FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 359: Chapter 359: Spark Is Lit

He slammed the empty clay vial onto the bedside table, coughing violently, beating his chest with a fist.

“That is really disgusting,” Sol rasped, spitting a wad of foul-tasting saliva onto the floorboards.

“It is medicine. It is not meant to taste like honey,” the shaman said calmly, taking a step back. “Now. Breathe. Let the core catch the spark.”

Sol followed her directions and did so, he didn’t have to wait long.

The moment the thick sludge hit his stomach, it felt like he had swallowed a live burning coal.

A sharp, violent spike of heat erupted in his gut. Sol groaned, grabbing his stomach as the heat rapidly expanded. It wasn’t a gentle, warming sensation. It was needlessly aggressive.

The highly refined, volatile beast marrow violently clashed with the empty, dry environment of his body.

But his Sun Core, starved and desperate, reacted instantly.

The dormant, scorched pathways suddenly flared to life. The core acted like a massive vacuum, violently ripping the raw energy out of his stomach and sucking it directly into his solar plexus.

Sol threw his head back against the wood, his back arching, his teeth locked together. Golden light actually flared faintly beneath his pale skin, tracing the dark, rigid lines of his veins across his chest and arms.

The energy rushed through him like a high-speed train. It slammed into the dormant, heavy spiritual anchors of the Dreadwing and the Great Badger. The spirits didn’t fully wake up, but they greedily drank the incoming tide, their spiritual forms stabilizing and settling into a deep, healthy sleep instead of a comatose, near-death state.

The burning heat in his stomach slowly faded, replaced by a deep, heavy, thrumming warmth that spread all the way down to his fingertips and toes.

The suffocating emptiness slowly vanished.

The lead weight holding his bones down lifted. His muscles, previously feeling like dead meat, suddenly felt dense, tight, and coiled with that familiar Layer 1 power. He wasn’t back to a hundred percent… his reserves were still mostly empty, and he couldn’t fight a horde right now… but the engine was running again. The lights were back on.

Sol let out a long, heavy exhale, the breath pluming slightly in the cool air of the room. He opened his eyes. The headache was gone. His vision was razor-sharp again.

He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers into tight fists, feeling the tendons pull smoothly without that weak, trembling ache.

“Better,” Sol muttered.

The shamans nodded in satisfaction.

“The spark is lit. The engine will slowly fill itself now,” the old shaman said, picking up the empty vial. “Rest for the remainder of the day. Tomorrow, you must eat heavily. Beast meat, thick and rare. Your body needs physical fuel to match the spiritual burn.”

The old woman offered one last short bow, and then the three shamans quietly filed out of the room, shutting the door behind them.

Sol sat alone in the room for a few minutes. He flexed his muscles, testing the limits. The scar on his stomach pulled and ached, but it wasn’t tearing. He felt good enough.

And feeling good enough meant he was absolutely done lying in this bed.

He threw the heavy animal furs off completely and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet hit the cold, polished floorboards. He stood up. The room spun for a fraction of a second, a brief wave of dizziness hitting him, but he engaged his core, forcing the newly acquired essence through his legs, and his balance instantly stabilized.

He looked around the room. It was sparse. A bed, a small table, and a wooden chest at the foot of the bed.

He walked over to the chest and popped the lid.

Inside was a stack of clean, folded clothes. It was standard Veynar gear, likely left here by Kira or the healers. A pair of thick, dark leather pants, a heavy woven linen tunic, and a wide leather belt. His silver-gray Badger armor was nowhere to be seen. It was probably ruined beyond repair, or being held by the elders.

Sol quickly dressed himself. The rough leather and linen felt good against his skin, grounding him in the reality of this savage world.

He spotted his weapon leaning against the wall near the door.

The Dreadwing Blade.

Someone had taken the time to wipe the thick mud and beast brains off the dark scabbard, but it still smelled faintly of blood and gore. Sol walked over and grabbed it.

The moment his fingers wrapped around the familiar, heavy hilt, a deep sense of security settled over his chest. This blade was his lifeline. It was the only reason he was still breathing. He strapped the heavy scabbard firmly to his waist, adjusting the belt so the hilt rested perfectly at hand.

He wasn’t going to sit in this dark room and wait for people to bring him news. He needed to see the situation with his own eyes. He needed to see what was left of the Veynar tribe, what the damage was, and how the people were acting now that the dust had settled.

Sol reached out, grabbed the heavy handle of the door, and pulled it open.

He stepped out of the dim, quiet room and into the harsh, glaring reality of the post-siege settlement.

Noise was the first thing he noticed, It wasn’t the chaotic, deafening roar of battle. It was the heavy, rhythmic sound of a tribe desperately trying to rebuild before the jungle realized they were weak.

Hammers slammed against petrified wood. Saws ground through thick timber. Shouts echoed across the inner rings as the captains directed massive teams of exhausted, bandaged warriors carrying huge logs toward the damaged outer walls.

The smell of the burning sage from his room was instantly overpowered by the thick, choking scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat, mixed with the lingering, sour stench of thousands of dead beasts rotting out in the clearing beyond the gates.