FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 92: Chapter 92: The Ash-Grey Calculus

Sol didn’t go home immediately, not like he could in this current mess. He smelled of blood, dirt, and sweat, and he refused to let Lyra and others see him like this. Knowing her, she would definitely lose her mind, panic and cry. And she might even try to go confront Vurok herself, which would just worsen the situation and reduce his chance of ambushing him without evidence.

“Can’t have that,” Sol muttered, clutching his side as he limped away from the village. “Keep the drama outside. Keep the hero face inside.”

Instead, he dragged himself to the river, finding a secluded bend downstream, hidden by dense reeds and the overhang of ancient trees. It was dark, cold, and lonely… illuminated enough by moonlight to see things he needed.

He stripped off his ruined tunic and loincloth, the movement made him hiss through his teeth, every bruise screaming in a chorus of agony and taking a deep breath waded into the icy water.

Splash.

“Fuuuu—!”

The cold water hit his lacerated skin like liquid nitrogen. It stung so bad he saw stars, but he forced himself to dunk under. He scrubbed ruthlessly, washing away the dirt, the blood, and the humiliation.

When he surfaced, he was shivering and gasping, due to pain and coldness, but it also activated body’s survival mode, calming him down deeply. He stood waist-deep in the shallow, frigid current, hunched over, letting the night air slice through him. The water swirling around him was tinged pink before the current swept it away.

The physical pain was still immense, but here, away from the stench of blood and others, his mind finally achieved the deep, cold stillness he craved. The fury over Vurok and any plan for revenge was set aside, for now.

He looked down at his body in the moonlight. It was a mess of angry purples and blacks. His ribs looked like a abstract painting of pain.

But…

I mean, it was bad, but… not as bad as it should have been.

He pressed a finger to the worst spot on his side. He flinched, waiting for the sharp, white-hot stab of a fracture.

It didn’t come.

Instead, there was just a dull, itchy throb. Like a bruise that was a week old, not ten minutes.

“No way,” Sol whispered. He touched his split lip. The flap of skin that had been hanging loose was gone, sealed shut into a thin line.

He took a deep breath, expanding his chest fully. It was tight, yeah, but his lungs filled. No wheezing. No bubbling blood.

“Damn! This body is a literal tank,” Sol laughed, a short, disbelief-filled sound. “I’m basically Wolverine.”

Even without the energy, the primitive physiology was tough. But with the Ash Gray energy swirling inside him, accelerating his metabolism and cell repair, he was healing at a supernatural rate. At this speed, the bruises would be yellow by morning and gone by the next night. He wouldn’t be bedridden for days, instead he’d be running again by tomorrow morning.

That realization brought a surge of relief…a high note in the melody of his misery. He wasn’t broken. He was just dented.

But as the physical pain faded into the background, the mental replay began. And that hurt worse.

Standing alone and naked in the river, staring at the dark water, the cold night air biting at his damp skin, the adrenaline crash faded, leaving behind a crystalline clarity. Now, he turned his full, desperate attention to the one variable that mattered: the energy.

Why did the ash-grey energy fail him when he needed it most?

He thought back to the alley. To the moment of his failure.

He remembered the utter clarity of his murderous intent toward Vurok, yet when he tried to summon that internal surge…the eruption of heat he’d felt when killing the Corpse-Stalker…there had been nothing.

“Why?” Sol murmured, staring at the reflection of the moon in the water. “Why didn’t it work?”

He had used the same energy that broke Nia. The same energy that terrified the neon viper. But against Vurok, it had been like throwing a handful of mist against a boulder.

And it was really damn infuriating. It was like having a gun that jammed only when you really needed it.

His mind started churning, sifting through the chaos of the last few days, looking for some kind of pattern.

The first time he used it… when he had just woken up…he saw that corpse stalker and seeing Lyra in danger, he commanded with all his might, the chaotic prismatic energy exploding from his chest, obliterating the Corpse-Stalker into a fine mist.

That wasn’t persuasion; that was kinetic force.

The second time, with the same prismatic energy, the ugly hunter in the alley, he had commanded him to leave. The man had obeyed instantly, abandoning his lust, walking away like a puppet.

And then there was Nia. She hadn’t just obeyed; she had been rewritten.

So what changed?

“The Prismatic Chaos,” Sol realized, his hand drifting to his chest.

When he first looked inside his soul… or whatever this cavity was, he had seen a storm of colors clashing…violent, unstable, cosmic. That energy was absolute. It was a cheat code. It was like a “Guest Account” with admin privileges.

After that, the chaotic, rainbow-like prismatic energy had vanished, leaving only this stable, subtle ash-grey energy… a thread of barely controllable power, useful enough to make a viper recoil, but clearly incapable of the instantaneous, devastating command he had tried to project onto Vurok.

“The Prismatic energy was a starter pack,” Sol theorized, his eyes narrowing. “A temporary boost. Or maybe the remnants of whatever brought me here.”

The discrepancy was the key.

His mind ran through the possibilities with ruthless efficiency, eliminating theories using the scientific approach scholars in his last life used:

Theory A: Artifact Exhaustion. Maybe the prismatic energy was never his. It could have been the last dying pulse of an external source…a strange artifact, or a residual boost from the inter-dimensional transfer that brought him here. It was a one-time boost, spent on the first three acts of immense power, and now fully exhausted, leaving his body with only its true, baseline ability… the weaker, ash-grey form.

Theory B: Energy Conversion. Maybe the prismatic chaos was the raw, unrefined energy of his arrival. His body, incapable of housing such volatile power, absorbed and metabolized it, converting it into the stable, ash-grey state. If this was the case, the grey energy was the ’finished’ product, but drastically weaker in potency.

Theory C: Mental State (The True Problem). This was the most troubling. He remembered the encounter with the Neon Viper, where the ash-grey energy had subtly pushed the creature back. He had projected fear and revulsion… pure, instinctual intent. The Corpse-Stalker kill was motivated by sheer, terror-fueled panic and violent command. But against Vurok, his motivation was calculated, cold, and strategically suppressed. He had been trying to use the power to win a fight he knew he couldn’t take.

He felt the cold reality: The energy was not a simple switch. It seems tied to his inner state.

The prismatic energy seemed to require extreme, almost chaotic necessity and intent. The ash-grey energy, the stable form, required focus and reinforcement. It didn’t grant automatic victory; it seemed to amplify his conscious will, but only to a limited, as-yet-unknown degree.