Chapter 5

Life at Virlanther’s home was incredibly comfortable; the fruits here were rich in magic, and over the course of a year, Sakavi not only successfully passed through his juvenile dragon stage but also grew to three meters in length—whereas in the wild, dragons at this stage typically reach only about 2.4 meters.

During this time, Virlanther’s home became filthy and reeked of a faint, lingering fishy stench. Though Virlanther said nothing, Sakavi was already too embarrassed to stay any longer.

Over the past year, his gains had been immense; the elves’ mastery of magic had reached the pinnacle of perfection, and the crude, shoddy magic in Sakavi’s Dragon Heritage was utterly pitiful by comparison.

Virlanther taught him every type of magic without reservation, and even as he prepared to leave, she forcibly gave him several spellbooks, along with seeds of fruit trees and medicinal herbs, saying that if he ever fell on hard times, he could still earn a living by selling potions.

In the end, under Virlanther’s insistence, Sakavi could only agree to journey with her to the Great Swamp at the western edge of the forest.

With a Master-level Druid as his companion, they encountered no foolish beasts along the way. Upon reaching the swamp’s edge, Sakavi demanded to face the Swamp Horror alone.

For a dragon in his adolescent stage, every battle with a beast was indispensable experience; Virlanther offered no objection. Yet it was no easy task for a young dragon to confront the Swamp Horror alone, and Sakavi had no intention of charging in headfirst.

According to reports from the birds, a lizardman tribe dwelled along the swamp’s fringe—perfect as future vassals. Lizardmen were not dragonkin and lacked the innate obedience of goblins; they could only be subdued through overwhelming force.

Thus, it was essential that they witness firsthand how their master defeated the Swamp Horror—and as admission to this spectacle, they would pay with the lives lost in their initial assault.

Thick fog blanketed the swamp’s sky. The lizardman village sat upon a distant mud island, the air above reeking of fish, smoke, and swamp decay. Suddenly, all sounds—frog croaks, insect buzzes, lizardman mutters—vanished.

After dozens of breaths, a deeper, predatory pressure descended, accompanied by a thunderous roar as dragon aura spread like a tangible shockwave. Most weak lizardmen collapsed instantly; even the strongest warriors dropped their bone spears and shields, screaming in terror as they curled on the ground.

“Kneel, vermin!” the black dragon’s voice rasped like grinding stones, hissing with sulfur and acid. “This swamp is mine from this moment on!”

The black dragon was met with suffocating silence. He assumed the matter was settled—but danger always lurks in shadows. From a mud pool entirely concealed by rotting reeds, a highly compressed water arrow shot forth like a venomous serpent!

It tore through the air with a piercing shriek, aimed precisely at the black dragon’s vulnerable eyelid—an expertly chosen killing blow, infused with the caster’s full fury and resolve.

The attacker was a lizardman sorcerer long overlooked. His ancient bone ornaments glimmered faintly in the murky air, his scales slightly parted from the strain of channeling full power.

But to a dragon—especially a black dragon famed for cunning—“ended” was never a state to be taken for granted. The lizardman sorcerer had been noticed by Sakavi the moment he began casting; the chromatic dragons’ reputation as universally hunted creatures was not earned by accident.

Sakavi did not dodge. His massive head snapped sharply aside; the water arrow whistled past the edge of his eye socket. The scaled surface it grazed instantly frosted over with a layer of icy white, emitting a faint “click” that proved the attack’s potent magic and chilling force.

“Interesting. Since you enjoy defiance so much, your slave contract shall be the first.”

With that, Sakavi produced a contract written on papyrus—a common method chromatic dragons used to bind vassals.

Since chromatic dragons never trusted any vassal—and indeed, proved right to distrust them—the contract only restrained betrayal, never enhancing combat prowess.

Under the dragon’s gaze, the lizardman sorcerer was already paralyzed with terror, allowing Sakavi to press his hand onto the contract. The parchment ignited without flame.

“Where is your chieftain? Come out!”

A trembling, shaman-like old lizardman rose from the ground. “Loon Rivermire serves you, great master.”

