The Troll Tribe and the Muddled Transmigrator

"Fight! Fight! Kill!"

Somewhere on the continent, in an unnamed, massive forest, a small clearing had been carved out in an inconspicuous corner. Countless Trolls gathered in a circular formation, letting out bursts of fanatical, bloodthirsty roars.

At the very center of the circle, a life-and-death duel between two sturdy Trolls was taking place. By now, one lay on the ground while the other stood tall; the younger one had paid the price of an arm to shatter the old Chieftain's skull, emerging as the sole survivor.

His dark blue skin was knotted with muscle, and his long, upward-curving Sharp Tusk was adorned with rings that symbolized martial prowess. Each ring represented the life of an enemy tribal warrior. A cursory glance confirmed that, aside from the corpse of the old Chieftain, he was undoubtedly the most valiant of them all.

"I, valiant, Giant Tusk! Am Chieftain!"

"Giant Tusk! Giant Tusk!"

In this primitive and barbaric Troll tribe, where language was still incoherent, the choice of a new Chieftain was confirmed with such simplicity. As for the dead one, his tusks—symbols of his past achievements—were left behind as relics for ancestor worship, while his body was merely buried in a hasty, perfunctory manner.

The cheering continued, though the people's enthusiasm no longer centered on the new Chieftain. Their bloodlust, once ignited, quickly transformed into the urge to procreate now that there were no more enemy heads to claim, and they began to pair off for wild, shameless mating.

The elder Trolls in the front row grinned at the scene, expressing their satisfaction that the tribe's future was promising.

"Chieftain! My mother gave birth! It should be your child!"

Amidst the chaos, a Troll hurried over. He called out to the new Chieftain, who had just regenerated his arm and was about to change battlefields to contribute to the tribe's population growth.

Giant Tusk looked at the expectant female Troll and hesitated for only a moment before his urge to procreate overcame any attachment to his offspring. He waved his hand, signaling the newcomer to get lost. Truth be told, compared to the pleasure of the moment, a newborn who-knows-if-it-was-even-his held no appeal.

The one dismissed didn't care, nor did he have any intention of reporting back. By now, he had locked his sights on a "seductive" female Troll who stood two heads taller and was significantly broader than him. He sucked in his breath to appear stronger and strode toward her.

"Female Troll! I, Sharp Tusk, am robust!!"

The female Troll heard him and seemed to sense a challenge.

About three minutes later, the female Troll climbed to her feet, cursed him with disdainful words like "weakling" and "is that all you've got?", and turned to walk away.

As for Sharp Tusk, he lay on the ground with a silly grin, seemingly savoring the experience.

Setting aside these messy affairs, let us shift our gaze to a special "complex" of buildings in the inner circle of the tribe.

While the generally crude tribal structures were scattered throughout the forest, one area had been built up with relatively refined dwellings, isolated from the rest by a simple fence. Teams of Troll warriors, despite cursing with envy amidst the distant sounds of revelry, kept their lower halves in check and patrolled with diligence.

This was not the residence of the powerful; it housed only three types of Trolls: the Witch Doctors responsible for passing down knowledge, pregnant female Trolls, and female Trolls with young children.

Undoubtedly, this was the most vital place in the tribe, surpassing even the Chieftain's dwelling.

In one of these rooms, a newborn Troll infant was being held by the Witch Doctor in charge of the delivery, who was wiping away the blood and filth clinging to his body.

Pointed ears, a pointed nose, and wrinkled skin that was also dark blue; aside from the tusks that had yet to grow, he was, by all appearances, a newborn Troll.

The Witch Doctor finished cleaning the little Troll, turned him over to inspect him, and finally flicked his tiny member with a finger, reaching a conclusion.

"Hmm, doesn't cry, but sturdy."

With that, he handed the little Troll to the slightly exhausted female Troll on the bed, saying, "Go drink milk, grow up fast, become a new Witch Doctor."

The female Troll took the child and, without much modesty, pressed him to her breast, muttering, "Warrior, valiant warrior."

The Witch Doctor laughed at this, stroked his tough beard, and turned to leave the room.

Whether a warrior or a Witch Doctor, as long as new life was born into the tribe, it was hope, and he would be very happy. Of course, he would be even happier if it were a Witch Doctor, as there were already enough dim-witted warriors.

The little Troll being held by his mother to drink milk was undoubtedly strange and different. The brilliance contained within his lively eyes was not merely the purity typical of his age. A trace of bewilderment, though not very obvious, was undoubtedly present, hidden from the world.

"What the f*ck."

A newborn's brain could not support overly complex thoughts. After a "what the f*ck" that reached deep into his marrow, instinct overcame the tremor of the unknown, and he soon became obsessed with the sweetness of the breast milk, just like any ordinary little Troll.

Spring passed and autumn came; the little Troll grew quickly. His consciousness flickered, becoming clearer with time, until one day, the tremor that had accompanied his first cry finally fully awakened.

"What the f*ck! What the f*ck! What the f*ck!" Looking at his blue skin, the strange environment, and the faces that, by the aesthetic standards of his previous life, could fully be described as "monsters," the little thing uttered the "what the f*ck" he had been accumulating for two lifetimes.

However, he had been a complete adult once. Although not an elite, his complete education and years as a "bookworm" allowed him to quickly grasp his situation.

"Transmigration, huh? A bit cliché, but it is what it is. Living another life is hardly a bad thing."

The transmigrator appeared exceptionally broad-minded. He had been very ordinary in his past life, with average grades from elementary school through university. After graduation, thanks to some spare cash from his family, he was sent abroad to study. During his master's program, he had been playful and only barely managed to graduate. Afterward, not wanting to become a corporate slave so soon, he used the money he earned working during his master's to pursue a PhD.

During his doctoral studies, the pressure of his academic work and his age made him anxious. After some soul-searching, he decided to quickly make up for his lack of foundation.

Day after day of staying up late, coffee, cigarettes to stay awake, and a body already overdrawn by his playfulness in college finally took their toll the moment he finished his doctoral thesis.

And so, he died of overwork.

He clearly remembered the sharp pain in his heart at that instant, followed by the darkness that drowned everything.

The little Troll snapped out of his memories, wiped the "cold sweat" that wasn't actually there from his forehead with a tiny hand, and looked around, feeling a profound sense of relief.

"A life of muddle-headedness is enough to experience once. This time, I must accomplish something."