FREE USE in Primitive World

”Which means...” Zephyra added softly, her voice carrying a cool, strategic weight, ”They no longer possess the strength to threaten our borders and ...the balance of power in the Great Orrath has not merely shifted.

It has been destroyed. When news of this massacre reaches the Spire and the outer sectors, the smaller clans will scatter in terror.”

Sol straightened up slightly, resting his hand on the pommel of his Dreadwing blade. ”Then take their territory. The Veynar were on the defensive because you were outnumbered.

Now, you have nearly a thousand high-layer laborers and three empty tribal sectors waiting to be claimed.”

Veylara let out a low, raspy laugh... a sound rich with newfound authority and unyielding resolve.

”We will,” Veylara said, her deep blue eyes flashing with a fierce light. ”We will march into their sectors, claim their tribes, and rebuild the Veynar lineage stronger than it has ever been in our history.

But make no mistake, Sol... this victory bears only your name. The Great Orrath will know that the Veynar will always remember the gratitude.”

Sol didn’t say anything, as it was true and just nodded slightly.

She paused, her gaze sweeping over the surviving loyalist warriors gathered around the fires.

”Tomorrow morning, we will march back to the main settlement,” Veylara continued, her tone shifting into something heavier, more solemn. ”There, we will hold the sacred funeral rites for our fallen... and we will publicly address the future of the Veynar and what to do with the coalition tribes”

Zephyra stepped forward, her dark eyes locking onto Sol with a calm, penetrating look.

”The news of what happened here today will spread across the entire Great Orrath like wildfire,” Zephyra said softly. ”A single warrior who slew four Layer 4 warlords, controlled an elite beast cavalry, and purged a legendary poison... the surrounding tribes will no longer look at our tribe as prey. But they will look at you, Sol, with absolute terror.”

Sol slowly pushed himself up from against the stone, bringing his full height to bear, his crimson eyes flaring faintly in the twilight.

”Let them look,” Sol rasped calmly, a cold, dark smile spreading across his face. ”Let them come and see if their hides are any tougher than Bruga’s.”

Veylara looked at him for a long moment, a faint, proud smile touching her lips.

”Take him to the nearby stream,” she ordered gently. ”Help him clean and wash up. He has bled enough for our tribe today.”

Kira nodded eagerly, her face brightening. ”Come on, Sol. Let’s get you out of that cracked armor.”

Sol didn’t argue. The thought of soaking his bruised, strain-racked body in water sounded far more appealing than standing in a field of corpses listening to clan politics.

As Kira and Zeyra guided him toward the winding mountain path, Sol took one last look back over his shoulder.

The Veynar warriors were already lighting the funeral pyres on the high ridge, sending tall columns of white smoke curling into the twilight sky.

The kneeling prisoners remained motionless in the dust, terrified to even breathe too loudly.

Inside his chest hollow, the harvested soul-essence had settled into a quiet, deep reservoir, humming with latent power.

Though he hadn’t shattered the barrier to Layer 4, his foundation at Layer 3 Peak was rock-solid, his body completely repaired, and his authority over the region absolute.

Sol let out a quiet, raspy chuckle, leaning slightly against the two girls as they stepped onto the stone trail.

”Not a bad harvest,” Sol whispered to himself.

The winding mountain trail sloped gently downward, leading away from the harsh, copper stench of the blood-slicked valley toward a secluded clearing nestled between two towering limestone cliffs.

Here, away from the flickering funeral pyres and the heavy silence of the captive camp, the ambient air tasted crisp, cooled by the cascading mountain breeze and scent of crushed pine needles.

Ahead, the soft, rhythmic gurgle of rushing water echoed softly through the night.

The path opened into a pristine, natural basin where a clear mountain stream flowed lazily over smooth, white river stones.

Beneath the silver glow of the moon, the shallow water sparkled like a bed of liquid diamonds, its surface mirroring the vast, starlit sky above.

Kira and Zeyra guided Sol to the water’s edge, where a flat, moss-draped stone ledge jutted out over a quiet pool.

”Sit down before you collapse, you idiot,” Zeyra instructed, though her voice lacked its usual sharp edge as she gently pushed his shoulder toward the rock.

Sol didn’t offer a witty retort. He let out a long, heavy exhale, unbuckling the leather straps of his Dreadwing blade and leaning the heavy sapphire weapon against a nearby boulder.

The cool night air felt soothing against his face, though his cracked and dented black armor was still caked in thick, dried layers of limestone chalk, dust, and dark crimson blood.

Kira knelt beside him, her fingers nimble as she began unbuckling the heavy leather clasps binding his shoulder pauldrons and chest armor. ”Hold still,” she murmured softly, her brows furrowed in intense concentration. ”Some of these sides are crushed inward. I don’t want to pull on your broken skin.”

”You don’t need to be so careful, Kira,” Sol rasped, though he kept his arms raised to allow her easier access to the rusted iron buckles.

Zeyra stepped up to his left side, She peeled away the dented black armor, expecting to see a horrific mess of purple bruises, torn muscle tissue, and shattered ribs... the inevitable consequence of battling the Layer 4 warlords.

However, as the heavy black armor came free with a dull clatter against the stone, both women froze.

Beneath the damaged armor and torn undershirt, Sol’s broad torso was completely unblemished.

His skin was smooth, bronze-toned, and taut over powerful, defined muscle groups.

There were no dark purple contusions, no unnatural indentations over his ribs, and not a single trace of the brutal impacts he had endured throughout the battle.