FREE USE in Primitive World

The remaining warriors of the Coalition looked through the clearing dust and saw the truth.

Sol was leaning heavily on his sword, his head hanging low as thick sweat ran down his neck plates, his body visibly shaking with intense exhaustion.

The terrifying nightmare that had single-handedly slaughtered their countless comrades and peeled the Zharuns apart was finally vulnerable.

The realization spread through the horde like wildfire: The black reaper is spent, but he is still a reaper. If we cannot match him, we will butcher his people instead.

A unified, deafening cheering roar erupted from thousands of enemy throats, a sound so loud it reached straight to the sky, shaking the very air of the wasteland.

The Marauders, Zharun and Zerith stalkers were injected with a sudden, vicious surge of raw morale.

The unified roar that erupted from the Coalition ranks was a desperate, guttural release of pure psychological trauma.

For the last two watches, these men had been treated like cattle in a slaughterhouse... forced to stand perfectly still while a single, black-armored monster leisurely peeled the limbs and skin off their people.

With a savage, frantic burst of momentum, the entire horde pivoted away from the center of the clearing, where Sol was barely standing.

The Gray Marauder infantry, the Zerith stalkers, and the remaining Zharun spears formed a massive, chaotic wall of muscle and bone, rushing forward like a broken dam toward the Veynar main force and the small detachment of young recruits.

They needed to kill.

They needed to spill blood to wipe away the absolute humiliation and terror that had just been carved into their souls.

"General Sol has given us a great opportunity, now it’s up to us to kill the remaining!" Thauren’s roar echoed from Veynar camp. "Weapons up! Stand your ground!"

The Veynar warriors nodded heavily not afraid by the enemy’s momentum, slammed their feet into the ground for better posture, their faces hardening as the massive wave of enemy warriors sprinted toward them, weapons raised, dust clouding the sky.

Yet, even as the coalition forces cheered and raised their heavy stone axes, their eyes held a deep, lingering line of dread.

Sol’s brutal, cold-blooded execution of Malphas and Gorr had permanently etched his name into their primitive minds as a symbol of absolute terror.

The battlefield split instantly into two entirely different worlds.

On one side, a chaotic, bloody clash erupted as thousands of Coalition troops crashed into the Veynar defensive line with wild, vengeful fury.

But on the other side... there was a perfect, eerie circle of absolute void.

Sol remained standing in the exact middle of the battlefield, leaning heavily on the Dreadwing Blade driven into the clay.

His head hung low, his chest heaving as it desperately tried to replenish his empty Free Use reserves.

But right now, ae was completely exposed, entirely out of breath, and stationary.

Yet, as the thousands of rushing enemies swarmed across the field to assault the Veynar, they explicitly, deliberately routed their paths to stay at least hundred paces away from him.

The Marauder captains steered their charging squads in wide, sweeping arcs around him.

The Zharun warriors, even while screaming for blood, kept their eyes glued to Sol’s slumped silhouette as they ran past, their legs moving faster the closer they got to his radius.

If a warrior accidentally stumbled too close to the seventy-paces perimeter of the execution site, they would frantically scramble sideways, their faces pale with a primal dread.

Even though they knew his weird power was spent, the image of Malphas’s liquefied joints and Prince Gorr’s faceless, squirming body was permanently burned into their retinas.

Sol had established an aura of terror so absolute, so thoroughly demonic, that even in his moment of complete physical exhaustion, his mere presence acted as an invisible, unyielding fortress wall.

He stood entirely alone in a sea of violence, a black monument of slaughter that no one dared to touch.

...

On the other side, the frontline of the Gray Marauders crashed into the Veynar shields like a tidal wave of muscle and stone clubs.

The sheer kinetic force of the collision sent a shockwave of dust and pulverized limestone rippling across the slope.

Several Veynar shields cracked down the center; wood groaned, and the front-rank veterans spat blood as the immense weight of the Coalition pressed hard against their line.

Despite Sol’s systematic butchery of the enemy’s low-layer fodder, the Veynar were still at a numerical disadvantage.

The Golden Dominion had instantly weeded out the weak, leaving only the high-layer warriors of the Coalition alive.

Which meant, every single Zharun spearman pushing against the line was a hardened Layer 2 veteran; every Marauder wielding a colossal axe was at least a Layer 2 driven by battle madness.

As expected soon, the Veynar line began to buckle.

A Layer 3 Zerith stalker leaped over the shield wall, his twin bone daggers flashing as he sought the throats. Thauren’s Lion Spirit flared into the air, its spectral hand wrapping around the stalker’s waist and slamming him into the dirt before he could strike, but for every enemy they cut down, three more surged forward to fill the gap.

"Backup! They’re too many!" a Veynar captain roared, his axe buried in a Marauder’s collarbone. "We can’t hold the perimeter against this many high-layers!"

Chief Vane, watching from the safety of the rear ranks, let out a high, venomous laugh.

His knees were still sore from Sol’s pressure, but seeing the Veynar line begin to fray brought the cruel light back into his eyes. "Push them! Grind them into the stone! They have no god to save them now!"

...

Chief Vane’s celebration was entirely premature.

He had calculated the numbers, factored in the high-layer warriors, and accounted for Sol’s sudden exhaustion.

But he had made two fatal errors.

The first was underestimating Warchief Veylara.

From the center of the Veynar formation, suddenly a blinding crimson light erupted.

It was hot and suffocating like the breath of a volcanic fissure.

The crowded forces of the Coalition suddenly felt the temperature on the battlfield spike instantly.

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