FREE USE in Primitive World

The three hundred recruits moved in a long, quiet column through the deep brush heading directly into the open spaces of the hunting ground, toward the pre-determined pass... a narrow, jagged mountain pass that the combined Coalition army would be forced to cross if they wanted to reach the Veynar Tribe.

This specific pass was the only route the thousands-strong Coalition horde would use to reach the Veynar.

To a modern mind, a thousands-strong army might try to fan out and surround the entire territory through the open jungle, but in the primitive ecology of the Great Orrath, such a strategy was a literal suicide mission.

This specific pass wasn’t just about limiting the enemy’s numbers; it was dictated by the absolute, terrifying ecosystem of the Great Orrath itself.

A mass of four thousand warriors marching together created an immense, continuous vibration through the earth and a massive scent-profile that traveled for miles through the air currents.

If an army of that size attempted to push blindly through the deep, primeval jungle tracks of the Orrath, they would inevitably cross the boundaries of the truly ancient, monstrous primal beasts that inhabited the untamed, deep sectors of the primordial jungle.

In this primitive world, humans, Zerith stalkers, and Gray Marauders were not the apex lords or the overlords of the land.

They were merely small, fragile tribal races scurrying in the margins of a world that didn’t belong to them.

The true masters of the Great Orrat were the countless, massive primal beasts... the ancient and destructive entities. Like the Shadow Panthers the size of longhouses, and the massive Ground-Eaters that lived beneath the roots.

Their numbers were countless, and their territory was absolute. If an army of four thousand roaring warriors provoked those ancient primal lords by trampling through their nesting grounds, the entire horde would be systematically crushed and eaten before they could even see the wooden walls of the Veynar.

The enemy commanders knew this. Their primitive minds understood the boundaries of the forest perfectly.

To safely move an army of that scale without committing suicide, they were completely forced to follow the old, shallow river-cut passes... the narrow stone corridors where the ancient beasts rarely traveled because there was no water or meat to harvest.

Sol knew this ecological limitation perfectly.

He knew the enemy’s route before they had even finished gathering their spears at the river crossing. The pass was a trap built by the environment itself.

The enemy had no choice. They had to funnel their massive, clumsy mass straight through the narrow stone chute of the gorge, squeezing their numbers into a tight, five-man-wide line to avoid the deep jungle on the flanks.

...

The cold, heavy clay of the outer tracks sucked at the boots of the three hundred recruits. The morning sun was a pale, weak eye filtering through the dense canopy of the Great Orrath, throwing long, skeletal shadows across the line.

None of the young warriors spoke.

Their skin had been systematically smeared with ash, wet river mud, and dark charcoal lines to make them look emaciated, exhausted, and broken before they had even drawn a weapon.

Their leather tunics were intentionally frayed, and their bone-shields were scratched with false claw marks to sell the illusion of a dying tribe scraping the bottom of its grain baskets.

Sol walked at the head of the column, his massive frame the only solid pillar in the shifting grey mist.

Every stride he took was deliberate, his black Rockhorn carapace carrying the dark, dried crust of yesterday’s blood.

Beneath his ribs, the newly evolved Golden Silver liquid circulated with a deep, hot crawl, sending a continuous wave of heavy perception through his bones.

His silver-crimson eyes scanned the dense undergrowth, not out of fear for an ambush, but to maintain the rigid pacing of the bait.

Behind them, the Feline Spire was shrinking into the blue-grey fog.

The grand, emotional display in the central square... the weeping mothers, the roaring declaration of Warchief Veylara, and the pale, trembling prayers of High Shaman Zephyra... had been a masterclass in tribal theater.

It was partly true, born from the genuine raw terror of a tribe looking at its last children marching to the frontline, but its timing and volume had been calculated down to the last echo.

Sol knew the forest had ears.

Even though his fast-attack squads had systematically hunted down and butchered every Zerith scout within the surrounding perimeter at dawn, in a war of this scale, one could never assume the curtain was completely flawless.

A single hidden ear in the high canopy or a hidden eye could ruin the entire rotation strategy if they spotted the main veteran force moving in numbers.

More importantly, the theater wasn’t just for the trees outside... it was for the vermin inside. Every tribe had its weak marrow; cowards who had been broken by the Gray Marauders’ previous raids or corrupted by the false promises of the Zharun traitors.

For the past few days, these internal traitors... cowards who had lost their marrow to fear and vultures who had been secretly bought by the Zharun... had been under absolute, unblinking surveillance by the tribe’s most elite shadow-trackers.

These rats truly believed their late-night movements were perfectly hidden in the dark corners.

But what they didn’t know was that every single carved bone slip they tried to slide through the gaps in the outer log walls, and every single bird they had secretly flown into the midnight sky with information, had been violently intercepted before they could even leave the perimeter of the tribe.

Instead of executing them immediately and alerting their hidden handlers, Sol had ordered their communication lines to be completely turned against the Coalition.

They had replaced the traitors’ messages with false information written in their own crude tribal scripts.

"The Veynar veterans are revolting against the throne. Many have already gathered their families and ran away into the deep untamed sectors. The Spire walls are cracking from the inside. The mad outsider has gone entirely insane with desperation and will be dragging the remaining untrainted children to a final, suicidal stand at the hunting grounds in a few days. Hit them now and the Veynar will fall without a siege."