FREE USE in Primitive World - Chapter 360: Reckless Suicidal Fool

Chapter 360: Chapter 360: Reckless Suicidal Fool

Sol walked down the main dirt thoroughfare of the inner settlement, keeping his hand resting casually on the heavy hilt of the Dreadwing Blade.

The harsh morning sun beat down on the Great Heartwood, baking the mud and the blood into a foul-smelling crust. Everywhere he looked, the Veynar tribe was moving in a frantic, organized rush. Repair crews hoisted massive logs on their shoulders with thick hemp ropes. Women carried bundles of bandages and buckets of clean water toward the triage tents. The sharp, rhythmic crack of hammers hitting wooden pegs echoed off the tall longhouses.

But the moment Sol stepped into view, the rhythm seems to stutter.

A group of heavily scarred, veteran Vanguard spearmen… the same guys who had sneered at him a week ago and didn’t acknowledge him much… stopped dead in their tracks. They lowered the heavy timber beam they were carrying, stood up perfectly straight, and slammed their right fists over their hearts in a crisp, unified salute.

Sol didn’t stop walking. He just gave them a slow, acknowledging nod.

It wasn’t just the warriors. Women carrying large woven baskets of medicinal herbs stopped in their tracks, staring at him with wide, reverent eyes, whispering to each other as he passed. Kids who were running errands froze and watched him pass with wide, awestruck eyes.

Even a couple of the older, grumpy elders from the Thorne’s faction who were busy barking orders at the repair crews shut their mouths and bowed their heads slightly.

The atmosphere around him had completely shifted. It wasn’t the wary, suspicious glances they gave an outsider. It was a heavy, suffocating blanket of pure, unfiltered reverence.

Of course, he had also been respected a lot due to his awakening of the super rare sun core, but even then, there were many people who didn’t acknowledge his existence saying he was just lucky, but now the situation was entirely different.

He was the guy who broke the mountain. He was the guy who bathed in Sovereign blood and walked away. In a savage meat grinder like the Great Orrath, strength was the only currency that mattered, and Sol had just bought the entire tribe.

But of course, he didn’t let it go to his head. Respect in this savage jungle was bought with blood, and it could be lost just as fast if he showed weakness. He kept his face totally blank, a cold mask of indifference, but internally, it felt damn good.

He followed the noise of the heaviest construction toward the eastern wall.

The damage here was catastrophic. A massive, fifty-foot section of the petrified palisade had been completely caved in, leaving the settlement wide open to the jungle.

Standing right in the middle of the wreckage, barking sharp, no-nonsense orders at the repair crews, was Warchief Veylara.

She looked even more heroic and imposing in the harsh daylight than she did in the dark. Her dark chitin armor was cracked, gouged, and permanently stained with the black and green blood of the Behemoths she had butchered.

Her hair was tied back in a messy braid, and she held her obsidian spear planted in the dirt like a standard. She looked like a war goddess who had just stepped out of a slaughterhouse.

Veylara caught sight of him approaching. She dismissed a pair of captains with a wave of her hand and turned to face him.

Veylara turned to face him fully, her hands resting on her hips. For a long, heavy second, she just stared at him. Her stormy eyes dragged up and down his frame, taking in his clean clothes and steady gait.

Then, her eyes narrowed dangerously.

“You’re out of bed,” Veylara said. Her voice was flat, carrying easily over the noise of the hammers. “The shamans told me you drank the marrow. I expected you to be sweating it out for another day.”

“I don’t like lying on my back much,” Sol replied, stepping up to her.

Veylara’s eyes sharpened. The imposing, heroic aura around her suddenly spiked with sharp, dangerous irritation.

“You really are a suicidal reckless fool,” the Warchief snapped, her voice dropping into a low, deadly growl. She took a step closer, towering over him just slightly. “I gave you a direct order to stay put, but you didn’t listen, I didn’t say anything. And what do you do? You throw yourself under the feet of a charging siege mountain. You drained your core dry and nearly got yourself cut in half trying to play the hero.”

Sol didn’t flinch. He looked right back into her stormy eyes.

“The situation forced my hand, Chief,” Sol shot back, his tone rough. ” You were bogged down by the Ursid and other beasts. That beetle completely lost its mind and was making a blind death-charge straight for this exact section of the wall. If I didn’t derail it, this fifty-foot hole would be a five-hundred-foot crater. The gates would be splinters. And thousands of people would have died.”

He pointed a finger at the ruined timber behind her. “I didn’t do it to play hero. I did it because I wasn’t going to let everyone who helped me, supported me get crushed to paste while you were busy wrestling a bear.”

Hearing this, she was about to continue scolding, but stopped mid air.

The sharp, dangerous anger in her eyes flickered. Which was less anger and more hidden worry about him. She looked over her shoulder at the massive breach, splattered carcass of the beetle still lying out in the mud beyond the gates, then looked back at Sol. The heavy tension rolling off her shoulders slowly evaporated.

She let out a long, heavy sigh, the Warchief facade cracking just a fraction to show the exhausted woman underneath.

“You are right,” Veylara said quietly. “My perimeter broke. I lost control of the Beetle. It was my fault, If you hadn’t stepped in… we would have lost countless tribesmen.”

She reached out and placed a heavy, armored hand on his shoulder. Her grip was firm and heavy.