Overlord: Welcome the Birth of the King

Yaral took the alchemical potion and, without hesitation, drank it all in one go. She didn't need time to decide—anyone with the power to obliterate an entire dwarven vanguard with a wave of their hand didn't need trickery to kill them.

If this human wanted them dead, they'd already be corpses.

"What is this... My wounds... they're healing?"

The moment the potion settled in her stomach, a gentle warmth surged through her veins. Fatigue from the earlier skirmish began to dissolve, and even her more serious wounds knit themselves closed within seconds.

"This is unbelievable!"

She stared at the now-empty vial in her hand, her silver eyes widening with both astonishment and pain—the kind of pain that came from knowing she had just guzzled down something far too precious.

"This… this is what Grandfather used to call 'magic,' isn't it?"

Such a potion, capable of healing injuries instantly, could easily buy a month's worth of food for ten people back in the valley.

"It's just an alchemical healing potion," Lyle explained with a faint smile. "Though if it's easier for you to understand it as a kind of magic, that works too."

During their brief exchange, Lyle had already identified the girl. This silver-haired girl matched the description he'd pried from the gray dwarf captives, the granddaughter of a once-renowned human hero who was now long deceased.

Behind her, around fifty humans had witnessed the miracle. Their hesitation vanished. They scrambled to drink their share of the remaining five vials, terrified Lyle might change his mind and snatch them back.

"W-wait, wait! Um… that potion… it was too valuable…"

Now aware of just how valuable the potions were, Yaral found herself flustered. She tried to speak up, perhaps to return them—but then glanced at her injured companions and hesitated again. The words tangled in her throat.

"They're not valuable to me," Lyle said, waving a hand dismissively. "You get your own bottle. The rest share five between them."

He added, "Your life force is stronger, more refined. They wouldn't be able to fully absorb the full dose, so splitting it makes sense."

"Thank you! Thank you so much!" Yaral bowed deeply, struggling to put her gratitude into words.

"Now's not the time for thanks," Lyle replied. "How many of you are left?"

"Just over 5,000," she answered, biting her lip.

"And the grey dwarves?"

"Roughly 5,000 as well. The group you wiped out was their vanguard."

Yaral had originally set out to sabotage enemy supply routes with makeshift traps, only to stumble directly into the dwarven advance party.

"So the numbers are even… but your weapons are junk."

Lyle glanced over their gear. Most of the humans were armed with salvaged dwarf weaponry, which was designed for stocky, broad-shouldered hands. In human grip, they were unwieldy at best.

[EXP: 181062 / 120000]

A quick glance at his interface made Lyle blink. Wiping out that dwarven unit had earned him nearly 70,000 experience. He estimated each dwarf soldier was worth around 150 experience points.

"Sir," Yaral spoke again, voice low.

"Hm?"

"I didn't mean we have 5,000 soldiers. I meant... that's how many of us there are in total."

Lyle's eyes narrowed slightly.

A species reduced to just 5,000?

They were standing on the edge of extinction.

Even with high reproduction rates, a human population that small had next to no future. How many of them could actually fight?

Lyle said nothing. His silence made Yaral's pulse quicken.

He was their only hope.

After witnessing his overwhelming power, Yaral suspected this man might be like her grandfather... someone who had once stepped into the realm of legends.

But even someone like that, could he really defeat an entire dwarven army on his own?

She didn't know. All she knew was that her grandfather had always said: As long as I live, no enemy will dare cross our borders.

But that was before. This was now.

"Take me there," Lyle said, brushing dust off his coat. "If we wait any longer, your people won't have anyone left to save."

Yaral blinked. "But… the dwarves came through here."

"No, they didn't," Lyle replied, eyes sharp. "This wasn't a vanguard. This was an interception unit, meant to block your escape. Which means the real army is heading for the oasis from another direction."

Yaral's eyes widened. Her face paled.

"Wait—those dwarves—" one of the human fighters gasped. "They're attacking the oasis from another path!"

"We have to move! Now!"

The air erupted into chaos. Everyone understood what was at stake.

"Leave five people here to gather the weapons," Lyle ordered calmly. "The rest of you, move."

He tapped the shadowy creature perched on his shoulder, a ghostly canine in the shape of a sleek black hawk.

"Stay behind and guard them, Black."

The beast gave a sharp cry and took flight, circling once overhead.

Yaral quickly left five men to scavenge the battlefield and led Lyle and the remaining group toward their home—the oasis.

They raced across a barren wasteland, where nothing but wind and sand reigned. Then, in the distance, green shimmered like a dream: the oasis.

It wasn't large, barely the size of a small town—but here, in the middle of the deadlands, it was one of the three largest in the entire desert. Trees cast long shadows, beasts lurked in the brush, and fields of crops stretched across the outskirts, fed by hidden underground springs.

Yet now, the air above the oasis crackled with dread.

Nearly 5,000 grey dwarves stood before the verdant sanctuary, gazing hungrily at the paradise before them.

Soon, it would be theirs.

Their commander, a brute of a dwarf standing on the shoulders of two warriors, shaded his eyes and scanned the land. All he saw were humans in rags, wielding sticks and stones.

"Tonight," he bellowed, "we feast and drink beneath the trees!"

"For the Prince!"

"For the glory of the dwarves!"

"Kill them all!"

The moment "drink" was mentioned, every dwarf's eyes lit up. Alcohol was a rare treasure in this barren world, sacred even. And now, this lush oasis promised more than just water.

"For the Prince!"

"For the grey dwarves!"

The cry echoed across the dunes as they charged.

No formations. No tactics. They didn't need them.

After all, what threat could starving humans possibly pose?

On the other side, the last of humanity had assembled.

The elderly and newborns were left behind. Everyone else stood in a ragged line of defiance.

No weapons? They held stones. Tree branches. Broken tools.

Despair blanketed them, but none ran.

Leaving the oasis meant certain death.

At the front stood the tribe's leader, a silver-haired man with weary eyes and a scarf darkened by dust and blood.

Slap!

He struck himself across the face.

"Am I really the one who'll see the end of humankind?" he muttered bitterly.

He'd failed. Failed to protect his people. Failed to be worthy of their trust.

"Ch-Chief!"

"What are you doing?!"

"It's our fault! We've dragged you and Yaral down with us!"

Women cried. Men clenched their fists in shame.

"Silence!" the chief roared. He turned to face them.

"If this is the end of our kind, then let them pay the price in blood!"

"If we're going down, we take them with us!"

His words exploded like thunder.

And with that, the entire human line snarled with rage.

"Then come on! COME ON!"

The chief charged into the horde of grey dwarves, roaring like a beast. The rest followed, a tidal wave of fury and desperation.

Steel met stone. Blood sprayed.

In mere moments, the dwarves' strength began to overwhelm them. Humans fell, one by one.

Despair tightened its grip once more.

But then—

"Aaaahhh—what is that?!"

"The rear! They're being attacked from the rear!"

"More humans?!"

"They're so strong—AAAHH!!"

A massive disturbance broke out behind the dwarven ranks.

The collapsing humans froze, gasping for breath and answers.

"Chief!" someone cried. "It's Yaral!"

The exhausted chief raised his head, squinting toward the chaos erupting at the far end of the battlefield.