Chapter 667: Big Tooth's Day
“Mine! All mine—”
A grunting Ogre trudged southward, humming a tune as light-footed as its mood was high.
Appearance-wise, this Ogre was no different from its kin—just slightly bulkier, a bit more muscular. Ragged, grotesque, draped in tattered animal hides, it hefted a massive club forged from the leg bone of some unknown beast, reeking of foul stench.
The only thing that set it apart was its two long, thick fangs—yellowed, blood-stained, their jagged tips nearly brushing its nose.
These Ogres, sprouting from the earth like weeds, had no names. They’d adopt whatever word came to mind, and with those fangs, this one was dubbed “Big Tooth” by its tribe.
It wore the title with pride. To prevent others from stealing it, it had beaten three other Ogres who claimed the same name—cracking their fangs, sending them scrambling across the ground, “searching for teeth.”
After that, the title “Strong Big Tooth” was firmly established. Soon, a hundred lesser Ogres flocked to it, making it a minor warlord with a growing clan.
Green-Skinned Ogres lived simple lives—either fighting, or rushing toward fights. Reasons for war were endless: plundering resources, seizing nests, or simply glaring at each other and deciding one’s face was too ugly to live.
Everything was won through plunder. The strong seized the weak. The many seized the few. If all else failed, you could join a bandit gang and become a subordinate.
In their rapid breeding, Ogres formed a society—simple, brutal, and built on endless cycles of plunder. Each group preyed on weaker ones, who in turn preyed on others, descending down the chain like a pyramid of violence.
As for the weak at the bottom? They were either physically eliminated—eaten, or forced to raid other races.
In Big Tooth’s brief life, he’d plundered over a hundred times. He’d also been plundered seven or eight times. To him, it was all natural.
So too was this war.
They’d crush the weak but wealthy Southfolk, seize everything, and claim dominion over the entire continent.
“Everything I See Is Mine!” Big Tooth hummed the tribe’s crude lament, his mood light, his steps quick.
“Boss,” one of his subordinates grumbled, “after we seize Aivendeldan, I wanna make a club outta wood!”
“Pathetic,” Big Tooth sneered. “Humans and Dwarves are rich! If we take ‘em, I’m making a club outta iron!”
He looked down on the short-sighted fool with contempt.
And this was how most Ogres viewed war—frenzied, blind, driven only by the instinctive thought: This feels right!
At first, Soro, the Daitou leader, tried to rally them with tales of ancestral heritage and racial honor. But the Ogres just scratched their heads, confused.
Finally, Soro roared, raising his spear, “We fight! We seize! We take everything from the South’s cities!”
One Ogre asked, “Are they rich?”
Soro grinned. “Kin, let me tell you—A single Human is worth a hundred Ogres. An Elf is worth a thousand. And a Dragon? Oh, a Dragon’s wealth could match hundreds of thousands—or even millions—of Ogres!”
“Dragon scales make the strongest armor. Dragon bones make the toughest clubs. Their….”
“WAAAGH!”
“Seize them all!”
“Let’s take a Dragon!”
The Ogres erupted. A thunderous war cry rose from the horde, shaking the earth, trembling the mountains. The sky darkened under their storm of wings and fury.
And Big Tooth roared with them, arms raised, eyes gleaming with visions of a golden future—his fangs plated in gold, unbreakable, untouchable.
No one would ever steal his name again.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted ahead.
“Look!”
“That’s Aivendeldan! No wonder it was the Dwarves’ old capital!”
“WAAAGH! That city looks worth seizing!”
“Move! Let me through!”
Big Tooth shoved aside the weaker Ogres, elbowing his way to the front.
His jaw dropped.
Before him, towering on the mountainside, stood a colossal fortress—wrought from steel and stone, carved into the cliffside. Above it, countless Two-Headed Dragons flapped their wings in chaotic formation, like a regimented storm cloud of darkness.
“Such a fortress… how much steel is inside?” Big Tooth breathed in awe. “Enough to make a hundred clubs!”
His heart pounded. Warmth surged through his veins. Blood roared. Cells screamed.
War! We need war!
The air hung thick with pale green Ogre spores. Where they collided, a strange chemical reaction flared—amplifying frenzy, erasing fear of death.
“Charge!”
“Seize them all! WAAAGH!”
Like a stampede, the Ogres surged forward, spears, bone clubs, and stone axes raised. Their feet pounded the ground like war drums, shaking the Blackstone Mountain in protest.
Ogres pushed and shoved, scrambling to the front. Big Tooth shoved past the weak, laughing wildly as he led the charge.
“Fat sheep! I’m coming for you! WAAAGH!”
To Big Tooth, the battle was already won. As always, Ogres would swarm forward, tearing apart enemies who trembled in fear.
“Charge!”
“Conquer that fortress!”
Then—BOOM!
A massive explosion tore through the ground. Shattered earth, blood, and limbs flew into the air. A gaping pit split open miles ahead.
Landmine.
To counter the Ogre flood, the Empire had laid a minefield stretching dozens of kilometers, two kilometers wide—a deadly welcome gift.
But the Ogres had no idea. They didn’t understand why their kin dropped dead. They just kept charging, screaming in rage.
“What’s that?”
“How’d they die?”
“Kara’s head is flying! I’ll use it as a decoration—it’s my best friend!”
