FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 97: Chapter 97: Back To Wild Again

Sol slipped out of the tribe using the same hidden entrance he had discovered previously… a section of the palisade where the wood had rotted from the inside, covered by rocks and thick, thorny vines. The path was safe, or at least, devoid of people. But, he still moved with heightened alertness, the memory of Vurok’s ambush fresh in his mind.

He squeezed through the gap, checking left and right, and popped into the blinding green vastness of the wilderness.

But once he was clear of the village’s immediate clearing, the human threat faded, replaced by the crushing majesty of the primitive wild.

This time, he was sensible. He navigated toward the Hunter’s Trail.

It was a wide, beaten path of hard-packed yellow earth, hammered smooth by walking on feet. It was the arterial route the hunting and foraging parties took when heading into the deep wild. While still dangerous…because nothing in this world was truly safe…it was significantly safer than the untamed brush. The lingering smell of crushed repellent-herbs that hunters and foragers rubbed on their skin acted as a deterrent for the lesser beasts.

The path looked safe. The tall grass swayed gently in the wind, and the sun was bright. But Sol didn’t relax. He remembered the terror of the neon snake. He remembered the grunt that had nearly stopped his heart.

“Constant vigilance,” he muttered, channeling his inner paranoia.

Sol walked for what felt like an hour, keeping his senses sharp. The sun beat down, humid and heavy, but the scenery was so alien, so aggressively alive, that he often forgot the heat.

The land between the tribe and the deep jungle was a sprawling savanna of tall, golden “Whisper-Grass.” The blades were serrated and reached his chest, shivering with a metallic rustle even when there was no wind. Occasionally, massive Amber-Gliders… dragonflies the size of hawks with translucent, jewel-toned wings… buzzed overhead, their droning sound like a low-flying aircraft engine. Sol watched one dive and snatch a rabbit-sized rodent from the grass, a brutal reminder of the food chain.

He kept walking, his eyes fixed on the forest line ahead.

It was a strange optical illusion. The jungle looked close—a dark green wall that seemed perhaps twenty minutes away. Yet, he walked for another hour, and the wall didn’t seem to get any closer.

It was only when he finally breached the perimeter of the savanna that the terrifying scale of this world truly hit him.

The distance had been deceptive because the trees were not trees as he knew them.

They were monoliths.

Sol stopped, craning his neck until it hurt, his mouth slightly open. These were the Iron-Bark Giants. Their trunks were not merely wide; they were architectural. It would take ten men linking arms to circle a single one, and their bark was plated like reptilian armor, dark and jagged.

The scale destroyed his depth perception. What he had thought were small shrubs at the forest edge were actually ferns the size of small houses. The “moss” climbing the roots was thick as a mattress.

He stepped from the bright, harsh sunlight of the plains into the shadow of the first canopy, and the world instantly changed.

It was like entering a cathedral built by titans.

The canopy was so high it brushed the low-hanging clouds, interlocking so tightly that it blocked out 90% of the sunlight. The temperature dropped ten degrees instantly. The air became thick, smelling of wet earth, ozone, and crushing age.

Because the sun couldn’t penetrate, the forest floor existed in a perpetual, aquatic twilight. To compensate, the plant life here had evolved its own light.

Bioluminescence.

Patches of Ghost-Moss clinging to the massive roots pulsed with a faint, rhythmic blue light, like a slow heartbeat. Strange, bulbous fungi growing on rotting logs emitted a steady, toxic-green glow. In the upper branches, he saw flashes of purple… perhaps flowers, perhaps eyes… blinking in the darkness.

“Primitive,” Sol whispered, the sound swallowed by the vastness. “Beautiful. And absolutely deadly.”

He gulped and raised his vigilance even further, constantly reminding himself to not be distracted by this beautiful majesty, and he wasn’t just walking in the woods anymore; he had entered the belly of a living, breathing beast.

This was the true face of the world… a place where humans were not the masters, but merely guests who hadn’t been eaten yet.

After the initial shock of the forest’s scale wore off, Sol shook his head to clear the awe. He had a job to do, and gawking at trees—no matter how god-like they were—was a good way to get eaten by something that dropped from them.

He oriented himself based on Aunt Lyra’s description and began trekking along the perimeter, moving toward the Broken Stone Pass.

