FREE USE in Primitive World - Chapter 331: Zeyra’s Resolve & First Wave Of Attack

Chapter 331: Chapter 331: Zeyra’s Resolve & First Wave Of Attack

That’s why she had actively thrown herself into the most dangerous advance hunting teams the tribe had to offer. She had ventured deep into the perilous edges of the Orrath, fighting every single day until her muscles tore and her Flame Core screamed for mercy.

The results were undeniably evident. She had slaughtered her way to the absolute top of her batch. Her essence capacity had skyrocketed, and she was hovering on the very absolute verge of breaking through to Layer 1.

She had thought, in her own prideful heart, that she was closing the gap. She thought she was proving herself worthy.

But seeing him now… seeing him effortlessly, catching a stealth Layer 1 beast by the throat with one hand, smiling at her while the monster hopelessly clawed at his invulnerable armor, a bitter, agonizing pill forced its way down her throat.

She knew he was strong, absurdly strong. She knew he carried Lord blood spirit. It was expected that he would be superior. But acknowledging it intellectually and witnessing the astronomical, insurmountable gap in reality were two entirely different things.

No matter how much she bled, no matter how hard she cultivated, he was a god walking among insects, and she was still just an insect.

But despite her rational acceptance of his power, she still couldn’t help the sharp, agonizing pang of bitterness that flared in her chest.

It wasn’t bitterness at his strength. It was bitterness at her own perceived inadequacy, and worse, the sickening rumors that had been circulating through the tribe for the past five days.

She had recently heard the rumors echoing through the lower rings of the tribe. The whispers that Kira, the Warchief’s arrogant, stoic daughter, had officially claimed him. The whispers that they had spent the last five nights locked together in the Feline Spire, sharing the very bed Zeyra had offered herself upon.

Zeyra bit her lower lip. She bit down so hard that her sharp canines pierced the soft flesh. A warm trickle of her own bright red blood flowed down her chin, the metallic tang hitting her tongue.

Kira was an Elite. Kira had the Warchief’s bloodline. Kira had gotten to him first.

A suffocating, dark wave of jealousy and rage erupted from the very center of Zeyra’s soul. Her Flame Core didn’t just burn; it went supernova, feeding on her emotional instability.

“I won’t lose,” Zeyra whispered to the chaotic, blood-soaked wind, her voice trembling with a terrifying, unhinged devotion. “I don’t care if she’s the Warchief’s daughter. I don’t care if I have to burn this entire jungle to the ground to catch up to you. You are mine.”

The bitterness, the jealousy, and the overwhelming awe coalesced into a singular, highly volatile fuel.

Zeyra let out a ferocious, piercing scream. She channeled every ounce of her rage, her inadequacy, and her obsession directly into her core.

She turned and launched herself blindly into a fresh pack of approaching beasts. She didn’t fight with technique or caution, she fought like a woman possessed, tearing through flesh and bone, immolating the monsters in a fiery display of sheer, destructive rage, determined to paint the battlefield in enough blood to finally make him look back.

….

After a few hours of battle, the last rot-hound died with a wet, gurgling whimper, its bifurcated torso sliding off the edge of Sol’s sapphire blade.

Silence descended upon the killing field. It wasn’t a peaceful silence, it was the heavy, suffocating quiet that follows a massacre, punctuated only by the crackle of the watchfires, the ragged breathing of the Veynar warriors, and the sickening squelch of boots shifting in ankle-deep mud and viscera.

Sol stood in the center of a literal mountain of carcasses. He casually flicked his wrist, the Dreadwing Blade shedding the black blood with a crystalline zing, leaving the iridescent blade perfectly pristine.

He took a deep breath, expecting the familiar, heavy burn of muscular exhaustion. Instead, his chest rose and fell with a calm, even rhythm.

The Sun Core in his solar plexus was spinning rapidly, radiating a comfortable, furnace-like heat that effortlessly metabolized the ambient essence of the slaughter into fresh stamina.

Sol frowned, his silver-crimson eyes scanning the tree line. The dust was settling. Nothing else was charging out of the dark.

“Is that it?” Sol muttered, genuinely bewildered. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, feeling a sharp pang of disappointment.

He hadn’t even engaged the active auras of his spirits. He had barely tapped into his Layer 1 strength. The unranked beasts had shattered against his Badger armor like brittle glass against solid iron.

If this was the world-ending beast tide that had terrified the tribe for weeks, it was a profound letdown.

“Hold the line!” Warchief Veylara’s voice boomed from the ramparts, cutting through his thoughts. “Shields up! Treat the wounded! Take a breath, Vanguard!”

Sol jogged back toward the defensive perimeter established just outside the massive timber gates. The Veynar warriors were pulling their injured behind the shield wall.

Thankfully, the injuries were minor… a few gashes from glancing claws, a couple of broken bones from the sheer impact of the charge.. mostly suffered by the newly awakened youth who lacked the combat awareness of the veterans. No one had died. The warriors had held strong.

Veylara leaped down from the watchtower, landing with a heavy, earth-shaking thud, her chitin armor gleaming with the blood of the few beasts that had managed to reach her position. She walked directly toward Sol, her storm-colored eyes grim.

“You fought well,” Veylara stated, her tone entirely devoid of its usual condescension. “You held the center. But do not let the adrenaline fool you into arrogance. Sheathe your blade and conserve your stamina.”

“Conserve it?” Sol asked, gesturing toward the quiet tree line with his free hand. “The field is clear, Chief. Didn’t we slaughter them all.”

Veylara replied, her voice cold and analytical. She pointed her obsidian spear toward the dark canopy. “What you just fought wasn’t the real beast tide. It was the starving, the weak, and the mindless unranked fodder.”

Sol’s eyes narrowed as the tactical reality of the situation clicked into place in his mind. Probing waves. It was a classic, brutal siege tactic. You didn’t send your elite troops to batter down the gates, you sent the peasants to choke the moat with their bodies first.

“This is just the first of many waves.” Veylara continued, her gaze sweeping over the exhausted faces of the younger hunters in the Vanguard. “Rest while you can, Sol. The next wave will be much stronger, It will be the true army of the Orrath.”