“Bullshit! That head’s mine!”
In the midst of carnage, two Ogres fought over a severed head—darkly comic.
BOOM!
Another explosion. Ogres stepping on mines were torn apart, their bodies charred, shrapnel tearing through dozens more.
Then—BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
Like a relentless drumbeat, the explosions rolled across the field, carving a bloody trail of sand, shrapnel, and remains.
The density was insane. Even the Empire’s engineers hadn’t expected such devastation.
But under the spores’ influence, the Ogres didn’t flinch. The blood-scented air only fueled their frenzy, making them more euphoric, more wild.
“WAAAGH!”
“Charge through!”
They charged like moths to flame—blind, relentless, falling into the minefield one by one. Each step triggered a “crack,” and then—BOOM!
Bodies exploded into the sky.
Soon, the ground was piled high with broken, charred corpses. The survivors stepped over them, trampling their kin, charging onward. In minutes, thousands were dead.
But Big Tooth didn’t charge. He stayed back, waiting until the front lines triggered the mines—then moved forward.
His subordinate, Hok, eager to lead, tried to push past. Big Tooth grabbed him by the back of the neck and yanked him back.
Hok turned, eyes wide with anxiety. “Boss, why aren’t we charging?”
“Idiot!” Big Tooth smacked him hard. “Let the fools die first! We follow behind—then we seize the spoils!”
“Ow!” Hok clutched his head, nodding slowly, muttering, “If it weren’t for you….”
In envy, he watched another wave of Ogres scream forward—only to explode in fire and gore.
Big Tooth kicked a charred head nearby. “If I hadn’t stopped you, that’d be your head!”
They moved on.
Big Tooth wasn’t afraid of death. But he wasn’t going to die like a fool—just for a chance at glory.
He still had a fortress to seize.
It was this relentless will to plunder and survive that gave him wisdom unmatched among his kind.
BOOM!
BOOM-BOOM!
The mines exploded like stones thrown into the sea—blooming into crimson blossoms of blood. But against the endless tide of Ogres, it was barely a ripple.
With thousands of lives sacrificed, the horde advanced.
And Big Tooth, ever the opportunist, followed the first wave like a shadow—suffering only minor wounds.
“Soon… we’ll be inside,” he muttered, licking his fangs, eyes greedy. He stared at the fortress, already picturing himself bursting in, slaughtering, claiming everything.
Then—HUMMMM—
A piercing, ear-splitting scream tore through the air—like thunder cracking the sky. The Ogres grew even more chaotic.
“What’s that sound?”
“Sounded like an eagle’s cry, but eagles don’t screech like that…”
“Never mind! We charge! Seize Aivendeldan! WAAAGH!”
But Big Tooth paused. He looked up.
And saw the impossible.
Skyward, a line of massive, crimson-black monstrous birds filled the air. From their bellies, countless black “eggs” tumbled down like rain.
“Those birds are laying eggs!” one Ogre shouted.
BOOM!
The eggs exploded mid-air—flames erupting like fireworks. A firestorm engulfed the surrounding Ogres in an instant, igniting everything—grass, rock, trees.
The spores inside them didn’t protect. They fed the flames.
“AAAAAAHHHH!”
Fire roared. Air cracked. Tens of thousands of Ogres screamed in the sea of flames, writhing, burning, turning to ash in seconds.
Fire spread like wildfire. The stench of burning flesh and gasoline filled the air. The flames consumed the Ogres’ cheap, disposable lives with merciless hunger.
This was the Empire of Ashen’s masterpiece—napalm bombs.
No wonder they gave players the title Barbecue Master.
Because this was real barbecue.
And the Ogres? They were the meat.
Big Tooth felt the heat, the searing wind, the black smoke. He roared, “Retreat! Don’t go near those eggs!”
But then—Hok exploded.
The young Ogre, fleeing, had brushed against a sticky, flammable substance. Now, he was ablaze, screaming.
“Boss! Help me! I don’t wanna die here! I wanna plunder Aivendeldan!”
Hok stumbled toward him, his body burning bright, skin cracking like pottery.
Big Tooth grimaced, staring at the gooey, flaming substance on his subordinate’s body.
“Get lost!” he spat. “I don’t have useless trash like you!”
“Boss… don’t leave me…”
PUNCH!
Big Tooth kicked him into the firestorm.
“Waste like you? Don’t drag me down!”
He patted his leg, barely singed, and darted away—stepping over the screaming, burning Ogres, fleeing toward open ground.
But then—the birds turned.
Hovering, circling, they came back from behind—BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
More bombs fell. Fire rained down. Flames surged from all sides, forming a ring of death.
Tens of thousands of Ogres were trapped in a sea of fire—surrounded, burning, dying.
WHOOSH—
Another napalm bomb fell, exploding mid-air.
Big Tooth screamed upward, his eyes wide, his soul shattered. The flames danced in his bloodshot pupils.
He cursed, voice raw: “Damn it!”
BOOM!
The explosion consumed him. His body turned to charcoal in an instant. Flesh melted. A shockwave tore through the air, rippling hundreds of meters.
And so ended the life of the warlord who once led millions of Ogres across the northern Feiansuo Continent—massacring cities, terrorizing nations, reviled as the “Tooth of Catastrophe,” the “Enemy of Civilization.”
Big Tooth—whose name was never known.
(End of Chapter)
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