FREE USE in Primitive World

What was once a mighty river... wide enough to be called a small lake in places... had been reduced to a pathetic, sluggish thread of brown muck snaking through the cracked earth.

The ancient riverbanks, which should have been lush and fertile, were now barren and exposed.

Giant, bleached ribs of long-dead river monsters jutted out of the dry ground like the skeletal remains of fallen titans.

Dried-up shells of enormous water snails and the fossilized remains of ancient aquatic beasts lay scattered across the wasteland like forgotten graves.

Without the river’s life-giving water, the surrounding environment had entirely collapsed.

The lush grassland had transformed into a desolate wasteland of exposed shale, white limestone gravel, and cracked, lifeless soil. Deep, jagged fissures ran across the ground like open wounds. The wind here carried only dust and the faint, bitter smell of decay. Even the herds of beasts had vanished... only the occasional bleached skeleton of a six-horned giant or a tusk-deer lay half-buried in the dust, picked clean by scavengers long ago.

Sol slowed his steps slightly, taking in the grim scene.

So this is the border between life and death, he thought.

He understood immediately why the enemy was so desperate to claim the Veynar’s territory.

This dying zone showed exactly what happened when the lifeblood of the land was cut off. Without control of the healthy grasslands and their rivers, any tribe would eventually face starvation and collapse. The Zerith and Gray Marauders weren’t just fighting for land or pride... they were fighting for survival, as their tribes happened to be on the dying side.

The recruits looked visibly shaken.

One young girl with charcoal paint streaked across her cheeks whispered, "If we lose the hunting grounds... will our land end up like this too?"

A boy beside her gripped his spear until his knuckles turned white. "All those beasts we saw earlier... if the river dies, they’ll all starve. Then we starve."

Sol didn’t offer empty comfort. Instead, he spoke in a calm, steady voice that carried to those around him.

"This is what happens when you lose what sustains you," he said. "Remember this sight. This is why we fight. Not just for glory or revenge... but to protect what keeps our people alive."

His words seemed to steady the young warriors. They straightened their backs a little, even as they continued the act of looking defeated.

Sol glanced once more across the barren wasteland, his silver-crimson eyes cold and calculating.

The enemy wanted this richness.

They wanted to turn the Veynar’s paradise into another dead zone like this.

Sol’s grip tightened on the hilt of the Dreadwing Blade.

Let them try.

He continued leading the column forward, the three hundred young warriors following behind him through the cracked, dying earth... a silent promise of violence hidden beneath their exhausted appearance.

...

Ahead, the barren flats began to pinch together tightly. The dead, cracked hills rapidly hardened, rising up into majestic stone structures that transformed into mountains towering thousands of feet high into the pale sky.

This massive ridge formed an ancient, unyielding wall, acting as a natural barrier that separated the Veynar hunting grounds from the dry, desolate lands of the Coalition on the other side. And between them was the narrow mountain they had selected for the final battle.

The narrow mountain pass was the only opening through this wall of stone.

As the column of three hundred recruits neared the entrance of the gorge, a massive silhouette stepped out from the shadow of a colossal slate boulder.

It was Commander Thauren. His gold-scaled Lion armor dull with the dust of the mountain, his hand resting calmly on the pommel of his blade.

Sol stopped at the front of the line, looked into his eyes without saying a word and gave the Lion Commander a firm nod.

As if seem to understand something, Thauren also nodded with determination in his eyes.

Sol didn’t say a word. He simply turned his face to a young Veynar warrior standing just behind his flank. The recruit, understanding the silent command, immediately lifted a long, curved crimson horn to his lips and blew with all the breath in his lungs.

HOOOO-ROOOOOR!

The heavy, deep blast tore through the quiet canyon, the sound vibrating violently off the thousands-of-feet-high stone walls and echoing wide across the barren flats. For a long, tense moment, the air fell dead silent again, the line of recruits stood frozen in the cold wind, their hands trembling against their weapons.

Then, exactly one minute later, an identical horn blast sounded from deep grasslands behind them... a distant, rumbling response from the hidden vanguard forces confirming they were in position.

Sol and Thauren looked at each other, a sudden, fierce fire flaring in their eyes. The line was set. The anvil was waiting.

Sol turned to the trembling recruits, his voice dropping into a low, commanding rasp."Stay together here," Sol commanded the recruits, his voice a low, rough growl. "Keep your shields locked and do not break formation. We have some vermin to clear from our tracks."

Without waiting for a response, Sol turned around, his body, clad in the pitch-black Rockhorn carapace, blurred instantly as he sprinted back toward the trail they had just traveled.

Thauren let out a low, predatory grunt, his Lion traits flaring as he leaped down from the ledge, running right beside Sol’s shoulder.

The two powerful warriors exploded across the barren flats, retracing their steps with a terrifying speed.

They blurred past the cracked riverbeds and the bleached skeletons of the long-dead river titans, moving so fast their boots kicked up a continuous, trailing cloud of white limestone dust.

Within minutes, the dead landscape began to transition back into the lush, vibrant hunting grounds they had left behind.

Sol and Thauren moved like living storms. Their boots pounded the cracked earth so fast that each stride kicked up a continuous, trailing cloud of white limestone dust behind them, stretching for hundreds of meters like the wake of a comet.