FREE USE in Primitive World - Chapter 335: You Can’t Save Everyone In A War

Chapter 335: Chapter 335: You Can’t Save Everyone In A War

Despite Sol’s devastating accuracy and the relentless volleys of the Veynar archers, the sheer volume of the enemy was too much. The numbers were infinite. A few highly agile beasts managed to slip through the net of arrows and spears.

A pack of Venom-Weaver Spiders… massive, terrestrial arachnids the size of transport carriages… used the suppressing fire of the archers to their advantage. They scuttled behind the larger hulks of the dead, entirely avoiding the arrows, and reached the base of the wall. Instead of climbing the wood, they spat thick, pressurized streams of highly corrosive web straight up into the air.

The webs arced over the parapets.

“Incoming!” Sol roared, diving out of the way.

The sticky, acidic webbing slammed into the defensive line. An archer to Sol’s left screamed in absolute, unadulterated agony as the webbing hit him squarely in the chest. The acid ate through his leather armor in a fraction of a second, melting into his ribcage. Before Sol could even swing his blade, the man collapsed, his organs liquefying.

A second archer was caught by the arm, the web forcefully yanking him forward. He scrambled, his fingernails tearing into the floorboards, but the sheer strength of the spider below ripped him entirely over the edge. His scream faded into the dark, followed by the sickening, wet crunch of mandibles.

Sol’s silver-crimson eyes flared with pure, unadulterated rage. He lunged to the edge, looking down at the massive arachnid reeling its kill in.

“Die,” Sol hissed. He didn’t throw a spear. He threw himself over the edge.

He plummeted thirty feet, the wind roaring in his ears. He aligned his body directly over the massive, eight-eyed spider. At the very last second, he brought the Dreadwing Blade down in a brutal, two-handed vertical strike. The sheer weight of his Badger armor combined with the vacuum-shear of the blade drove the weapon entirely through the beast’s armored cephalothorax, pinning it to the earth.

He ripped the blade free, the beast twitching violently before dying. And went on a killing spree, killing all the nearby beast, before vaulting backward, using the Dreadwing’s agility to scramble back up the rough surface of the wall, his heart hammering with the bitter reality that despite his newly gained overwhelming power, you can’t save everyone in a war.

He was doing everything he could, killing at a pace that defied logic, and people were still dying.

…

The ranged intense and visceral barrage continued for another ten grueling minutes.

The Veynar defenders fought like demons, their muscles burning, their fingers bleeding from drawing bowstrings, their voices hoarse from screaming orders. The killing field was a complete, unrecognizable mess of shattered bodies and twitching limbs.

And then, the worst possible sound echoed across the ramparts.

“Quivers empty!” an archer shouted, holding up a hollow leather tube.

“We are out of spears!”

Sol looked down at his own hands. The massive rack of heavy throwing spears beside him was completely empty. The arrows had all been fired. The ranged arsenal of the Veynar Vanguard, carefully stockpiled, had been entirely exhausted.

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the walls, broken only by the crackle of the dying fires and the heavy, ragged breathing of the defenders.

Veylara nodded grimly. The horde had been drastically thinned, but hundreds of highly lethal Omen Bloods still prowled the mud, waiting for an opening.

“Elders! Elite Vanguard! Open the postern gates!” Veylara commanded. “Clear the stragglers! Leave nothing breathing!”

The smaller, heavily reinforced side doors at the base of the wall groaned open. The absolute best warriors the Veynar had to offer surged outward. Elder Harkan, the one who opposed Thorne’s diplomatic approach, a tall man with red hair, a scarred chest, and a massive Great Ape phantom, led the charge. This time they didn’t hold back, his and others phantom materializing according to their layers.

Kira was right beside him, her pale leather armor already stained black, her bone-sword flashing as she engaged a wounded rot-hound.

Sol also dropped down to join them. The melee was visceral, brutal, and fast. The Elites didn’t fight defensively, they fought with the ruthless, synchronized efficiency of butchers clearing a slaughterhouse.

Sol moved through the mud, his sapphire blade humming, severing the spines of beasts that had survived the arrow storm. He decapitated a scaled-wolf that tried to flank Kira, flashing her a quick, blood-stained smirk before moving to the next target.

Within twenty minutes, the immediate clearing was secure. The Elites breathed heavily, their weapons lowered, waiting for the final clear signal.

But as Sol wiped the sweat from his brow, he looked up at the wall.

Warchief Veylara hadn’t moved. She hadn’t joined the sortie. She stood perfectly still atop the gatehouse, her spear lowered, her storm-colored eyes locked in a dead, unblinking stare toward the absolute deepest part of the southern jungle.

Why isn’t she fighting? Sol’s rational mind raced. The wave is broken. Why is she holding back?

And soon, he finally understood exactly why Warchief Veylara had stayed on the wall. Why she had preserved every last drop of her Layer 4 essence.

The ground beneath the Veynar settlement didn’t just vibrate. It heaved.

It was a violent, catastrophic seismic shockwave that traveled directly through the bedrock of the Great Orrath. The massive petrified walls groaned in agony, the timber grinding together with a sound like dying giants. On the parapets, exhausted warriors lost their footing, stumbling and falling to their knees. Sol had to actively engage the Badger’s strength just to remain standing, his boots denting the ground.

“By the Goddess…” A nearby Elder whispered, gripping the battlements with white knuckles, his face drained of all color.

Sol looked out into the distance, peering through the swirling yellow dust, the dying smoke of the pitch fires, and the heavy, freezing rain.

Deep in the darkness of the tree line, massive silhouettes began to emerge.

And even though he had previously encountered them, he was still shocked by them. They were so large they defied the natural order of flesh and bone. They weren’t just beasts, they were walking natural disasters. Sol couldn’t clearly see their specific features through the gloom, but his instincts… the primal, Lord Blood spirits in his core… screamed at him.