FREE USE in Primitive World-Chapter 71: Raveling The Plan & Conflict

Chapter 71: Chapter 71: Raveling The Plan & Conflict
"Well, it was all worth it," he whispered to the damp air, wiping his face.
He could still feel the phantom sensation of Lyra’s body convulsing around him, the way her will had shattered under his command. It wasn’t just about the pleasure, though that had been spectacular; it was about the shift. He had turned the head of the household into his first devotee.
He quickly cleaned himself, adjusted his loincloth, and stepped back into the main room.
The atmosphere inside was peaceful, a stark contrast to the storm of lust that had filled it minutes ago. Arelia had tried to mimic his cooking and served the roasted rock-badgers and tuber mash. It wasn’t Sol’s cooking... it was bland and slightly dry... but after the day’s exertion, everyone ate with gusto.
They sat in a circle on the furs. Usually, Lyra would be the one serving, the one directing the conversation, the one worrying about portions. But tonight, she sat cross-legged, her back slumped comfortably against a support beam, staring into the fire with a small, contented smile.
Arelia served the food, shooting concerned glances at her mother.
"Mother," Arelia said softly, handing Lyra a wooden bowl. "You barely spoke while we were washing the vegetables. Are you sure the pain is gone?"
Lyra blinked, looking at the bowl as if surprised to see it. "The pain?" She let out a breathy laugh. "Yes, Arelia. It is gone. Sol... he drained it all away. I feel empty. In a good way."
She looked at Sol across the fire. Her eyes, usually sharp and watchful, were soft and dilated. There was a look of submissive adoration there that she didn’t even try to hide.
"He has a gift," Lyra murmured, digging into her food with a sudden, ravenous appetite.
Veyra sat next to Liora, picking at her roasted meat. Her gray eyes darted between her mother and Sol, her brow furrowed in deep suspicion. She chewed slowly, swallowing hard.
"It’s a miracle," Veyra said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "One minute you can barely walk, the next you’re floating. What exactly did you do, Sol? Beat the pain out of her?"
Sol took a bite of the tuber mash. It was bland, needing salt desperately, but he chewed it with a look of supreme satisfaction.
"It is called ’Deep Tissue Release’," Sol explained calmly, meeting Veyra’s glare. "It releases endorphins. The body’s natural pleasure. It can make you feel... lightheaded."
"Lightheaded," Veyra scoffed. "She looks strange."
"Veyra," Lyra snapped. The command lacked her usual bite, but the authority was still there. "Do not be rude. Sol helped me. You should be grateful we have a man in the house who can finally contribute."
Veyra’s mouth snapped shut. She looked shocked. Lyra never took sides against them, whenever they bickered.
Liora, oblivious to the undercurrents, scooted closer to Sol. "Can you do it to me?" she asked, her hazel eyes wide. "My feet hurt from walking all day. Can you release my... endo-fins?"
Sol smiled at her, a genuine, brotherly smile that didn’t quite reach his predator’s eyes. "Of course, Liora. Once I have recovered my energy. The technique takes a lot out of me."
"Okay!" she chirped, leaning her head on his shoulder.
Sol felt a surge of satisfaction. The pieces were falling into place. But he couldn’t get distracted by the harem-building just yet. He needed to secure the supply line.
Sol cleared his throat, setting his empty bowl down with a decisive
clack
.
"Aunt," he said, his voice cutting through the quiet chewing noises. "About tomorrow."
Lyra looked at him, her attention snapping to him instantly. Her eyes were still soft, holding that glassy, satisfied sheen from earlier, but she sat up straighter. "Yes, Sol? Do you need to rest? The... treatment was exhausting."
"No," Sol said, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming with intensity. "We aren’t going foraging tomorrow. And we aren’t going hunting."
Veyra paused, a piece of roasted badger meat halfway to her mouth. She chewed slowly, her brow furrowing. "Then what are we doing? Starving? Praying to your new ancestors?"
"We are going to the square," Sol announced, ignoring her sarcasm. "And we are going to set up a stall."
Arelia blinked, her gentle face confused. "A... stall? To trade baskets, we wove?"
"No," Sol grinned, a wide predatory smile. "To trade soup."
The silence that followed was profound. It wasn’t just confusion; it was the kind of silence that follows a madman claiming he can fly by flapping his arms.
In this era, food was the ultimate currency of survival. You hunted it, you gathered it, you ate it immediately to keep it from rotting.The concept of cooking a massive amount of precious food and simply
giving it away
to strangers in exchange for other items was alien. It was insanity. It went against every instinct of preservation they had.
"Soup?" Veyra repeated, her face twisting in disbelief. "You want to... trade boiled water? Sol, did the coma rot your brain? Who trades for cooked food? Everyone has a fire. Everyone can boil water. Why would they give us anything for it?"
"Not just any soup," Sol said confidently. "We are going to make a broth so rich, so flavorful, that they won’t be able to resist. It will smell like a feast and taste like life itself."
"With what?" Lyra asked, looking at their meager supplies. "Sol, we have three badgers and a basket of roots. If we cook it all for others, what do we eat in the winter?"
"We don’t trade for tools, Aunt," Sol cut in. "And we don’t trade for furs."
He looked at them, measuring their reaction, preparing to drop the bomb.
"We trade for ingredients."
"Ingredients?" Liora asked, tilting her head.
"Yes, we trade for ingredients, roots, vegetables, especially to get the bones they throw away. Get the intestines. The heads. The tough neck meat."
Veyra stood up so fast her bowl clattered to the floor, spinning noisily. She looked insulted. Furious. Her face flushed a deep, angry red.
"Trash?" she shrieked. "You want us to trade boiled water for
trash
? You want us to stand in the square, like beggars, and cook garbage? We will be the laughingstock of the tribe! ’Look at the outcast family, selling soup made of garbage.’"