FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 182: Chapter 182: The Reality Check & Ejection

“Getting stronger by having sex, the knowledge of a whole civilization, and a literal cheat code… I’m set to become a fucking overlord,” Sol muttered, his voice echoing in the vast, empty temple. He clutched his fists, feeling the Silver Liquid energy sloshing in his chest and the dense muscle of his new body. He felt like he had just been handed the keys to the universe. He could see it already… a stone fortress, an army of loyal warriors, and a harem of diverse most beautiful women that would make a sultan weep.

It was an extremely exciting plan. His ego was inflating by the second, fueled by the rush of power and the god-marked tattoos beneath his skin, like a man who had just seen the blueprint of his own godhood.

But just as he was reeling in the fantasy, a single jarring memory cut through the high. He saw the fire from the night the Vorakh tribe invaded. He heard the wet, sickening thud of bone clubs hitting his tribesmen’s skulls. He heard his mother’s muffled scream and his father’s final, desperate grunt as the Vorakh tribe… the savages who made his own people look like scholars… butcher wantonly.

He felt the sheer, soul-crushing terror of the Thornmaw… that mountain of muscles and teeth that had treated the Vorakh savages like a mild annoyance.

Then came the image of the Sovereign of the Gorge, that mountain-sized serpent that had almost turned him into a snack. And finally, Isylia. The Goddess. A being so powerful she had to be vomited out by the world itself, leaving him alone in a silent temple.

It was like a bucket of ice-cold water was poured directly onto his brain. The smugness vanished instantly. The heat in his chest cooled into a hollow pit of dread. He came back to his senses and shut down his idiotic daydreams before they could get him killed.

“Who the fuck am I kidding?” he spat, the words bitter in the silence. He wasn’t some cosmic mastermind. He was just a degenerate who happened to get transmigrated.

He looked at his hands again. They were stronger, yes. They were marked by laws he didn’t understand. But they were still just two hands.

And the truth was, it definitely wasn’t going to be easy. He had the “Memory Palace,” sure, but there was a massive, yawning gap between watching a 10-minute video of a silent guy in the woods and actually surviving a prehistoric winter. Basic stuff like making soup or a simple trap was one thing, but for the real advanced shit? That required more than just “remembering” a diagram.

True technology required specific knowledge and advanced materials… things that had to be carefully manufactured in high-tech laboratories with precision tools and chemical reagents he couldn’t even name. You can’t just “wish” a steam engine into existence because you saw a 3D animation of one once.

You need high-grade steel. To get steel, you need a blast furnace. To get a blast furnace, you need refractory bricks. To get bricks, you need a specific type of clay and a kiln that hits temperatures his primitive wood fires would never touch. It was a chain of production that stretched for miles, and he was currently standing at the very beginning of it, naked and alone in a some fucking unknow dimension.

And the worst part? He was just a layman.

He hadn’t watched those 3 AM videos to learn how to be a founder of civilization, he’d watched them because he was a bored, depressed degenerate who stayed up late to distract himself from a shitty life. He was a consumer, not a creator. He didn’t know the actual chemistry behind the gunpowder he wanted to make. He didn’t know the physics of stress-testing a bridge. He just knew the “cool” parts.

If he were a scientist, a mechanical engineer, or even a fucking plumber, it would have been a different story. But he wasn’t. Back on Earth, he was just a degenerate who survived by writing clickbait online articles for pennies. He was a guy who knew a little bit about everything and a whole lot about nothing.

“I’m not some deep shit,” he whispered, his crimson eyes narrowing as the reality of the world set in.

“Everything requires a foundation,” Sol muttered, his excitement turning into a grim, cold focus. “And I’m standing in the dirt.”

He couldn’t just jump to the industrial age. He was in a world where a giant snake could eat a village, where a rival tribe could wipe you out while you slept, and where the “gods” were real and potentially hostile.

In this era, knowledge was a tool, but brute force was the law. If he spent his time trying to invent the lightbulb while his enemies were sharpening a spear to put through his eye, he was just an idiot with a bright idea and a short life expectancy.

