FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 444: Reality Of The Situation

A sudden wave of frantic whispering broke out among the rows. The boys looked at each other, their faces twisting with a mix of shame, relief, and deeper terror.

Slowly, a young boy in the second row dropped his wooden spear into the mud, his shoulders shaking as he stepped backward out of the line.

Then another followed.

Then another group from the rear.

This continued for quite some time.

Sol watched them silently, his expression entirely unyielding. In a webnovel universe, sending unrefined mortals into a clash between Layer 2 and Layer 3 powerhouses wasn’t bravery... it was just wasting resources. Within ten minutes, about forty boys had filtered themselves out of the clearing, leaving exactly two hundred and sixty men standing in the dirt.

Sol walked down the lines again, his senses tracking the faint, flickering auras of the remaining recruits. They were weak, their spiritual pathways narrow and unrefined, but the energy was there. Every single one of them had at least reached the baseline of Layer 1.

Their bodies were slightly denser than normal humans, their muscles capable of absorbing a proper kinetic shock if they knew how to anchor their weight.

"Good," Sol muttered, stopping at the head of the formation. "The dead weight is gone. Now look at the map under your feet."

He used the tip of his heavy boot to dig a crude diagram straight into the dirt, carving out a deep V-shape that narrowed into a tight, straight line at the back.

"Here is the reality of the situation," Sol said, pointing to the wide mouth of the V. "The Coalition... the combined force of the Zerith and the Gray Marauder... is currently preparing to set up camp in our primary hunting grounds.

They have between four to five thousand seasoned killers ready to march. Our entire Veynar army, counting every veteran, vanguard scout, and Shaman, is barely a thousand spears."

The collective gasp from the recruits was short and sharp. The difference hit them like a bucket of cold well water. Four to one.

They had always thought that they were quite strong, at least that was what has been taught to them, but now hearing such a difference in strength really shocked them.

"They think we’re cornered," Sol continued, his voice dropping into a low, predatory tone. "They know our numbers are low, and they think the Zharun alliance is going to save us.

They expect us to hide behind our wooden walls like terrified cubs, waiting for them to build siege lines and poison our water streams.

But we aren’t going to wait. At dawn, our elite speed unitss are going to launch a series of vicious, unprovoked raids on their outer camps. We’re going to slaughter their lookouts, burn their tents, and humiliate their chieftains right in their own mud."

A small spark of excitement flared in the eyes of a few older reserves, but Sol instantly crushed it with his next words.

"And when they get enraged, their entire four-thousand-man mass is going to launch a full-scale, disorganized chase to hunt down our raiding parties.

They will sprint straight down into the central basin, thinking they’re about to crush a desperate, panicking tribe. And that’s where we come in. Our two hundred and sixty spears will be standing right here, down in the flat dirt, perfectly exposed."

"We’re... we’re the bait, Divine One?" a stocky recruit asked from the front, his throat visibly dry.

"Yes," Sol said bluntly. "You are the worm on the hook. When that horde sees your clean shields and your pale faces, their commanders will lose their minds with bloodlust.

They’ll break their disciplined lines and sprint forward to crush you, funneling their entire massive numbers straight into this narrow ravine to chase you down.

You are going to look weak, you are going to act terrified, and you are going to fight them face-to-face for exactly five minutes to draw them deep into the throat of the pass."

Sol’s finger slid down to the narrow tail of the V diagram. "And while you’re fighting and executing your retreat, Warchief Veylara and Commander Thauren will be hiding five hundred of our heaviest veteran warriors up on the high ironwood ridges, completely masked by Shaman illusions.

The moment the entire enemy horde is pulled deep into the pass, chasing your backs... the hammer drops. The veterans slam down from the sides like an anvil, cutting the horde in half, while we pivot right at the back of the pass to form a solid stone wall."

Sol leaned forward, his silver-crimson eyes gleaming with a dark, unholy amusement. "In that narrow ravine, their four thousand men won’t mean a damn thing.

They’ll be so tightly packed they won’t even be able to swing their iron clubs or use their long spears. They’ll be stepping on their own wounded, suffocating in their own ranks, while our veterans chop them into green meat from the flanks. We are going to turn their own massive size into their graveyard.

But the whole trap fails if the center line breaks too early. If you run before the five minutes are up, they won’t be deep enough in the ravine, and they’ll notice the ridges. If you don’t know how to pivot and lock your shields at the marker, they’ll burst through the back and overrun the spire."

He stood up straight, his hands falling to his sides. "You think you’re the victims today? You think you’re the easy meat? Look at the weapons in your hands. Look at the armor on your chests. You aren’t out there to die for the spire.

You’re out there to lure four thousand arrogant bastards into a butcher’s shop, and you’re the ones holding the keys to the back door. By the time the sun sets tomorrow, every single alien race in this jungle will know that the Veynar don’t hide behind wood. We hunt."

A low, deep vibration started in the throats of the older reserves. It wasn’t the frantic, loud roar of the veterans from the war room; it was a cold, heavy hum of realization.

The fear hadn’t completely vanished, but it had been entirely redirected, channeled into a tight, focused column of raw purpose.

They weren’t being thrown away; they were the essential piece in a massive calculation designed to execute a slaughter.