FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 440: Battle Plan Is Finalized

He tapped the narrow pass where the pincer trap was supposed to take place. "They won’t think it’s a grand strategy. They’ll think it’s just a frantic, emotional retaliation for the midnight Zerith sneak attack. It will actually make them even more confident.

They’ll think we are desperate, acting out of pure anger because we know we’re doomed. But striking at the homes will wound their pride, humiliate their chieftains, and cloud their judgment entirely.

When their commanders get enraged enough, they’ll abandon their cautious setup, gather their entire four-thousand-man mass, and launch a full-scale, disorganized pursuit to crush our ’reckless’ strike teams.

They’ll chase us right into the low ground of the valley, thinking they are the ones surprising us... not knowing they are marching straight into our inverted wedge."

A heavy, ringing silence fell over the war room as the sheer brilliance of the psychological bait sank in.

Even the most conservative elders from Thorne’s faction were staring at Sol with wide, stunned eyes.

By using the enemy’s own arrogance as a lever, they weren’t just waiting for a fight; they were actively forcing the entire Coalition horde to sprint straight into their jaws.

They had spent decades fighting the alien races with standard tribal formations and predictable territorial defense, but this kind of fluid, deceptive warfare was completely beyond their doctrine.

Thauren stayed quiet for a long moment, his massive hand rubbing his heavily scarred chin as he stared down at the stone slab. The dormant essence in his core flared slightly, warming the air around him as he imagined the chaos Sol’s strategy would cause.

Slowly, a rough, deep chuckle bubbled out of his throat, growing into a booming roar of pure appreciation that shook the dust from the ceiling beams.

"By the ancestors, kid... you have a truly filthy mind," the Lion Commander rumbled, slamming his massive fist into his open palm with a crack that sounded like a breaking branch. "The Gray Marauders are proud bastards. If Veynar squad slips into their reserve camp, burns their supply huts, and leaves their captains headless in the mud, their commanders will lose their minds with fury.

And they’ll be so busy foaming at the mouth to take our heads that they won’t even think that it could be a trap. They’ll funnel themselves right into the throat of the pass just to stop our annoying fleas from biting them."

"Exactly, the Coalition expects a defensive turtle. If we give them a swarm of angry hornets instead, their massive size will just make them clumsy and reactive. It is a foolproof way to ensure they commit their entire force to the ravine without holding back their reserves." A middle-aged commander spoke excitedly.

"But the timing must be flawless," a senior elder added, stepping closer to the table and pointing a calloused finger at the terrain markers. "If the elite teams pull the horde toward the rocky pass too early, before Thauren’s heavy troops are fully hidden on the ironwood ridges, the enemy will spot the trap from the high ground. We need a definitive signal network to coordinate the retreat."

"We can use the High Shaman’s spirit-hawks," an elder suggested, his eyes brightening as he looked toward the door where Zephyra’s attendants stood. "We can mask the birds with minor illusions so they look like common jungle crows. They can track the movement of the Coalition horde from the upper canopy and signal the exact moment the enemy rear clears the mouth of the ravine."

Veylara listened to the back-and-forth, her eyes scanning the faces silently. She could see the initial tension in the room turning into a sharp, calculated focus.

Sol’s suggestion hadn’t just reduced the risk of their numbers disadvantage; it had given them a way to weaponize the enemy’s own massive numbers and predictable pride against them.

"We cannot afford a single mistake." Veylara stated, her voice sharp as she drew smaller charcoal marks around the periphery of the hunting grounds. "We will form exactly four elite skirmish teams, each led by a high-tier Layer 2 veteran who knows the hidden trails and the terrain of the hunting grounds like the back of their hand. Six-man squad only. No heavy armor, no heavy shields. Only raw speed and high-frequency edge."

One squad will lead the scout squad on the left, targeting their northern swamp outposts. Another squad will hit their eastern badland supply lines simultaneously at dusk."

"I’ll coordinate the illusion wards with the Shamans," High Shaman Zephyra chimed in, her regal voice steady as she stepped up beside the Warchief, her earlier blush completely gone, replaced by her focused, professional persona.

"The moment Sol’s strike teams draw the enemy’s main force out of their camps, my shamans will cast heavy mist and scent-masking barriers over the ironwood ridges.

Even if the Zerith stalkers use their enhanced senses, they will see and smell nothing but empty stone until the warriors are already falling on their skulls."

"And what about the center bait?" Thauren asked, looking back at Sol. "If the enemy is as enraged as you say, the force hitting your recruits will be twice as violent. They won’t just want to push you back; they’ll want to butcher every single one of you to make an example."

"Let them come," Sol muttered, his silver-crimson eyes flashing with a lethal, unyielding light as his hand rested heavily on the hilt of the Dreadwing Blade. "The more violent they are, the faster they’ll push into the ravine. They’ll be sprinting to catch us. Just make sure your anvils are ready to strike when the center buckles."

"Then let’s make it full proof," Thauren roared, his massive fist coming down in a controlled slap against his chest armor. "I’ll personally select the speed veterans for the flank units. We’ll make sure to bleed them badly and set the bait. So, that valley will be packed so tight with angry yellow-skins they won’t even have room to swing their clubs!"

The war room erupted once more, but this time, the energy wasn’t just a desperate roar of defiance... it was the cold, calculating hum of a pride of lions setting a trap for a massive, clumsy herd. The commanders and elders moved with absolute purpose, completely unified under the unyielding weight of the new strategy.

Veylara looked around the circle of commanders, seeing the absolute, grim determination locked onto every face. The confusion and shame of the Zharun betrayal had been entirely forged into a cold, lethal weapon.

She looked over at Sol, and a rare look of deep respect passed over her stern features.

"The plan is finalized," Warchief Veylara declared, her voice echoing powerfully through the hall. "We do not march the main army today. We release the hornets at dawn tomorrow. Sol will oversee the center preparations and drill the recruits on the retreat, while Thaureun assembles the speed units. Go."

"For the veynar!" the captains roared in unison.

Sol turned away from the obsidian table, a cold, hungry smirk fixed on his face as he adjusted his weapon belt. The Coalition thought they were the predators of this jungle, but they were about to find out exactly what happens when you try to hunt a monster.