FREE USE in Primitive World

Afterwards, the work of organizing the pacified Zharun settlement proceeded with swiftness. As the initial panic that had gripped the Zharun settlement gradually gave way to a tense, fragile order.

With the rogue looters executed and the immediate fires smothered under shovel-loads of damp ground, Warchief Veylara wasted no time asserting the full, unyielding weight of her authority. She did not rule from the shadows, nor did she allow a vacuum to persist for even an hour.

Standing atop the elevated dirt dais of the Great Lodge... where Chief Vane’s bloodline had ruled through terror for generations... Veylara issued her first sovereign decrees.

”Bring the clan seals and the totem markers!” Veylara’s voice rang across the central square, amplified by a steady power of her Layer 4 essence.

Two Veynar warriors dragged out the central tribal emblem of the Zharun: a massive, soot-blackened wooden totem carved in the likeness of a roaring blood hound with flint fangs.

Before the eyes of hundreds of kneeling Zharun men, women, and elders, Veylara raised her spear and brought the heavy stone butt crashing down onto the totem’s skull.

CRACK-SHATTER!

The dried ironwood split in two, the severed hound head tumbling into the dirt with a hollow thud.

”The Zharun lineage is dissolved,” Veylara declared, her deep blue eyes sweeping over the silent, trembling crowd. ”Your chieftains fell on the battlefield because they chose the path of thieves and hyenas. But the Veynar do not slaughter the helpless.

Those who submit, work, and swear loyalty to the Veynar will eat from our granaries, hunt under our protection, and live under our laws.

Those who harbor rebellion, steal from their neighbors, or raise a blade against our warriors will be fed to the ditch without a burial.”

She immediately set to work dividing the population into clear, manageable factions.

Under Veylara’s sharp direction, Commander Thauren and the Veynar warriors separated the surviving Zharun into distinct groups:

First were the craftsmen, leatherworkers, and bone-carvers, whose skills were vital for maintaining the settlement’s infrastructure.

The charred debris of the burned huts was hauled to the outer ditch, the collapsed granaries were shored up with fresh timber posts, and the bodies of the executed looters were dragged far beyond the perimeter to be burned in a single unmarked trench.

Second were the ordinary laborers, mothers, and children. Veylara ordered the emergency distribution of dried meat, something people in Zharun rarely enjoyed, as almost all the hunts were monopolized the chief, elders and powerful, leaving the common people to rely on wild vegetable, fruits and sometimes dried roots, unless some special occasion meat was only given to the warriors.

By directly feeding meat to the starving, terrified families who had hid during the morning riot, she instantly cut through their fear, turning their desperation into profound, weeping gratitude toward their new conquerors.

Third were the young apprentice hunters and secondary line guards who had taken no part in the looting. Veylara did not execute them, but she stripped them of their spears, short bows, and hunting blades.

They were placed under the direct surveillance of Veynar veterans, tasked with hauling heavy logs from the forest and rebuilding the perimeter defenses under strict watch.

Throughout the entire restructuring, Sol served as the ultimate, immovable pillar of deterrence.

He didn’t bother barking administrative orders or counting the resources. He didn’t need to.

Sol simply stood near the center of the plaza, leaning casually against a thick timber pillar, his arms crossed over his chest.

The sun casted deep shadows over his face, but the faint, crimson embers eyes were visible to every soul in the square.

Whenever a former Zharun sentry or a disgruntled apprentice cast a furtive, lingering glance toward the weapon racks, their eyes would inevitably land on Sol’s towering, blood-stained armored body.

The memory of him crushing an elite Layer 3 peak captain’s skull with a casual flick of his wrist in the Great Lodge was burned into their minds.

The sheer, suffocating pressure of his presence made the hair on the back of their necks stand up.

In reality they were playing good cop and bad cop, according to Sol’s suggestion, where Sol served as bad cop and Veylara as a good cop to quickly gain their trust through intimidation and kindness.

So, not a single man dared whisper a word of dissent. His silence was heavier than a thousand guards.

While Veylara managed the plaza, Sol walked toward the eastern edge of the compound accompanied by Kira and Zeyra to inspect the most valuable asset the Zharun possessed: the breeding kennels.

At the far corner of the tribe, tucked beneath the shade of massive trees stood a series of massive, reinforced pens built from thick ironwood trunks bound in heavy sinew cords.

Inside, over sixty massive but clearly smaller than the ones in battlefield Blood Hounds paced nervously. These were terrifying, primitive predators...even though they were pretty ugly with patched red fur, with jaws strong enough to crush the femur of an armored warrior in a single bite, their strength was undeniable as seen on the battlefield

Due to the chaotic noise and smoke from the earlier riot, the pack was agitated. Several large hounds slammed their bodies against the wooden bars, snarling viciously, thick strings of saliva dripping from their yellowed fangs.

”Be careful,” Kira whispered, stepping up beside Sol with her hunting bow gripped tightly, her sharp eyes tracking the new alpha male pacing in the center pen.

”Without their original handlers, these beasts are completely wild. If they break these wooden pens, they could tear through the civilians.”

Zeyra drew one of her daggers, her eyes narrowing as a massive hound snapped its jaws toward her through the gap in the fence. ”Vane spent decades training them to taste human flesh. Veylara wants to use them for our hunting squads, but if they won’t obey, we might have to cull the aggressive ones.”

Sol looked at the snarling, frantic pack. A faint, amused smirk tugged at his lips.

Cull them? What a waste.

Sol took two steps forward, stopping directly in front of the largest pen holding the five-hundred-pound alpha hound.

The beast lunged forward with a blood-curdling roar, slamming its massive forepaws against the heavy logs, its bloodshot red eyes glaring at Sol with pure, feral rage.