FREE USE in Primitive World

Vurok's brother. Torak. One of the tribe's elite hunters.

"Torak scolded him?" Sol guessed.

"Publicly," Taru confirmed. "Scolded him in front of everyone for 'shaming the family' by hoarding meat and getting beaten by a... well, by you. He ordered Vurok to stand down."

Taru hesitated, biting his lip. "But don't be fooled, Sol. It's all fake. I've heard the rumors about Torak. He's even pettier than Vurok, he just cares about his image. He won't let this slide. He just stopped Vurok because it looks bad to attack you right after the distribution scandal. He's waiting for the heat to die down."

Taru gripped Sol's arm. "No one knows what these bastards are up to. They only flex their power on common people like us. If they are so powerful, they should go hunt more, not terrorize the village. Just... watch your back, okay?"

Sol looked at Taru's worried face and nodded dismissively.

"Don't worry, Taru. I'll be fine."

Internally, Sol was calculating. So, the big bad brother had stepped in. It made sense. Vurok was a thug; Torak was a politician.

Sol wasn't afraid. In fact, this delay was perfect.

Let them wait, Sol thought, hoisting the jar onto his shoulder. Let them scheme. It just gives me more time.

If Vurok had attacked today, Sol would have won, but it would have been a brawl. But if they waited a few days? Sol would have full energy. He would have Evara. Maybe, he would have tasted a few more women.

By the time Torak decided to make his move, Sol wouldn't just be a boy who got lucky with a punch. He would be the one in control.

"Let them come," Sol muttered, a cold light flickering in his black pupils. "I'll fuck them up too. In every sense of the word."

"Okay, just take care of yourself."

As usual, Taru came with the wind and left with the wind. He was a good source of intel, but he didn't stick around. Sol didn't mind; he had work to do.

He filled the clay jar to the brim, his new strength making the heavy vessel feel like a feather, and walked home. But his mind was already miles away, constructing a master plan.

The goal was simple: Influence. Women. Power. The method? Culinary domination.

"I need to capture their stomachs to capture their hearts... and other parts," Sol mused.

He needed a dish that was simple, scalable, and could turn the garbage ingredients of this era into gold. It had to be something he could make in bulk, something that smelled amazing to draw a crowd, and something that could hide the questionable quality of the base ingredients.

He thought about it, analyzing the tribe's dietary habits. They ate roasted meat (often burnt or raw), boiled roots (flavorless), and raw fruits. There was no cuisine. There was only feeding.

The answer was self-evident.

"Soup," Sol whispered, a visionary gleam in his eyes.

It was the only thing that ticked all the boxes. He could boil down bones for marrow, soften tough root vegetables, and stretch a small amount of meat into a feast for many.

"But how to attract people?" he muttered, lost in thought. "How do I make them stop?"

"How about setting up a stall?"

The idea took root instantly. A street food stall. It was a staple of civilization for a reason. But immediately, the primitive economy slapped him in the face.

"Problem," Sol murmured, rubbing his chin. "No money."

This world had no currency. No coins, no credits, just the barter system. People traded furs for spearheads, or meat for labor. And honestly, most commoners didn't have much to exchange. Household stuff?… woven mats, stone tools… Useless. Lyra and the girls could weave mats and baskets better than anyone. He didn't need more junk cluttering the hut.

That left food. But food was scarce. Would a family really trade their hard-earned rations for a bowl of unknown liquid made by the village outcast?

He sat at the door of his hut, resting his chin in his hands, watching the village traffic flow by.

It was mostly women at this hour. He watched them come and go…wives returning from the river, daughters carrying firewood, widows gathering to gossip. He watched them with a critical, appreciative eye.

They came in all types…tall and willowy like reeds, short and stacked with muscle, dark skin glistening with sweat, pale skin flushed with exertion. But without a doubt, they were all fit, their bodies sculpted by the harsh reality of survival.

"Customers," Sol corrected himself, a dark smirk playing on his lips. "They are all potential customers."

He remembered his primary goal. He wasn't trying to become the richest man in Babylon; he was trying to attract as many woman as possible, get close to them and fuck them senseless. For that, he needed contact. He needed gratitude. He needed them to owe him.

"I don't need profit," Sol realized. "I need access."

So, he didn't need to care too much about fair trade.

But here came another problem: Supply. Even though Lyra had foraged some roots and they had the rabbit meat, it definitely wasn't enough to run a stall for more than an hour. If he wanted to hook the whole village, he needed bulk.

Where to get the materials?

He thought about the carcass from yesterday's hunt. He remembered the bloody ground. He remembered what happened to the parts the hunters didn't want. They were mostly given to common people, who didn't particularly enjoy them too like the heads, the hooves, the intestines, the cracked bones.

Sol's eyes lit up.

"Trash," he whispered. "To them, it's trash. To me, it's liquid gold."

He immediately had a plan. He could simply exchange his soup for the "inedible" parts.

He could take the "trash"... the organs, the bones, the bitter greens…and using his modern knowledge (and proper prep), turn them into a rich, savory broth. He would trade his labor and "secret recipe" for their raw materials.

And he needed raw materials to keep the business running.