FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 298: Chapter 298: Accepting The Reality

Sol’s grip on his Void-Oak spear tightened until the petrified wood groaned in protest. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of Elder Thorne’s words felt like physical poison in his ears.

Talented? Forgiving? Understanding? Prince Gorr seemed like a rotting tyrant whose very aura killed the grass beneath his boots. He looked at the Veynar tribe not as allies, but as a harvest, and he was currently demanding a sweet, harmless serving girl as a human sacrifice to stroke his own grotesque ego.

Sol took a deep breath, his chest expanding as he prepared to step forward, to shatter the pathetic illusion Thorne was weaving and call the Zharun Prince exactly what he was. He had the power. He had the Lord spirits. He could easily drive the butt of his spear through Gorr’s bone armor and end the threat right here, right now.

But as he opened his mouth, his silver-crimson eyes locked onto Lumi.

The girl was pressed flat against the wooden pillar, her face pale and streaked with tears. She saw the dangerous shift in Sol’s posture. She saw the lethal intent bleeding into his eyes. And in response, she gave him a minute, almost imperceptible shake of her head.

It wasn’t a look of someone waiting to be rescued. It was a look of absolute, tragic resignation.

Don’t, her tear-filled eyes silently begged him. Please.

Sol froze. The raw, aggressive momentum building in his veins slammed into a sudden, impenetrable wall of reality.

He looked past Lumi, scanning the faces of the people in the High Hall. He saw Warchief Veylara, a Layer 4 powerhouse, sitting rigidly on her throne, her jaw clenched so tight it looked ready to shatter, yet entirely unwilling to draw her weapon. He saw Kira, staring at the floor, her shoulders trembling with a profound, helpless shame.

He saw the veteran Spirit warriors stationed at the doors, battle-hardened men and women who had fought horrors in the deep woods, actively looking away from the girl being sacrificed to save their lives.

The heavy, suffocating truth of the Great Orrath crashed down on Sol’s shoulders, entirely bypassing his ego.

This world didn’t revolve around him.

He was an anomaly, a transmigrator with a miraculous core, but he was still fundamentally an outsider. He was a guest who had dropped out of the sky a few days ago. He didn’t have roots here. He didn’t have a family hiding in the settlement. When the walls fell, he could flood his legs with the Dreadwing’s essence and disappear into the canopy, leaving the slaughter behind.

But these people couldn’t.

If Sol intervened now, if he struck down Prince Gorr to save one innocent girl, the Zharun delegation would leave in a blood-soaked fury. The fragile alliance would evaporate. And tomorrow, when the Layer 4 Zerith warlords and their endless hordes marched on the Veynar gates, this entire tribe… thousands of men, women, and children… would be butchered. And they’ll have to face the fury of Zharun too.

Lumi knew this. She didn’t possess a strong core, she couldn’t wield a spear, but she understood the brutal, unforgiving reality of her world. She was voluntarily stepping onto the altar, trading her own life and freedom to buy the chance of survival of her people.

Who was Sol to step in and proudly deny her that sacrifice just to satisfy his own modern, misplaced sense of morality? Who was he to doom a thousand lives because his ego refused to stomach the sight of a political hostage?

A bitter, metallic taste flooded Sol’s mouth. The realization was a heavy, sickening pill to swallow. Power wasn’t just the ability to destroy your enemies; sometimes, power was having the agonizing discipline to stand down and let a tragedy unfold because the alternative was annihilation.

No matter how unwilling he was, slowly, agonizingly, Sol lowered his spear.

The dangerous, lethal glow in his silver-crimson eyes dimmed, replaced by a cold, detached shadow. He exhaled deeply and took a step backward, retreating entirely into the gloom of the petrified pillar.

He swallowed his objections, swallowed his disgust, and went completely silent.

Seeing the dangerous outsider back down and retreat into the shadows, Prince Gorr’s bloodless, corpse-like face stretched into a wide, victorious sneer. He had won. He had completely broken the pride of the Veynar tribe, forcing them to hand over their own people with a smile.