The “Overlord” plan was a nice dream, but the reality was a muddy jungle where some random savage with a sharp stick or a beast with too many teeth could end his “reign” before it even started.

So, he had to get his shit together. No more fantasies, no more ego trips. No more acting like he’d already won the game just because he’d bedded one woman and got a glow-up. He was still a weak brat in the eyes of the real players in this world.

The Goddess was gone. The Sovereign was still out there. And countless other beasts were waiting to tear him apart.

Sol stood up, his face hardening into a cold, focused mask. He didn’t need a harem of thousands or a city of gold right now. He needed to not die. He needed to turn that “layman” knowledge into something that could actually draw blood.

“One step at a time,” he growled. “First, I survive the night. Then, I’ll worry about the rest of the bullshit.”

…

“But still…” Sol muttered, his eyes tracing the ancient, flickering symbols on the temple walls.

Even if he didn’t know the advanced stuff… even if he couldn’t build a combustion engine or a high-voltage power grid or even if it proved useless against the truly high-tier monsters of this world, the “layman” knowledge in his head was still a nuke in a knife fight.

In this world of sticks and mud, knowing how to rotate crops, sanitize a wound, or build a simple block-and-tackle pulley system was basically playing with cheat codes. He could advance this civilization by countless eons just by introducing basic hygiene and elementary physics. He could still enjoy a life of comfort that these primitives couldn’t even dream of. He could be hailed as a genius, a god-king, or a sage whose name would be carved into the very foundations of history.

“But a dead genius is just a corpse,” he growled, the reality of the primitive jungle outside snapping back into his mind. “First priority is always going to be the same: get fucking strong. Use their rules. Use their methods. If this world has a ladder to godhood, I’m climbing it until my hands bleed.”

It was crystal clear now. This world didn’t just have beasts; it had Power

. There were methods to evolve, to become stronger, and to become something that even the gods would have to respect. If he wanted to keep his head on his shoulders and the women in his bed, he had to climb the local ladder of power until he was at the very top.

He looked back at the obsidian throne. The Artifact was his greatest asset at least for now. Somehow, he was the “owner” now, but he had barely scratched the surface of what this place was. He needed to explore the corners, find the hidden functions, and see what other “Laws” he could snatch for his collection.

“Alright, let’s see what else you’re hiding,” Sol said, stepping back toward the center of the dais.

But just as he began to focus his will, reaching out to touch the metaphysical ’heart’ of the dimension, the world tilted.

RUMBLE.

A deep, tectonic groan vibrated through the floor, traveling up through the soles of his feet and rattling his teeth. Sol stumbled, his eyes widening in confusion.

“An earthquake?”

It was impossible. This was a pocket dimension… a stable, isolated construct of the Artifact. There were no fault lines here, no tectonic plates to shift. But the shaking only intensified. The massive obsidian pillars began to shiver, and the silent, dark sky above the temple started to fracture like a broken mirror.

“Isylia?” he yelled, looking around, but the Goddess was long gone.

The vibration turned into a violent upheaval. The throne itself began to slide across the floor. Sol tried to plant his feet, using his new, heavy density to anchor himself, but it was like trying to stand on the back of a bucking beast.

Then, the ground didn’t just shake. It went further and opened.

A jagged, glowing fissure tore through the obsidian dais right between his feet. It wasn’t a hole into the ground; it was a rift of pure, white-hot energy.

“What the hell! I’m the Owner! I didn’t command—”

Before he could finish the curse, the floor beneath him simply ceased to exist.

The gravitational anchor snapped. Sol felt a violent, stomach-churning lurch as the dimension literally rejected him. He felt like wasn’t falling, he was being flushed. The dimension was literally vomiting him out.

“Fucking—!”

The scream was cut short as he was plunged into a tunnel of blinding light and roaring static.

As the light engulfed him and his consciousness began to fray under the pressure of the dimensional transit, Sol’s last thought was a bitter, unfiltered curse.