FREE USE in Primitive World

Zephyra leaned heavily on her staff, breathing in ragged, desperate gasps. Her vision blurred at the edges, the world tilting dangerously as waves of dizziness washed over her.

High above in the sky, the consequences of her collapse were instantaneous.

The colossal emerald cyclones, left entirely without the guiding hand of their master, violently shuddered. The tight, perfect rotation of the wind walls immediately began to fray, warp, and distort.

The malevolent green light illuminating the heavy storm clouds flickered wildly before dying out completely, stripped of the essence that fed it.

”No... no! Not now!” Zephyra hissed through gritted teeth, her fingers clawing desperately at the sharp limestone, tearing her own nails as she tried to forcibly re-establish her spiritual grip on the dying gale.

But it was entirely futile.

The connection was completely gone.

The roaring vortexes lost their lethal, compressing suction, rapidly expanding outward and dissolving into aimless, chaotic gusts of wind that merely kicked up blinding curtains of dust instead of tearing flesh from bone.

The terrifying vacuum zone collapsed in an instant.

Hundreds of Coalition warriors who had been lifted into the air fell like stones, crashing heavily back onto the gravel with bone-snapping thuds.

The slaughterhouse had instantly come to a catastrophic halt.

The Veynar veterans, who had been marching forward, their minds already shaken by Veylara’s collapse, and were trying their best to stay sane, now almost completely froze in sheer disbelief.

The momentum of defeating a large army vanished in the span of a single heartbeat.

Panicked shouts erupted from the ranks as the warriors were confused and desolate, as they hurried to form messy, frantic circles around their two fallen powerhouses, their weapons pointing outward in terrifying, helpless confusion.

...

The cyclones finally collapsed, allowing the setting sun to paint a desolate image on the battlefield.

The sudden collapse of the emerald storms left an eerie, suffocating silence hanging over the battlefield.

The howling winds had died down to a low, mocking hiss, allowing the heavy curtains of white limestone dust to settle slowly over the thousands of pulverized bodies.

In this sudden quiet, the ragged, desperate breathing of the panicked Veynar warriors was loud and clear with terror.

Through the dust and the sudden, eerie quiet of the dying wind, a sound began to echo from the rear lines of the Veynar formation.

It was a slow, rhythmic, and incredibly deliberate sound.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The hollow sound of palms striking together echoed through the tens battlefield.

The already disturbed Veynar rearguard veterans instantly spun around, their weapons raised and their knuckles white.

Their minds raced... they expected a hidden squad of Zerith shadow-stalkers to have somehow bypassed their defensive perimeter under the cover of the storm, or perhaps a lingering Layer 3 Marauder making a desperate, blood thirsty charge.

Instead, stepping out from the long shadows, was Elder Thorne, the man who had remained completely out of sight since the very beginning of the ambush.

The old man walked with a light, leisurely stride, his posture upright and entirely free of the crushing burden of fear.

His movements stood in sickening contrast to the absolute, blood-soaked terror gripping the rest of the battlefield.

His wrinkled face, which was usually twisted into a tight, miserable mask of conservative caution and bitter complaints during clan meetings, was now split into a wide, hideous grin that bared his remaining few yellowed teeth.

He wasn’t alone.

Flanking him in a dense, heavily armed semicircle were twenty elite Veynar warriors.... men drawn entirely from his own personal lineage and family faction.

Their weapons were fully drawn and gleaming in the twilight, but their cold, unblinking eyes were fixed not on the recovering Coalition forces, but directly towards their own panicked, unsuspecting clansmen.

The Veynar rearguard fell back in utter confusion, not knowing whether to raise their weapons or lower them, as they stared at the Elder of their own blood.

But Thorne didn’t spare them a glance.

He walked right past the defensive lines, his boots stepping over the cracked limestone with casual ease, as his venomous gaze fell onto the kneeling, sweating form of Warchief Veylara and the trembling, fallen figure of High Shaman Zephyra clutching the sharp rocks of the ridge.

Even though she had already been kneeling and obviously struggling to even remain conscious , he still stopped just out of striking distance, leaning slightly forward as he let out a dry, grating chuckle that carried perfectly across the silent, corpse-strewn battlefield.

”Hahaha! So it has finally taken effect,” Thorne chuckled, his voice dripping with long-awaited satisfaction as he rubbed his chin. He looked down at the bleeding, helpless powerhouse with an expression of pure triumph.

”It really took its sweet time to circulate through those stubborn, powerful vessels of yours, didn’t it, Warchief? I was even beginning to worry your Layer 4 monster-blood was simply going to burn right through it.”

Hearing this, Veylara’s confused head instantly snapped up, her long hair whipping wildly across her face.

Her deep blue eyes, though clouded with swimming spots of darkness and excruciating internal pain, burned with a furious, lethal heat wanting to burn holes through Thorne’s body.

She gripped the shaft of her spear so hard the seasoned wood groaned under the pressure, a thick thread of dark, poisoned blood leaking from the corner of her lips.

”Thorne...” Veylara growled, her voice a low, guttural snarl.

”You... piece of filth. What have you done to us?”

”Ohh I wonder too? What could I have done?” Thorne’s grin widened, his eyes dancing with a manic, unhinged light as he gestured vaguely toward the crumbling Veynar lines.

”I merely did what should have been done the moment you allowed an unknown, black-armored freak to dictate the fate of the Veynar!

You brought us to the brink of ruin for your pride, Veylara.

I am simply made sure the fate of the tribe was in the right hands. In the hands of someone wise, someone who really cares about this tribe, instead of foolishly dropping in a stranger’s hands.”