The journey took another half hour, but in this environment, time felt elastic. Every step was a negotiation with the terrain. The ground was a carpet of decaying leaves the size of shields, concealing roots that twisted like petrified serpents.

As he walked, his gatherer’s instinct—bolstered by his modern scientific curiosity—kicked in. The forest was a treasure trove of biology, but Sol applied a very strict, very simple rule to his foraging:

If it’s bright, beautiful, or moving, leave it the hell alone.

He passed a cluster of Star-Bell Flowers that glowed with an inviting, pulsating violet light. He gave them a wide berth. He skirted around a vine that seemed to be slowly tightening its grip on a tree trunk, twitching as he passed.

Instead, he focused on the mundane.

He stopped to dig up a patch of Iron-Turnips—ugly, grey, lumpy tubers that looked like rocks but smelled faintly of starch. He harvested a bundle of Dry-Weave Grass, which looked dead but was incredibly tough and useful for binding. He picked broad, dull-green leaves that oozed a sterile-smelling sap, likely good for wrapping meat or covering wounds.

If it looked boring, it probably wouldn’t kill him. That was his logic.

Finally, the terrain began to change. The soft, spongy floor of the forest gave way to hard, uneven ground. The massive trees thinned out, replaced by jagged, slate-grey rock formations that jutted from the earth like the broken teeth of a buried giant.

He had reached the Broken Stone Pass.

It was a narrow ravine cutting through a rise in the land, a natural wind tunnel where the air whistled with a low, mournful note. But what confirmed his location wasn’t the rocks; it was the color.

Covering the jagged stones was a thick, velvet carpet of Crimson Moss.

It wasn’t a vibrant, healthy red. It was the color of dried blood, dark and rusty. It clung to the grey stones in patches that looked like old wounds. In the dim light of the forest perimeter, it gave the entire area a grim, visceral appearance.

“Red moss,” Sol muttered, checking his surroundings. “Right place.”

He adjusted his grip on the makeshift spear stick he had picked on the way. This was the area Lyra and the girls had described. Somewhere among these bloody-looking rocks and crevices, the spicy red gold he needed was waiting.

He began to scour the base of the rocks, his eyes scanning for the distinct, small bushes of the primitive chilis.

The search didn’t take long.

Tucked away in the crevices of the slate-grey rocks, shielded from the wind but soaking up the faint warmth radiating from the stones, were the plants. They were small, scraggly bushes with dark, jagged leaves that looked almost like thorns. Hanging from the branches were the peppers, they weren’t the plump, friendly vegetables of his old world. These were Crimson Needles. Different from the last one, they seem a different spices, but still chilies, nonetheless.

They were barely the size of his pinky finger, thin, curved, and a vibrant, screaming red that stood out violently against the dull rocks. Even from a foot away, a faint, acrid spice tickled his nose, promising pain to anyone foolish enough to eat them raw. (he was the one who dared to eat)

“Jackpot,” Sol grinned.

He knelt, carefully harvesting the peppers. He didn’t take the whole plant this time, as he found that there were plenty nearby… adhering to survival rule number one: don’t kill the source. He plucked the ripe ones, dropping them into his pouch until he had a substantial stash.

While he was down there, he noticed a patch of Iron-Bark Fungus growing in the shade of a boulder. It was a hard, shelf-like mushroom known to be excellent for kindling as it burned slow and hot. He pried a few chunks loose and added them to his basket. He also scraped some thick, blue sap from a nearby fractured root… Binding Resin, useful for gluing spear tips or sealing jars.

Satisfied with his haul, Sol wiped the sweat from his brow. The humidity here was oppressive, a wet blanket that made the air feel heavy in his lungs. And from running around so much, his throat felt like sandpaper.

He looked around trying to find a source of water, one thing he was grateful that no matter where they didn’t have to look around much for water in the southern wilderness.

So, he tried the tribe’s tried and tested method and listened carefully. Beneath the buzzing of the giant insects and the distant cries of unknown beasts, he heard the faint trickle of water.

He followed the sound to a small tributary stream cutting through the rocks a few hundred yards away. The water was crystal clear, rushing over smooth stones. He checked the banks for any tracks… seeing none, he finally knelt to drink, cupping the deliciously cold water in his hands.

Hiss.

The sound was soft, barely louder than the rushing water, but to Sol’s heightened senses, it sounded like someone whispering tight beside his ears.