"Stay sharp! Something's coming!"
The warning came from the frontmost figure, who had dropped to the ground and pressed his ear against the sand.
Instantly, the other four stopped resting, sprang to their feet, and surrounded the wagon, weapons drawn, eyes scanning the desert with tense anticipation.
Before long, the sound of running reached their ears, faint at first, then growing clearer. From the haze of the dunes, a strange silhouette emerged—someone riding a bizarre beast.
At first, all five figures remained wary. But when the rider drew closer, their expressions shifted from suspicion to wide-eyed shock, then to giddy relief.
The rider was Lyle, seated atop a snarling hound, guiding it forward with a leash made of bone chain. As he approached, he got a better look at the five figures.
Short, broad builds. Thick beards. Definitely dwarves.
But not the usual kind.
Their skin wasn't the ruddy tone typical of the dwarves from the Azerlisia Mountains—these dwarves were iron-grey, their complexions like ash and steel.
Still, a dwarf was a dwarf.
Lyle grinned. Dwarves were generally known to be friendly folk. This might turn out to be a nice little chat for once.
"Gentlemen," he began politely, pulling the barghest to a halt a short distance away, hands raised slightly in a show of peace. "I'm just a traveler, I mean no—"
"A human?!"
"Definitely a deserter from the battlefield!"
"Unbelievable! We actually ran into one!"
"Bag him! That's a whole barrel of ale right there!"
The dwarves' faces twisted with excitement and greed. Weapons drawn, they charged as one, completely ignoring Lyle's attempt at diplomacy.
His polite smile faltered.
Seriously?
He sighed inwardly, letting the tension drain from his expression.
So much for "friendly folk."
A second later, his body vanished from the saddle—replaced by a gust of wind and a blur.
Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat.
None of the dwarves even saw what happened. Their heads simply burst into red mist, one after the other, like overripe tomatoes smashed by an angry god.
Only the last dwarf—too slow to be part of the initial rush—remained standing, legs trembling as he stared in mute horror at the carnage.
"W-What... what just happened...?"
He staggered backward, eyes locked on the bloodied mess that used to be his comrades. Humans were supposed to be weak! The strongest one—the so-called human warrior—should have died ages ago!
[You have gained 108 EXP]
[You have gained 121 EXP]
[You have gained 107 EXP]
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Lyle shook blood from his hand, his face twisting with distaste as he looked at the mess he'd made.
"I even held back," he muttered. "Yet look at this… they popped like fruit. Judging by the feel, these guys were barely level five or six."
He cast a sideways glance at the sole survivor.
"Well, one's enough."
The grey dwarf collapsed with a thud, mouth agape. He hadn't understood a single word, but he was too stunned to even tremble now.
Lyle strolled over, grabbed the dwarf by the hair, and lifted him off the ground. His eyes flared with a hint of mana.
"All-Race Charm."
The dwarf's body jolted as the spell took hold. The fear drained from his face, replaced by a dull, vacant stare.
"Where am I?" Lyle asked.
"Valley of Despair," the dwarf replied in a trance.
Lyle blinked. Well, that name didn't inspire confidence.
Still, he kept his tone even. "Who rules this region? What kingdom is this?"
"There is no ruler. No kingdom."
"The valley is all desert, and at its heart lie volcanoes—dead lands. This is the most remote place in the world."
"What's the closest kingdom to here? Who governs it?"
"No idea," the dwarf said blankly. "Fifty years ago, our Grey Dwarf Kingdom lost a war with the Troll Kingdom. We fled here to survive. We've lived in isolation ever since. We don't know what's out there anymore."
Lyle nodded, pensive.
"And this battlefield you mentioned?"
"The humans," the dwarf explained, "they claimed an oasis here. But their strongest warrior died of old age. Now we're taking it back."
"If we can seize the oasis, the great Grey Dwarves will grow again—rebuild our army, reclaim our glory."
Lyle kept the dwarf talking, gathering more details, before finally tightening his grip with a crunch.
The dwarf's neck snapped.
Lyle dropped the corpse and climbed back onto his hellhound. His face was grim.
"Let's move."
The human situation in this land wasn't just bad—it was catastrophic.
In this vast, scorched desert, an oasis meant survival. And twenty years ago, the impossible had happened: a human of all things—a member of a species generally regarded as weak, short-lived, and only good for breeding or being eaten—rose up.
A true hero.
That man had carved out one of the three great oases in this cursed valley, giving the remnants of humanity a sanctuary.
For a time, they had peace.
But now… that hero was gone. Dead of old age.
And without him, the last bastion of hope was crumbling.
Clang! Clatter!
The metallic scrape of weapons and crude armor filled the air, blending with the hiss of dry winds and shifting sand.
A force of 500 Grey Dwarves had surrounded a ragged company of a hundred or so humans.
Well… "armed" was a generous word.
The dwarves were all wielding iron-headed hammers and mismatched wooden shields clad in thin sheets of metal. Armor was practically nonexistent—understandable, given this wasteland's lack of ore. Not even dwarves could forge weapons out of sand.
The humans were worse off.
Most held stolen or improvised weapons, clearly scavenged from their enemies. Only a few had anything resembling proper equipment.
At the front of the human line stood a girl—no older than seventeen, silver-haired and bronze-skinned. Her lean frame was wrapped in a battered brown breastplate, dented and scarred from countless battles. She held a gleaming silver spear that looked far too noble for the chaos around her.
The air reeked of blood. Bodies lay scattered in the sand—most of them human.
They were outnumbered. Outgunned.
Surrounded.
"You pathetic worms!" roared the Grey Dwarf commander. "You won't escape! You'll all die here—cut down by the might of the Grey Dwarves!"
He wasn't shouting just to taunt. He'd expected resistance. It was why he'd ordered the encirclement in the first place.
But what he hadn't expected was to find her here.
The granddaughter of the human hero.
If he could capture her and kill her in front of the others, their morale would shatter like glass.
Compared to the sneering dwarves, the humans stood silent.
No fear. No begging. Just quiet defiance, their hands tightening around weapons they barely knew how to use.
The girl stepped forward.
Her silver hair caught the dying light. She raised her spear and shouted hoarsely:
"Live! Fight to live!"
"CHARGE!"
A ragged battle cry tore from the human ranks.