His skull was leaner and more angular than ordinary lizardmen, resembling an ancient dragon or crocodile. His dark green scales had dulled with age, edged in gray-white like moss-covered rock. His face and head were crisscrossed with deep scars, clearly no easy foe.

His eyes were cloudy amber, pupils like vertical black slits. His hunched back was not from weakness, but from years of bearing tribal burdens and the weight of communion with spirit realms.

He wore a heavy ritual robe woven from dark moss, stitched giant-lizard hides, and braided reeds. The robe hung with countless “spirit items”: dried venomous snakes, owl feathers, strings of swamp creature teeth, and small leather pouches filled with mysterious powders.

In his hand he gripped an ancient staff: a single, petrified serpent spine or monstrous vertebra, capped with a skull radiating ominous green light, bound in runes.

It was not merely a scepter, but his conduit to natural forces and ancestral wrath. A complex scent clung to him—herbs, ancient soil, incense, and a trace of blood.

To have settled near the Swamp Horror, this old shaman was no ordinary being. His magical skill might even surpass Sakavi’s, and his potential value in developing the territory was immense. Yet despite this, Sakavi had no intention of sparing him.

When one’s strength is insufficient to utterly ignore vassals, the art of governance becomes paramount.

Sakavi could not sign a slave contract with every lizardman. If a new sorcerer arose while he slept, he might be assassinated. Thus, he planned to divide and control them, forcing them to monitor one another.

“Very well. You appear exceptional—but that is not enough to spare your life. That sorcerer who attacked me was your student, wasn’t he? I care not who defies me, for defiance is always futile. But incompetent subordinates have no place before me.”

With that, Sakavi cast a fireball, reducing the old shaman to ash amid agonized screams. Witnessing their former chieftain’s fate, whoever succeeded him would henceforth avoid his end.

Now, lizardman resistance would shift from Sakavi to his enforcers—and those who overthrew them would become the next enforcers.

“Who among you is the strongest warrior?”

A burly lizardman rose. “Loen Bloodspear serves you, great master.”

“Sign this contract. You are the new chieftain.”

In Sakavi’s plan, priests were to be pure spiritual figures—only to perform rituals. Power breeds ambition; as a chromatic dragon, he trusted no one, and would never grant any vassal excessive authority.

He then appointed the sorcerer who had attacked him as the new priest. This sorcerer had dared strike him—he was no coward, and would prove useful against the Swamp Horror.

Having settled his vassals, Sakavi began planning the assault on the Swamp Horror. According to the new chieftain Loen, sixty lizardmen could fight, fifteen of whom used bows. Among sorcerers: three could cast third-tier spells, five second-tier, and eight first-tier.

This force was sufficient for defense, but inadequate for offensive action against the Swamp Horror. Yet they were meant to be cannon fodder; their strength mattered little. After assessing the tribe’s combat capability, Sakavi planned to train them in basic tactics.

Their old method was simple: archers fired wildly, then spear-wielders charged forward screaming—utterly inept.

Sakavi ordered all the old, weak, and women to craft javelins—sharpened wooden poles—and organized the spear-wielders in javelin-throwing drills.

After five consecutive days of training, results were already visible. The subhumans’ combat aptitude truly surpassed humans’, though their minds were slow to adapt.

Next came coordination drills. Neither javelins nor arrows would greatly harm the Swamp Horror; the sorcerers’ spells were the key. After three days of practice, Sakavi intended to test their effectiveness.

While Sakavi exhausted himself daily training the lizardmen, Virlanther lived in utter comfort. This vibrant, forest-different land offered her endless surprises.

She had already identified over a hundred herbs suitable for potion-making. Hearing this, Sakavi had an idea: could they open a potion workshop, letting lizardmen sell potions at the nearby pigman village?

To his surprise, Virlanther strongly supported the idea and decided to help build a potion workshop here after defeating the Swamp Horror.

Unlike Virlanther’s passion for herbs, Sakavi was more interested in the swamp’s agricultural and pastoral potential. Together, they repeatedly surveyed the terrain near the lizardman village, concluding that farming was unfeasible—but aquaculture held great promise.

Compared to the lizardmen’s abysmal fishing skills, aquaculture was far more efficient. With ample food, population would grow—and Sakavi’s strength would rise accordingly.