FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 93: Chapter 93: The Debt of Humiliation

“It couldn’t break Vurok because Vurok was guarded,” Sol muttered, looking at moonlight shining on the ripples . “Maybe it was because he was angry, his adrenaline was up, his ego acted as a shield.”

With Nia, he had used that prismatic energy that was undoubtedly much stronger and With the snake, he had used fear. Animals were simple; their instincts were open doors.

But Vurok? Vurok was a conscious, hostile human male with a strong will and no opening. The Ash Gray energy wasn’t strong enough to smash through that wall yet.

“The Prismatic energy could have done it,” Sol acknowledged. “It would have turned his brain to soup. But I don’t have that anymore. I have this.”

He looked down at his chest. The Ash Gray swirl was recovering slowly, glowing faintly.

It was potent, sure. But it required finesse. And more importantly, it required strength.

When he faced the snake, he had been terrified. He had poured his entire will, his whole survival instinct, into that command. His mind had focused to a singular, razor-sharp point.

“The Mind,” Sol tapped his temple. “It’s the lens.”

If the Ash Gray energy was the light, his mind was the magnifying glass. If the glass was flawed, or shaky, or weak, the light scattered. If the glass was perfect, the light could start a fire.

He needed to strengthen the vessel (his body) to hold more energy, and he needed to sharpen the lens (his mind) to project it.

“So I need to upgrade the hardware,” he muttered, looking at his skinny arms. “And the software.”

Strengthening the body was simple: eat meat, lift heavy things, run until his lungs burned.heal, repeat. The primitive way. He could do that.

But the mind?

“How the hell do I strengthen my mind?” Sol groaned, looking up at the moon, running a hand over his cold, wet scalp.

He chuckled, a dry, bitter sound that hitched in his throat and aggravated his bruises. “I can’t just sit in a cave and meditate on the Dao like in those novels.” That was simply fantasy, and it’s not like he hadn’t tried that in his last life. He may not have been under a waterfall, but he did try under a shower, hoping for some miraculous internal shift. “I don’t have a manual! I don’t have a white-bearded grandpa in a ring telling me to breathe through my heels!”

He looked down at the dark, flowing water, watching it silently carry away the last traces of his blood.

His mind, the source of his true strength and the key to this unstable energy, had to be developed in a way that fit this harsh world.

How does one strengthen a mind when danger and chaos are the only teachers?

Perhaps it meant sharpening his intent, practicing the absolute clarity of command he’d glimpsed. Perhaps it meant reducing the mental clutter, achieving the ruthless, cold logic.

The ash-grey energy felt like a muscle, undeveloped and unreliable. He needed to find the primitive way to train that muscle… not through peaceful contemplation, but through necessity, focus, and cold, calculating thought. And how?

The answer was, again, that he had to experiment. He had to push his limits. He had to find out what emotions fueled the energy, what mental states sharpened it. Was it pure rage, the uncontrolled violence that had obliterated the Corpse-Stalker? Was it absolute calm, the stillness he felt now, analyzing the problem with cold detachment? Was it the lust, the detached arrogance he felt when he was in control?

“Fear didn’t work,” he noted. “Desperation didn’t work. But dominance… dominance worked on nia, maybe it was because of the presence of that prismatic energy. He needed to experiment with other women”

He clenched his fist, feeling the skin pull tight over his knuckles. The weakness he felt earlier was fading, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

He would have to use the world as his laboratory. Every day would be a test. He would focus his entire being on a small, insignificant object… a stone, a leaf, an insect… and try to project his will using that elusive ash-grey thread. He would cycle through the emotions: cold certainty, burning hatred, detached calculation.

He would use the stall to test his influence on the crowd… micro-dosing them with command. He would use the women to test the depth of his control… how deep could he rewrite them? And he would use the wilderness to test his command over animals. Every interaction, every moment of focus, would be a building block toward mastery.

…

And as for Vurok…

Sol’s expression darkened, the moonlight casting deep shadows over his bruised face.

Vurok would definitely have to die.

It wasn’t just about ensuring the safety of his family… though that was priority number one. As long as Vurok breathed, Arelia, Veyra, Liora and even Lyra were walking targets.

But also for repaying him this humiliation, It was about balancing the ledger. Vurok had beaten him, humiliated him, and made him crawl in the dirt.

In his last life, knowing the cold reality of the world, he chose to ignore it and shut himself down, but in this one, he wasn’t going to do the same, in this one he was going, to rise, to confront and to kill.

So, he will definitely “thank” Varuk for teaching him this valuable lesson about the true nature of the primitive world.

Vurok was not just an enemy; he was a strategic obstacle, a necessary removal.

Sol pushed off the riverbank, the pain in his ribs a manageable fire now.

Vurok had threatened him with an ’accident.’ He had introduced the concept of the wild claiming the weak. It was a brilliant idea, really.

So, obviously he won’t just rush it, and attack tomorrow in a fit of rage, he would plan it and wait for a perfect opportunity.

“Just you wait,” Sol whispered to the flowing river. “I’ll give you an accident you won’t walk away from.”

As for, exactly how and where? Was a detail he would plan in the next few days. He needed to observe Vurok’s routines, identify the perfect window of isolation and opportunity… the trail, a private spot, a secluded path to a storage shed. Sol didn’t think he would have to wait long. Arrogance bred routine, and routine guaranteed exposure. Vurok was too convinced of his safety, too sure that his victory in the alley had broken Sol.

Sol would allow that false sense of security to ripen, knowing that the moment he struck, it would have to be with the swift, clean finality of the Corpse-Stalker’s death.