Chapter 77

Sakavi departed from the chaos above Lieshen Island, his wings riding the fierce upper winds toward the northeastern island—larger, greener, and steaming with primal power. As he drew nearer, the details of Greyleaf Island sharpened in his keen dragon eyes.

The trolls habitually used the most primitive methods to set fires, chop down trees, and even uproot massive trunks by hand, carving out rough clearings and paths. The forest’s edge was jagged, as if devoured by some colossal beast.

At the heart of the Bloodclaw Tribe’s territory stood the “Skull Totem Pole,” built from the bones and intact skulls of giant beasts. Fresh vines and dripping pelts hung from it, silently proclaiming their latest kills. Now, faithful followers of Ushgo Lamu’s cult danced wildly around the totem under the shaman’s frenzied steps, roaring and leaping, offering their loyalty and blood through the most primal rites.

On the slopes of the Stonehammer Tribe, the dull thud of colliding boulders echoed. They used brute strength to carve into the mountainside, erecting crude yet immensely sturdy stone fortresses and walls that looked like tumors growing from the hills themselves.

They were the trolls’ master builders and the only suppliers of stone statues across the surrounding islands. These raw, primal statues, piled haphazardly with quarried rubble at the edge of their territory, did not appear carved—they seemed instead to be the trolls’ unyielding wills hammered directly into solid rock.

The swamp dominated by the Deepmoss Tribe was itself a natural barrier. They cultivated bioluminescent fungi that twisted through the mist, forming a deadly living map; while their totems—crafted from mud, bones, and glowing pigments—constantly emitted magical mists declaring their domain.

It was this magic-rich soil and extreme environment that granted them a monopoly over the supply of Hamodo herbs and magical plants, ensuring they remained the sole masters of this lethal marshland.

In the distance, the volcano where the Ashbone Tribe dwelled spewed endless columns of thick black smoke, a scar branded into the earth; the heavy stench of sulfur in the air was its silent proclamation.

As the trolls’ forgers, their craftsmanship was crude—far inferior to dwarven precision or human ingenuity—but they understood the doctrine of utility above all. Their iron anchors, massive hammers, and other heavy tools, prized for their astonishing cheapness and durability, had become indispensable hard currency among pirates and other evil factions.

As Sakavi skimmed low over the eastern coast of Tooth of the Trolls Island, a briny, alien stench struck him—vastly different from the inland tribes. This was the domain of the Splitfin Tribe, a people who had seared their savage fury into the roaring waves and jagged reefs. Their encampment was skillfully embedded along the rugged shoreline, fused with the sea.

Unlike their kin, their dwellings were not caves or mud huts, but huts built from whale ribs, colossal marine vertebrae, and shattered planks looted from shipwrecks. These structures were streamlined to withstand coastal storms, their roofs covered in thick aquatic plants and waterproof marine hides, reeking of strong ocean brine and decay.

The camp’s core rested on a natural reef cluster just offshore, connected to the main island by crude stone bridges. This “Tidal Fortress” became an island during high tide, easily defensible—the chieftain’s residence and the tribe’s refuge against invasion.

Along the towering coastal cliffs, they had carved countless lookout points from natural caves, constantly monitoring the horizon for merchant ships to plunder or sea beasts to hunt.

They scorned nets for catching small fish. Their targets were deep-sea giants: colossal squids, shield-scaled sea monsters, even juvenile sea dragons. They would set out in fleets of Tuji longboats, carved from single massive trunks, battling sea beasts with harpoons tipped with enormous bone hooks, dragging their kills ashore by sheer strength.

They possessed a startling skill: taming sharks. The tribe’s shamans, through bloody rituals and feeding, could guide nearby bull sharks or megalodons to patrol their flotillas, assist in battle, or pursue fleeing prey.

Their vessels were crude yet incredibly sturdy, their prows carved with the skulls of sea beasts or sharks, their sides hung with the heads of enemies or slain sea creatures to intimidate foes. They were, alongside human pirates, the most terrifying maritime force in the archipelago and surrounding seas.

They were mortal enemies of the Shellcliff Island fishfolk. The two sides waged endless conflict over rich fishing grounds, sunken treasures, and dominion of the sea. The Splitfin trolls viewed the fishfolk as “thieves stealing the ocean’s bounty,” while the fishfolk saw them as “evil barbarians.”

