Overlord: Welcome the Birth of the King

Lyle's thoughts shifted as he pieced things together.

What really limited a human's strength? Talent was one part, yes, but perhaps the number of classes a person could take also mattered. Even so, no matter how many classes one stacked, once someone reached their racial ceiling, they could go no further. That was why so many strong figures had turned themselves into undead. It was, in essence, one method of breaking through the shackles of race.

Lyle's eyes flickered with thought.

In the Great Tomb of Nazarick there existed a World Item called Avarice and Generosity, a strange artifact that could store experience, then expend it to fuel spells and skills without the user's own reserves.

At first glance, its effect seemed almost too simple. Yet for a World Item, simplicity was deceiving. With enough stored experience, one might be able to ignore racial limits entirely and climb straight to level 100.

Lyle shook his head, smiling faintly at his own wishful thinking. That was still far beyond him. Even if he somehow acquired such a treasure, the real problem would be where to find the mountain of experience required to use it.

He pulled himself back to the present. Yaral was still staring at him expectantly, silver eyes shining with curiosity. Rising to his feet, Lyle reached into the air as though plucking something from the void. In an instant, a massive magic greatsword materialized in his hand.

Yaral's eyes went wide. She had not seen him draw it, nor even sensed the weapon's presence beforehand. It was as though it had simply appeared from nothing. The gray armor she had seen him don earlier had vanished just as mysteriously. Surely this had to be some sort of advanced magical ability.

"Watch closely," Lyle said with calm authority. "This is a martial art. It looks like swordsmanship, but it may help you refine that skill of yours, Precise Control."

With one hand he slashed the air.

"Fourfold Slash!"

In an instant, four dazzling arcs of cold steel light tore through the air.

Yaral's breath caught. Her entire body tensed as though surrounded by four foes striking at once.

"This… this isn't an enhancement like my Precise Control." She whispered, heart racing. "This is something else entirely. Pure technique."

Lyle gave a small nod, then his stance reset as if nothing had happened. A ripple of blue light coursed over his body.

"Immediate Recovery. Now watch again."

His greatsword blurred once more.

"Fourfold Slash: Breakthrough!"

The four streaks merged into a single blazing arc that consumed her vision. Darkness swallowed her sight, as if the world itself had dimmed to feed the brilliance of that strike.

The air boomed with a thunderous crack, and a violent gust swept across the clearing.

Yaral stumbled back two steps, gasping for air, her face pale with awe and fear. Her heart thundered in her chest.

So strong. So terrifying.

She had thought the first strike was unstoppable. But then he had followed it up instantly with something even deadlier.

"Did you catch it? If anything is unclear, ask," Lyle said with a faint smile. He knew full well his class-based abilities were beyond her reach, but martial techniques could at least serve as a foundation.

Meanwhile, in the gray dwarves' oasis, chaos erupted.

The deployment of their five-thousand-strong elite army had been a monumental event. Everyone had been certain of victory. They boasted about how swiftly the humans would be crushed, some even wagering it would take no more than a few days. After all, how could frail humans withstand the might of the dwarves? Already the taverns buzzed with dreams of the victory feast and the spoils of a second oasis.

Then the survivors returned.

Not many of them. Barely a handful.

Their commander was dead, their entire force annihilated.

The news struck like a hammer. Fear spread through the oasis like wildfire. Not even the king's reassurances could calm the rising tide of dread.

At the heart of the oasis, near the life-giving spring, the royal council gathered in a stone chamber deep below the surface. The dwarves were not fond of sunlight, and the gray dwarves less so. The deeper one lived, the higher their status.

Three figures sat at the low stone table. The air was suffocating with tension.

The first was the gray dwarf king himself, beard ashen with age and worry. At his sides sat the Minister of Forging and the Minister of Affairs. The fourth of their highest council, the army's commander, was now dead.

Unlike the mountain dwarves of the Azerlisia range, their line of kingship had survived their flight from the trolls, and they still clung to a monarchy.

"To wipe out five thousand elites… only a hero-tier warrior could do that!" The king's voice trembled. "But the humans have no such champions! Where did this one appear from?!"

His fists shook as he demanded, "Do we sue for peace? Offer reparations?!"

"Impossible," the king growled immediately after, contradicting himself. "The great dwarves must never bow to lowly humans!"

The ministers exchanged looks, both weary and anxious. The appearance of a hero-level being on the humans' side shattered all their calculations.

"Could it be the curse?" the Minister of Forging whispered, almost despite himself. Both he and his colleague caught each other's eyes at the thought, but then dismissed it. Nonsense. The curse only mattered if humanity were on the brink of extinction. Not now.

The Minister of Affairs cleared his throat, voice steady despite the fear behind it. "Your Majesty, we must not panic. The first step is to determine whether this mysterious hero is truly a human… or merely another race intervening on their behalf."

The Minister of Forging stroked his beard. "If it comes to reparations, we cannot spare food, but we can part with weapons. Humans crave weapons, and we have many to spare."

"Better yet," he added after a pause, "we can frame it as a gift of arms tailored for human hands. That way, it looks less like tribute and more like magnanimity."

The king slammed a fist on the table. "Unacceptable! Dwarves do not bribe humans with weapons!"

"Majesty," the Minister of Affairs said softly, "this is not fifty years ago. We no longer have hero-level champions of our own."

The words hung heavy in the chamber. Fifty years ago their kingdom had been glorious, until the troll empire crushed them. All their champions had perished in that war.

The Minister bowed. "Your Majesty… we must prepare for the worst. The treasures of the vault are yours alone to command. If it comes to it, we may need them."

The next morning, ten gray dwarves in full armor left the oasis, pulling a cart laden with weapons. Their destination: the human settlement.

On the human side, two days of frantic training had transformed desperation into grim determination. Three thousand men and women stood armed with gray dwarf hammers and shields, eyes blazing with the fire of survival.

At the front stood Yaral, clad in full armor, silver spear in hand. Her grip tightened unconsciously. This was nearly every fighter their people had left. She did not know how many would survive, but she knew one thing.

With the hero on their side, this was a chance they could not waste.

She lifted her spear high, voice cracking with emotion. "Too many of our kin have died to the gray dwarves. Parents, friends, ancestors. I thought I would be the last, that our people would vanish into this cursed valley. But I refuse to accept it!"

Her eyes burned as she raised her voice, tears threatening. "For all our people!"

"For all our people!" roared three thousand voices in unison, shaking the air.

They were already the dead, and the dead had nothing to fear.

Footsteps sounded behind them. Yaral hastily wiped her eyes and forced a smile. Her father approached, alongside the man they now called Hero.

Lyle walked with measured calm, an eagle perched on his shoulder where his spectral hound had taken avian form. His eyes swept across the assembled warriors. He did not offer a speech. Words were unnecessary.

The chieftain, Dielon, bowed his scarred head with nervous deference. "Hero… we place everything in your hands." He hesitated, wanting to say more but unable.

Lyle glanced at him, then smiled faintly. "Relax. I'll bring them all back alive."

With that, he turned to face the waiting army. His voice was quiet, but it carried across the ranks.

"Move out."