“Elder Thorne speaks the absolute truth,” Gorr rasped, his grinding voice echoing with sickening satisfaction. He turned his iridescent, oil-slick eyes back to the weeping girl. “It is her profound fortune. And it is your profound fortune, Veynar, that I am a man who honors his bargains.”

Gorr walked back to his ornate stone chair and threw himself into it, slouching heavily. The toxic, gray ash of his aura pulsed outward, filling the room with the stench of carcasses.

“Now,” Gorr commanded, dismissing the drama entirely and shifting directly into military logistics. “Let us finalize the terms of this grand alliance, so my warriors do not waste their time standing in the mud.”

Warchief Veylara finally spoke. Her voice was completely hollow, stripped of all its usual roaring, storm-like authority. It was the voice of a leader who had just sold a piece of her own soul.

“State your deployment, Prince,” Veylara said rigidly, refusing to look at Lumi. “How will the Zharun aid us when the Zerith march?”

Gorr leaned his elbows on the low wooden table, resting his chin on his bone gauntlets. “The Zharun do not bleed first. That is the privilege of the host. Your warriors will man the southern borders. You will take the initial brunt of the Marauder packs.”

Several Veynar elders grimaced at the blatant use of their warriors as a meat shield, but no one dared to interrupt.

“The Zerith are cunning,” Gorr continued, his tone turning surprisingly tactical, proving he wasn’t entirely a mindless brute. “Their Layer 4 warlords will likely not expose themselves in the initial charge.

They will wait in the deep treeline, sending waves of Marauders to exhaust your defenders, test your runes, and drain your Warchief’s essence.”

He tapped a pale, long finger against the crude map laid out on the table.

“My forces will not station inside your walls. Your cramped, pathetic settlement would only restrict the charge of my Grave-Hounds,” Gorr explained. “We will camp in the northern ravines, completely out of sight. We will wait.

When the situation on your walls becomes truly grim… when the Marauder numbers threaten to breach your gates, and the Zerith warlords finally step out of the shadows and commit themselves to the siege to deliver the killing blow…”

Gorr smiled, a terrifying expression. “That is when you send the message. Ignite the great beacon fire at the absolute peak of your Heartwood tree. When my scouts see the black smoke, the Zharun will march with our full, unmitigated power.

We will sweep around the eastern ridge and flank the coalition. We will trap them against your walls and slaughter them all in a single, devastating hammer blow. It will be a massacre.”

It was a classic, brutal hammer and anvil strategy.

But the Veynar tribe was the anvil. They would be required to hold the line against an overwhelming, nightmarish force, taking catastrophic casualties, until the enemy’s leadership was entirely committed and vulnerable.

Only then would the Zharun swoop in to claim the glory and the high-tier essence kills.

“Understood,” Veylara said, her voice tight. “We will hold the walls. We will draw them in. And when the beacon is lit, we expect the Zharun to strike without hesitation.”

“We will,” Gorr promised smoothly. He then sat back, waving a dismissive hand toward the periphery of the room. “But to ensure that the Veynar do not suddenly lose their nerve and attempt to flee out the back gates when the blood starts flowing… the girl comes with me today.”

Another wave of quiet, horrified murmurs rippled through the Veynar elders.

“She is the token of our alliance,” Gorr stated, his tone brooking absolutely no argument. “A gesture of your absolute sincerity. She will return with my retinue to our camp in the northern ravines immediately. She will remain under my personal… protection… until the battle is won.”

Thorne swallowed hard, nervously adjusting his robes. “And… and the union, Prince? The wedding rituals?”

Gorr let out a harsh, grinding laugh. “Do not bore me with your pathetic tribal ceremonies right now, old man. A true Zharun wedding requires a proper feast. We will perform the rituals after the war. The blood of the Zerith warlords will serve as the perfect sacrifice to celebrate our victory, and the sealing of our bond.”