Though savage, they were vital—and dangerous—trade partners for human merchants. Their deep-sea beast oil was premium magical lamp fuel and waterproofing material; the tough sinews of sea monsters made top-grade bowstrings; giant pearls were priceless. Despite trading with them being akin to bargaining with tigers, Hamodo merchants flocked to them.

As Sakavi’s dragon shadow swept over their coast, the Splitfin trolls responded with the wildness of the sea. Instead of gathering in arenas like their inland kin, they boarded their Tuji boats and rhythmically hammered their harpoons against the hulls, producing drumlike roars. In their highest maritime ritual, they paid homage to this sky-rider, this mighty one.

Sakavi’s heavy frame finally landed upon the raised platform prepared for him, lined with bone. The earth trembled slightly. He surveyed his most powerful, most savage, and most “pure” servants with satisfaction. The air reeked of sweat, blood, seawater, and raw savagery.

This chaotic, crude, yet vibrantly alive scene was precisely what he wanted. These trolls understood no refined flattery—they worshipped only absolute power. And Sakavi was the embodiment of power. Here, he needed no calculations as with humans, no restraint as with fishfolk. He needed only to exist—and he received the most direct awe and submission.

Five exceptionally massive chieftains stepped forward. Unlike ordinary trolls, they wore crude but massive metal ornaments—mostly looted or traded from dwarves. Clenching their right fists, they slammed them hard against their left chests, over the heart, producing dull thuds, then bowed deeply. This was the trolls’ highest gesture of respect: “My strength is yours to command.”

“Good! I have witnessed your resolve and power. My loyal servants, prepare to unleash my wrath upon the world! Let the entire world tremble beneath our feet! Tell me—do you thirst for blood? Are you ready to burn all for me?”

“We await your command, Great Master. Your will is our only guide. Your order is our only path.”

“The gates of the Abyss have opened. Those ignorant demons dare profane my domain. Soon, I shall lead you there, to drown my fury in their screams. And you, my loyal claws, shall build your stairway from their bones to claim the rewards awaiting you—endless treasure and vast lands lie ahead. Now, prove to me you possess the courage and strength to seize them all.”

As his warriors erupted in thunderous jubilation at the Black Dragon’s promise, the five chieftains exchanged silent glances. The shadow of demons loomed in their hearts; icy fear choked their throats. Any words of warning felt pitifully weak. They buried their deep dread beneath the surface, maintaining a facade of unwavering zeal upon the raging tide of fanaticism.

Fortunately, the troll race possessed a terrifying reproductive capacity. They followed the savage law: “three litters every two years, five cubs per litter,” and reached adulthood in just ten years, causing their population to explode like wildfire, frequently sparking conflicts with neighboring islands.

Though their high infant mortality rate imposed brutal natural selection, this was merely a necessary cost to maintain ecological balance. Had their intelligence not been universally low, stunting their civilization’s development, the continent’s landscape would surely look vastly different.

The fleeting hesitation of the troll chieftains did not escape Sakavi’s eyes. He had no intention of exposing it. Self-interest was an inseparable trait of sentient beings; if they truly showed no reservation, Sakavi would suspect their brains had already been invaded by mind flayer tentacles.

After all, the abandoned Mist Island had once been a mind flayer colony—who could guarantee no lingering enchantments remained, or that they had truly left at all?

Sakavi had no intention of visiting the Mist Island. Dragons were powerful, but not invincible. Mind flayers, absolute masters of the Underdark, wielded arcane psychic powers capable of reversing strength disparities.

Sakavi knew well that in this perilous world, certain gifted races could achieve cross-tier kills. Without perfect preparation, he would never lightly step into such danger.

After thoroughly evaluating the populations of the five troll tribes, Sakavi selected three thousand of the strongest individuals as the foundation for breeding and expansion. He knew well that on this cruel land, almost no troll—not even the mysterious shamans—lived to old age.

Their fierce yet brief lives made them ideal, living military assets, supplying fresh blood for his future wars. Yet these trolls had one fatal flaw: their power system remained entirely primitive, with no systematic transmission.

Even those shamans who could cast spells did so through blind, individual trial and error, acquiring only fragmented, rudimentary spells. Among the five thousand trolls across the island, not a single true high-tier adept had yet emerged.