Lyle’s boots crunched down onto blood-soaked sand.
His body paused mid-turn. Beneath the armored plating of his flesh-forged helt, his expression froze in disbelief.
A class had been triggered. Just like that.
He knew that in this world, one’s occupation could change based on personal experience, environnt, or even emotional state. But this was the first ti he had witnessed such a thing happening to himself.
"A Unique Class... Is there anything like this in YGGDRASIL?"
Lyle muttered softly, suspicion flickering in his eyes as he glanced toward the chaos he had just quelled.
Not far away, Yaral and the others were still cheering like madn, their faces alight with frenzied relief.
"Gray Knight!"
"Gray Knight!"
"...!"
"Gray Knight!"
The chanting refused to stop. Their hoarse voices clawed at the air like a desperate anthem, each shout trying to expel the deep-rooted despair that had lived in their hearts for years.
People here had been walking a tightrope between death and genocide for far too long.
"A Unique Class born from their hope... and ?" Lyle murmured. "That’s... not sothing I would’ve ever imagined."
He took a deep breath and cast a glance at the status panel now floating before his eyes. He could vaguely piece together the reason behind the class activation.
"Sha, though."
With the successful acquisition of the Unique Class [Gray Knight], the ability was imdiately absorbed into his core trait [Genius], turning it into one of many transformable base classes.
And because of that, even Lyle himself couldn’t figure out what the Gray Knight actually did.
Click.
He turned, and the tal plates of his gray, bio-armored suit scraped with a crisp sound. One foot ca down on the shattered skull of a fallen gray dwarf.
Schlick—
Raising his arm, he held aloft the massive greatsword now slick with congealed blood.
In that instant, Yaral and every other survivor fell silent, their wide-eyed gazes burning with worshipful zeal.
With a thought, the bloodstained flesh-armor dissolved into a cloud of gray mist, seeping back into his body. Droplets of blood slipped off and spattered onto the ground as the armor vanished, revealing the man beneath—clad in black combat gear, sword still glinting coldly in the desert sun.
"Victory," Lyle declared, his voice calm but loud enough to carry.
"Victory!"
"Victory!"
"Victory!"
"...!"
"Victory!"
The air rang again with triumphant cries.
Night fell over the oasis, stars piercing the deep velvet sky. A bonfire blazed at the center of the camp, casting flickering red light across the gathered crowd.
n and won, all wearing dusty brown scarves wrapped around their heads, danced wildly around the fire. This was their way of celebrating, a tradition born in hardship and survival.
Still, most eyes weren’t on the flas.
They were on him.
Their savior.
Lyle.
He sat beside Yaral’s father, the tribal chief Dielon, at a low table piled high with strange but fragrant dishes.
"Honored hero," Dielon said, bowing slightly, "this is our salted flatbread, made from ground desert millet mixed with crushed saltwood bark."
The dark-skinned man introduced the food with utmost care, kneeling beside Lyle and watching his expression like a hawk.
"This here is charred sand-thistle. Looks a little black, but I promise it’s been sun-dried and fire-roasted—it’s quite crispy."
"And this... this is sourmarrow soup. It’s made from the marrow of oasis succulents, with a touch of powdered saltwood bark. It’s one of the only ways we get salt out here."
Dielon’s tone was cautious, nearly trembling. He was terrified that these humble dishes might offend the hero who had just wiped out an entire army.
To him, Lyle had to be so near-mythical existence, like the heroes in desert legend. The man had crushed five thousand gray dwarves single-handedly. Dielon could barely believe he was real.
And yet, despite the harsh desert conditions, they had prepared nearly a dozen dishes. It was clear the villagers had offered everything they had in gratitude.
"No need for the ’honored hero’ stuff. Just call Lyle," he said, casually brushing off the over-the-top title. "And the food’s fine."
He didn’t care much for culinary delights. He picked up a piece of flatbread and took a few bites.
