FREE USE in Primitive World

Compared to the organized, multi-layered ring structures of the Veynar tribe, or even the sharp, defensive bone-walls of the Zerith, the Marauder settlement was completely crude. It looked entirely primitive, built without any long-term planning or defensive care.

Dozens of makeshift huts made of wet mud slapped over twisted branches were scattered randomly across the dry dirt flat. Ragged, unwashed beast-hides served as doors, flapping lazily in the cold morning breeze.

There were no deep trenches, no sharpened perimeter stakes, and no watch platforms built into the surrounding trees. Massive frames of wild beasts were left rotting in the open spaces between the huts, surrounded by swarms of black jungle flies.

All in all the Gray Marauder camp was incredibly crude, giving off a completely primitive, lawless vibe.

The entire place lacked any sense of military discipline or war tension. While the Veynar tribe had spent the last two days shivering behind their logs, preparing for a total slaughter, the Marauders were laying around without a single care in the world.

Dozens of the massive, ten-foot-tall humanoids were sprawled out in the open air, sleeping face-up on piles of dirty furs, their deep, guttural snores creating a heavy, vibrating hum that echoed through the stone gorge.

Even the few guards posted near the outer tracks were completely useless.

One was slumped flat against a mud wall, his thick jaw hanging open as he slept soundly, his heavy stone-headed club laying three paces away in the dirt.

Another was sitting on a rock, his head bobbing up and down as he fought off sleep, completely unaware that a hundred and eighty spears were currently encircling his position.

Sol observed the lazy layout for several minutes, his eyes tracking the lack of movement. He looked for any sign of hidden traps, a secondary line of sentries, or any indication that the carelessness was a deception designed to lure an enemy into a trap. There was nothing.

The stupidity was completely genuine.

Joran, the speed-based commander leading the coordination of the squads, crawled up to Sol’s left side. His eyes twitched slightly as he analyzed the crude layout of the mud huts.

Even though Joran was technically an experienced commander assigned to assist and protect, he stayed half a step behind, completely deferring to Sol’s authority.

"They are exactly as we left them last season, Sol," Joran whispered, his voice shallow. "The Marauders are strong, but they are lazy and entirely uncivilized. They don’t build lines; they just pitch their mud huts wherever they drop their meat.

Their layout follows the basic jungle rule... the strongest captains and the high-tier warriors take the center space where the dry ground is best, while the weak, younger ones and the old fodder are left on the periphery to take the first hit from wild beasts."

Sol nodded slowly, a cold, dangerous smile curling the corners of his mouth. "It’s the same routine everywhere. The strong ones use the weak fodder as a buffer to buy themselves enough breaths to grab their weapons if an alarm sounds."

"Yes," Joran muttered, looking at the sleeping guards. "But even though they’re heavy sleepers, there are easily four hundred of them spread across this outer ridge.

And their skin is thick, even the weak ones have bones like petrified wood. If we make too much noise we can awaken their elite warriors, and as much as I don’t wanna admit, we are no match for them right now, especially since they have two layer 4 warriors now."

Sol nodded without saying anything for a while.

"Hold the lines here," Sol commanded flatly, unbuckling the leather strap of his sapphire hilt. "Keep the squads hidden in the dry brush. I’m going in to map the layout myself."

Kira’s head snapped toward him, her stormy blue eyes flaring with immediate opposition as she reached out to grab the edge of his black Rockhorn carapace. "Are you losing your mind again, Sol? The sun is almost over the trees .

The Zerith camp was covered in mist, but this ridge is open stone.

They might be sleeping like logs, but if you step on a loose pebble and one of those giants wakes up, and sees a Veynar standing in the dirt, and makes noise the whole camp will wake up."

Zeyra didn’t try to stop him, but her fingers gripped the leather bindings of her daggers tightly, her eyes wide.

"They won’t see me," Sol said, ignoring her grasp as he loosened the leather bindings of his Dreadwing Blade. "Keep your bow down and watch the tracks."

Before she could utter another word of protest, Sol’s large frame dropped low, his body melting smoothly into the grey morning shadows at the base of the ridge. He didn’t utilize his golden core or cause a sudden spike in the surrounding spiritual energy.

Instead, like before he relied entirely on the expanded silver energy network sitting inside his chest. The cold, viscous fluid hummed with an icy clarity, expanding his baseline perception until he could literally feel the heavy, rhythmic heartbeat of every sleeping giant within fifty paces.

He slid through a narrow cleft in the grey stone, his heavy boots landing on the hard ground with mechanical silence. Once inside the perimeter of the mud huts, he moved like a phantom between the snoring bodies.

He didn’t rush his steps; he calculated every single stride, his eyes finding the solid stone sections to avoid leaving deep, hollow thuds on the dry earth.

He circled the entire Marauder settlement from the shadows, noting every single tactical point. He located the three largest mud huts in the center where the heavy Layer 3 captains were sleeping; he mapped out the large wooden racks where their massive, iron-spiked petrified wood clubs were stacked; he checked the narrow alleys between the lean-tos that formed natural chokepoints, and he noted every route which could serve as an escape route.

He stored the entire layout in his mind like a modern military chart.