FREE USE in Primitive World

Sol’s eyes flashed with a lethal, hungry amusement “By the time the Coalition tries to turn their massive bulk to face the eastern threat, Teams Seven through Nine will hit them straight from the south, cutting their rear guards and burning their reserve weapon racks. We will not fight their main blocks.

We hit them like a spinning circular saw, drawing blood from nine different directions within the span of a single hour.”

A collective murmur of awe rippled through the older elders at the back of the room. The sheer, ruthless elegance of the strategy was stunning. It wasn’t just a series of random raids; it was a psychological execution.

“It’s a continuous, rotating blade,” Sol murmured, a cold, hungry smirk spreading across his face. “We hit them from nine different directions within the span of a single hour. Because the strikes are perfectly timed and scattered, their communication lines will completely choke.

Their scouts will report that the entire Veynar vanguard has somehow bypassed their borders and surrounded their positions out of pure, desperate rage for the midnight raid.

It will wound their pride, humiliate their chieftains, and completely shatter their tactical judgment.”

He leaned closer to the table, his silver-crimson eyes reflecting the flickering yellow flames of the lamps. “They are accustomed to being the predators who set the pace. When they find themselves bleeding from nine separate gashes without ever seeing a solid target, their commanders will completely lose their tempers.

They will abandon their cautious camp setups, gather their entire massive thousand-man mass into a single, unorganized horde, and launch a furious, full-scale chase down through just to find something solid to crush.”

“Of course, we gotta be fast, because we’ll have to do the same with marudrer too.” He added casually.

Sol dropped the piece of charcoal back onto the obsidian table with a soft clack. “They’ll think they’re chasing our reckless, retreating raiders right into a corner… completely unaware that they are funneling their entire bulk straight into the mouth of our inverted wedge. We take the initiative by making them think they have it.”

A low, collective grunt of pure, vicious awe rippled through the one hundred and eighty elites. The sheer tactical elegance of the rotating matrix was undeniable. It completely weaponized the enemy’s arrogance and massive size against them.

“It turns our small numbers into an invisible net,” a senior commander admitted, looking at the stone map with a vicious grin. “They will have four thousand spears, but in that narrow pass, they will be nothing but a crowded herd of cattle waiting for the slaughter.”

Veylara’s expression remained solid as iron, but her eyes burned with a terrifyingly cold clarity.

She stepped closer to Sol, her heavy bone-spear resting against her shoulder as she looked at the nine circles he had drawn.

“The rotation is airtight,” the Warchief declared, her voice instantly silencing the remaining whispers in the room. “It strips them of the initiative completely and forces them to play our game. High Shaman Zephyra will coordinate the illusion wards with the inner circle.

The moment Sol’s rotating wheel draws the main horde into the basin, the shamans will flood the ironwood ridges with heavy mist and scent-masking barriers.

Even if the Zerith stalkers use their finest core perception, they will see nothing but empty stone and rotting wood until Thauren’s heavy shock troops are already falling on their skulls.”

She looked around the circle of commanders, her gaze finally resting squarely on Sol. The entire war machinery of the Veynar tribe was now fully locked into his design, the pieces moving under his cold calculation.

“Go, and prepare to turn that valley into a permanent graveyard.”

Veylara said, her tone holding a flat, heavy finality that echoed in the clearings.

“For the Veynar!” almost roared in unison, their voices absolute and deafening.

“And to ensure the spacing of the northern cells remains tight,” Sol added casually, his voice dropping into a quiet, conversational tone. “I’ll be going alone too.”

The war room went completely, dead silent.

Thauren’s yellow pupil eyes widened in absolute shock, his massive frame shifting violently as he stepped directly into Sol’s path, his scarred face tightening with immediate, fierce anger.

“Absolutely not! Are you out of your mind, kid? Look at yourself! You’ve been dragging your core through back-to-back death matches since you crawled out of the jungle.

You spent the early morning hours turning thirty elite stalkers into green paste in the gullies, and you spent the entire afternoon breaking the ribs of our recruits in the clearing.

Now you want to sprint straight into a nest of four thousand monsters for a secondary raid? No. we will handle the rotation. You stay behind the walls until the center line marches.”

“The Lion is right, Sol,” Warchief Veylara chimed in, her deep voice holding a firm, unyielding weight as she stepped up. Her eyes fixed on him with a sharp glare.

“You are the mastermind of this whole strategy. If you take a reckless wound during the peripheral skirmishes, or if the enemy Layer 3 commanders manage to pin you down in the swamps before the trap is sprung, our entire center bait line falls apart.

We cannot afford to risk our most effective blunt weapon on a simple distraction mission. You have done enough today. Rest and ready your core for later operation.”

A sharp back-and-forth erupted on the platform. The remaining elders looked terrified at the prospect of Sol throwing himself into danger, their hands shaking as they muttered their frantic protests.

Unconsciously, they had tied their own survival entirely to his presence. He had become the general they couldn’t afford to lose, and the thought of him running into the dark jungle alone made their pasty faces turn even whiter.

Sol listened to the shouting, his silver-crimson eyes completely steady as he let out a short, internal sigh. Inwardly, he had to admit he had been a bit too reckless these past few days.

Especially, ever since his Layer 2 foundation had stabilized and the high-frequency effect of the Dreadwing Blade had proven its lethality, his baseline instincts had been running incredibly hot.

The raw hunger to cultivate, to rip the essence out of every high-tier target he could find, was constantly thrumming in his gut. But looking at the rigid, defensive expressions of Veylara and Thauren, he knew he had to play the card logically to get his way.

“I’m not going out there to play the martyr,” Sol said, his voice easily slicing through their arguments. “The rotating matrix relies entirely on absolute, split-second timing. If Team One hesitates or fails because a patrol surprises them, the enemy won’t get enraged… they’ll get suspicious.

My Rockhorn armor can take a direct hit from a Layer 3 club without flinching, and my blade can clear a path through a defensive perimeter faster than any speed spirit in this courtyard.

I am the backup that guarantees the first strike succeeds perfectly. If you want the horde to run blindly into the pass tomorrow, you need me to strike the match.”

Veylara stared at him for three long, heavy seconds, her eyes measuring the cold, calculating detachment in his gaze.

She knew he wasn’t looking for glory or tribal pride; he was looking at the war like a predator calculating the efficiency of his strike.

Slowly, the Warchief let out a long breath, her heavy bone-spear resting back against her shoulder.