It was surprisingly decent. Weird texture, but not bad.
Since arriving in this world, most of Lyle’s als had been eaten out in the wilderness. As long as it wasn’t poisonous or revolting, he was content.
"Skreee!"
The barghest, now in its hawk form, swooped down and landed beside him, tearing into a grilled scorpion leg with savage glee.
Lyle gently tapped its wing.
"Easy, you’re eating like a hyena," he muttered.
The creature was clearly still adjusting to this form. It looked like a bird, but it ate like a ravenous dog.
Still, Lyle didn’t make it revert. It cost him mana to maintain the transformation, but he’d rather keep its true identity hidden. Maintaining secrecy had always been one of his personal rules, especially in details that others might overlook.
Seeing Lyle eat without complaint, Dielon finally let out a long breath.
"What’s the situation with the gray dwarves? How many got away?" Lyle asked, switching gears as he wiped his hands.
He hadn’t managed to slaughter all five thousand dwarves. So had fled. That was a potential problem.
He had to know whether they’d regroup or send reinforcents.
Still, it wasn’t a bad haul. Along with the surprise class acquisition, the experience gain was absurd.
[EXP: 782,262 / 1,200,000]
Clearing out nearly an entire army in one sweep had left his arms sore and buzzing, but the reward was glorious—over 600,000 experience in a single battle.
Dielon’s face darkened.
"The gray dwarves control the largest oasis in the Deadlands. Their population is over twenty thousand. That’s four tis more than our entire people."
That number landed like a stone.
It wasn’t just about quantity. More people ant more young warriors, more strength, more everything. The scale was simply impossible to match.
After the death of their previous strongest fighter, Dielon had already resigned himself to the end. Everyone had.
They were living in a place literally called the Valley of Despair, and despair was exactly what ruled their lives.
Escape? Without water, wandering the desert ant certain death.
Even now, after the victory, over a thousand of their kin had died. Many more were injured. The cost had been steep.
"Lyle..."
Dielon suddenly bent forward and slamd his forehead into the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
"If not for you, we would’ve been wiped out. I’ve failed my father. I’ve failed all of them."
One mont he was a stoic, seasoned leader, and the next he was wailing like a child. Lyle blinked, visibly uncomfortable.
He reached out, halfway through the motion to help the man up when—
Shhhhff!
Every single dancer around the bonfire dropped to their knees, burying their faces in the sand. Soft sobs and stifled wails filled the night air.
Lyle’s eye twitched.
The motion to help froze mid-air.
The festive atmosphere vanished like it had been snuffed out.
He slowly scanned the kneeling masses and then said flatly, "This is pathetic."
"Is crying how you usually deal with problems?"
"I helped you because you fought like humans who would bite out an enemy’s throat, even in death."
"You survived in this hellhole because you refused to give up. You took this oasis from your enemies—not with tears, but with teeth."
His calm voice rang out clearly.
Dielon imdiately raised his head, wiped his face, and nodded.
"Apologies."
Then he turned to the weeping villagers and roared, "Cut the sobbing already!"
"I’m not dead yet, and we’re not extinct!"
"You crying for the ones we lost? Newsflash, everyone lost soone!"
"If you can stand, then DANCE, you sand-eating bastards!"
His angry roar shook the air, and even the fire seed to flare in response. Villagers scrambled to their feet, their faces red with sha, and resud dancing—more fiercely than before.
"Forgive us for the shaful display, honored—uh, Lyle," Dielon said, quickly correcting himself under Lyle’s watchful gaze.
"The gray dwarves have already exhausted their available troops. With your help, it’s safe to say they won’t be invading our lands again for at least ten years."
Lyle studied him for a mont, then gave a small nod.
This man really did have the makings of a leader.
The dwarves had thrown nearly a quarter of their population into that last assault. A clear sign they were aiming for total annihilation of the human settlent.
Even if they could convert half their remaining numbers into soldiers, they’d need years to recover.
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