FREE USE in Primitive World

Pivot! Lock the vault!” Sol shouted.

PHEW! PHEW!

The sharp, high-pitched blare of the bone-whistles cut through the air. The rear row of the two hundred and sixty recruits skidded to a halt, their heavy boots tearing up chunks of wet dirt before they slammed the bottom rims of their shields deep into the mud with a definitive THUD.

The mud splattered across their shins, but they didn’t flinch. In the exact same heartbeat, the front rows stepped sideways, sliding perfectly into the remaining gaps with a loud clatter of bone-on-bone, locking their gear together to form a solid, unbroken stone wall right on the marker line.

Sol stood right in the center of the locked vault, his arms crossed over his black Rockhorn carapace armor. He didn’t offer a single word of praise. His silver-crimson eyes slowly tracked the precision of the movement.

The two hundred and sixty recruits were breathing hard, their chests heaving under their light armor, sweat mixing with the grey dirt caked onto their faces.

They looked exhausted, their muscles trembling from the hours of continuous, brutal pounding, but their positions were secure.

The messy, frantic scattering from noon was entirely gone.

“The position is straight, but the execution is still soft,” Sol said, his voice flat and calm, yet carrying a heavy baseline weight that made the nearest squad leaders look up instantly. “You’re running backward like men who are trying to save their own skin. That’s why your spacing is uneven.

If a single one of you hesitates because he’s looking over his shoulder to see how close the enemy is, the gap opens, the rhythm breaks, and the entire center line gets chewed to pieces from the inside out.”

He began walking along the front of the shield wall, his hand resting loosely on the pommel of the Dreadwing Blade. The recruits watched him, their eyes wide with exhaustion and awe. To them, this outsider wasn’t just a guest anymore; he was the iron pillar holding their entire survival together.

He stood in front of a young, pale squad leader whose knuckles were raw and bleeding from gripping his spear-shaft. Sol didn’t offer a single word of comfort. Instead, he reached out and shoved the top of the boy’s shield, forcing him to stumble back half a step before he could stabilize his weight.

“When you are running backward down a narrow ravine, a smart enemy won’t just follow you in a straight line,” Sol explained, turning to face the entire formation. “The Zerith stalkers are long, and they move fast in the high brush. While murderers have insane strength and can easily break a boulder.

So, the moment our center buckles, their forward units will try to wrap around our edges to cut off the escape route before we can reach the pass. If they get behind the flanks, the wedge collapses.”

Sol stopped at the left flank of the crescent formation. He thought back to some random military history breakdowns, ancient infantry tactics, and modern riot control videos he had watched on his phone at three in the morning back on Earth when he was bored.

In his past life, it was just entertainment to watch while eating instant noodles, and even though it was just basic wedge-and-shield theory, a method of controlling fluid crowds and chaotic masses, but here, in the raw, unrefined environment of the Great Orrath, to these tribal warriors who only knew how to hunt wild beasts or fight in loose skirmishes, it was a revelation.

“The enemy coalition isn’t going to just follow you in a straight line down the center of the pass,” Sol explained, tapping the rim of a recruit’s shield with his knuckles. “They have four to five thousand men. When they see a small force running away, their flanks will naturally fan out into the high grass to wrap around our edges and cut off the escape.

If they get around our sides before we reach the pivot marker, we don’t have a retreat anymore. We just have a circle where we die.”

He gestured to the outermost six men on both sides of the formation. “Front row, when the whistles blow twice during the run, the flanks do not continue a standard backward sprint. You drop your weight low, shift your center of gravity outward, and angle your shields sideways. You don’t try to stop the charging hordes. You turn your bodies into a moving plow.”

The recruits looked at each other, as they tried to visualize the movement.

“I’ll show you how it works,” Sol muttered. He called up two of the stockiest squad leaders from the reserve block. “Both of you, lock your shields together. Hold the line against me. Do exactly what you’ve been doing all afternoon.”

The two reserves gritted their teeth, dropping their hips and digging their heels into the dirt, overlapping their bone-shields until they formed a tight, two-man barrier. They braced their shoulders against the back rims, ready for a frontal impact.

Sol didn’t launch a charge. Instead, he stepped forward at a casual, steady pace.

Just as his chest armor was about to meet the center of their shields, he smoothly pivoted his right foot, catching the outer edge of the left shield with the flat of his palm while his shoulder swept inward at an angle.

With a quick, heavy torque of his hips, he didn’t mindlessly push against their strength… he guided their forward tension sideways.

The leader on the left felt his entire balance vanish as his shield was violently deflected outward, his heels lifting from the mud.

Before the second reserve could adjust his stance, Sol’s left boot swept out in a low, brutal arc, catching the man right behind the ankle joint with a sharp CRACK.

The reserve let out a muffled groan, his balance shattering instantly as he collapsed sideways into the dirt, his shield clattering away.

“You see that?” Sol asked, looking down at the fallen warrior before turning back to the rows of recruits. “If you try to push straight back against an enemy who has more momentum than you, you ain’t gonna stop him, instead will be just breaking your own wrists.