. “I was caught on the periphery. Just the splash damage from their crossfire melted the trees around me into glass. I should have run. Any sane man would have turned and fled back to these walls.”
Sol straightened his posture, his eyes flashing with a fierce, manufactured pride. “But I remembered the mocking words of Elder Thorne before I left. I remembered the doubt in this tribe’s eyes. I refused to return empty-handed. So, I hid. I buried myself in the acidic mud, breathing through a hollow reed, and I watched gods tear each other to pieces.”
The crowd was completely spellbound. Young warriors leaned forward, their mouths slightly open, completely captivated by the imagery of the apocalyptic clash. It was a tale worthy of the ancient tribal epics.
“I waited until the jungle itself was entirely silent,” Sol continued, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “The Badger managed to rip the Dreadwing out of the sky, crushing its thorax, but the insect managed to sever the mammal’s throat with its final, desperate strike. They mutually destroyed each other. But a Layer 3 Sovereign’s soul doesn’t dissipate instantly. It clings to the physical vessel, burning with rage.”
Sol took a step forward, his expression hardening into pure grit. “That was my window. But they weren’t alone. The valley was swarming with hundreds of surviving, frenzied lackeys…. Layer 1 and Layer 2 beasts driven completely mad by the death of their Lords. It was a literal meat grinder.”
He gripped his spear tightly, acting out the tension. “I didn’t hesitate. I flooded my legs with every ounce of my remaining strength, and I charged directly into the swarm. I dodged superheated scythes, I leaped over pools of boiling green acid, and I fought my way through the frenzied guards.
I risked having my own soul shredded into pieces just to reach the Dreadwing’s shattered head. I pulled out the pure Blood-Jade you gave me and slammed it against the beast’s carapace, extracting its soul into the crystal right before a wave of elite guards spotted me.”
He exhaled sharply, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “I was completely surrounded. I dove into a deep crevice beneath the roots of a petrified Void-Oak and buried myself in the acidic mud. They were hunting me, tearing the jungle apart. I knew if they found me, I was dead. I couldn’t outrun a swarm of that size unranked. So… I did the only thing I could think of to survive. I pressed the filled Blood-Jade to my chest and anchored the spirit right there in the mud.”
A collective, horrified gasp rippled through the gathered warriors.
“You anchored it in the field?!” an older, heavily scarred warrior elder blurted out, unable to contain his sheer disbelief. “But it was a Layer 3 Lord Blood! How did an unranked human manage to absorb a Sovereign spirit without your meridians violently shattering? The metaphysical backlash alone should have turned your organs to ash!”
Sol let out a tired, self-deprecating chuckle, shrugging his shoulders with practiced innocence. “Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe it was the blessing of your ancestors. Maybe the Goddess herself was watching over me. Or maybe… maybe the beast’s soul was just so severely crippled and fractured from its death match with the Great Badger that it simply didn’t have the strength to fight back. A miracle happened. I braced for my body to explode, but my core just… absorbed it.”
He looked around at the awe-struck faces. “The sheer shock of the absorption knocked me out. When I finally came to, the aura of the Dreadwing had settled in my veins, and the valley was mostly quiet. The apex beasts had already scattered back into the deep woods. There were only a few scattered Layer 1 lackeys left wandering the crater. I used my new speed to fight my way through them, and I ran faster than I ever have in my life, carrying the prize back to these gates.”
When Sol finished speaking, the square remained silent for a long, stretched moment as the tribe collectively digested the sheer, suicidal bravery… and miraculous luck… of his actions.
He hadn’t overpowered a Lord Blood… which would be a lie too vast to swallow… but he had done something arguably even more impressive to the great warriors.
He had exhibited flawless stealth, infinite patience, and the absolute, balls-of-steel courage to dive into a swarm of frenzied, high-tier beasts just to snatch the ultimate prize from the jaws of hell.
It was the epitome of opportunism. It was the perfect, brutal cunning required to survive the Great Orrath.
