The next day arrived with the soft, golden rays of sunrise filtering through the cracks in the wooden walls, painting stripes of light across Sol’s face. He didn’t care. He burrowed deeper into the furs, intending to sleep until noon. His body felt heavy in a good way... satiated and relaxed.
But peace was a luxury in the primitive world.
His newly sensitive ears twitched. The sound of rustling fabric, the clinking of stone tools, and hushed whispers cut through his sleep like a knife.
Sol frowned and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He saw the silhouettes of Lyra and the three girls bustling around, preparing baskets and sharpening digging sticks.
"You’re leaving?" Sol asked, his voice rough with sleep.
Lyra turned, startled. "Go back to sleep, Sol. We are just going foraging near the perimeter."
Sol threw the furs off, standing up. "I’ll go too. I told you, I need to—"
"No," Lyra said firmly, stepping in front of him. Her hand pressed against his chest, pushing him back gently. "I have accepted your choice to hunt, Sol. I won’t stop you from exploring. But not these few days."
"Aunt, I’m fine," Sol argued, though he didn’t push past her.
"The Healer said to rest," she insisted, crossing her arms. "Even if you feel okay, the spirit shock takes time to settle. Give it two days. If you are still strong then, I won’t say a word. But for now, you rest."
Sol looked at her determined face, then at Veyra, who was actually looking at him with a hint of concern instead of her usual scorn. He sighed. Arguing with Lyra when she was in "mother hen" mode was useless.
"Fine," he relented, raising his hands in surrender. "Two days. But I’m going stir-crazy in here."
"Eat some fruit," Liora chirped, shoving a handful of berries into his hand before following her sisters out the door. "Bye, Sol!"
They left, leaving Sol alone in the quiet hut.
He ate the sour berries mechanically, his mind drifting inward. He closed his eyes and focused on the hollow cavity in his chest.
The Ash Gray energy was swirling lazily, thicker than the night before. It was almost half-filled now.
Regeneration is steady, he noted with satisfaction. But I need to understand this better.
He thought about the nature of the power. It wasn’t mind control... that implyed zombie-like obedience. It wasn’t hypnosis... that required a trance state. This was... reconfiguration. He could look a woman in the eye and tell her that the sky was green, or that she belonged to him, and her mind wouldn’t just accept it; it would rewrite her entire logic system to make it true. It made the unnatural natural. It made the forbidden permissible.
"It needs a name," Sol mused, tapping his chin.
He thought back to his "cultured" life before the transfer. He remembered the tags, the categories, the specific genres of "literature" he had consumed. There was one term that fit this ability perfectly. A term for when boundaries dissolved, when anyone became available, when logic bowed to desire.
"Free Use," Sol whispered, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
He nodded to himself. It was perfect. It encapsulated everything he wanted to achieve. He wasn’t a tyrant forcing slaves; he was simply creating a world of Free Use, where he was the only user.
"Free Use Cultivation," he chuckled. "If the ancestors heard that, they’d spin in their graves."
Feeling restless, he grabbed the large clay jar from the corner. "Might as well make myself useful."
He stepped out of the hut. The morning air was humid, carrying the scent of cooking fires and jungle rot. As he walked toward the stream, he noticed the change immediately.
People were looking at him.
Usually, Sol was invisible... a piece of background scenery. Today, heads turned. Whispers trailed in his wake like smoke. Thanks to his heightened senses, the hushed gossip reached his ears with crystal clarity.
"...is that him? The cripple?" "...heard he thrashed Vurok yesterday." "...no way, Vurok must have slipped." "...saw it myself, slapped him right into the mud..."
Sol hummed a tune, walking with a straight back, ignoring the stares. Inside, he was laughing. Let them talk.
However, a question nagged at him. Where is Vurok?
He had mentally prepared himself for a confrontation today. He expected Vurok and his lackeys to jump him in an alley, looking for revenge. Sol was actually hoping for it—it would be a great chance to test his new strength. But the bully was nowhere to be seen.
"Maybe he has some brain after all," Sol muttered, disappointed.
He reached the stream, dipping the jar into the cool, clear water.
"Sol!"
A familiar voice called out. Sol turned to see Taru, a young man about his age, jogging over with a grin plastered on his face.
"Taru," Sol greeted, lifting the heavy jar with surprising ease.
"You crazy bastard," Taru laughed, slapping Sol on the shoulder. "You actually did it! Everyone is talking about it. You put Vurok in the dirt!"
Taru looked around, then leaned in closer, his eyes shining with vicarious victory. "You have no idea how good that felt to watch. So many of us wanted to do that for years, but no one dared. You let out our anger, man. Good job."
Sol smiled modestly. "I just did what I had to. That bastard was asking for it."
Taru’s smile faltered slightly. He looked over his shoulder, checking for eavesdroppers, then leaned in until their heads were almost touching.
"But hey," Taru whispered, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "You need to be careful. I heard things."
"What things?" Sol asked, feigning ignorance.
"Vurok was planning to hit you today. He was gathering his guys this morning, screaming about breaking your legs."
Sol raised an eyebrow. "I don’t see him."
"That’s the thing," Taru said grimly. "Yesterday’s event... it reached his brother’s ear."
Sol paused. Vurok’s brother. Torak. One of the tribe’s elite hunters.