According to the Dragon God's Library, any King-class tribal NPC, once subjugated by a player, has a chance to unlock a racial class inheritance.
If a player fully conquers a tribe with such a legacy, the NPCs of that race will release class advancement paths to all players affiliated with their conqueror.
Veijander was already a proven case. Seven Godslayer life-class players had passed its trials and become apprentices. Their starting point was already high-tier artisan, and their skill progression outpaced anything a typical blacksmith NPC could offer.
In theory, the time required to become a top-tier craftsman would shrink drastically.
Now, the two NPC monarchs before him met all the criteria: they had legacy, power, and a capable warrior base. If their hidden racial awakenings were unlocked, players could complete the required trials and quests for one-time awakenings.
Even players who had already completed their level-50 awakenings would get a chance to respec.
With that, it would no longer be a pipe dream to mass-produce A- and S-rank Ghostfang Frostwolf Riders and Titan Heavy Armored Warriors.
Given players' creativity and coordination, the combat potential of Frostwolf bloodlines and Titan heirs would be pushed to their absolute limit.
"Then I'll fight to the death!"
The Ghostfang Frostwolf King growled, burning his own body to forcefully regenerate his severed arms using Body Domination. He pulled the clan's sacred relic—Wolf Spirit Blade—from the ground.
"Not worth much, but still hard to throw away," Orson muttered with a frown. The king had refused to negotiate—too bad. The Crimson Lizard King's jaws would show no mercy.
"You… give me back my sister!"
A mangled figure stumbled into the field—skin torn, body mangled, almost no flesh unscarred.
Orson's eyes narrowed. He recognized the man: a Ghostfang Frostwolf Saint Lord who'd slaughtered half of Magical Fiancée's squad during the bait mission earlier.
"Stand down, Gale!"
The Ghostfang Frostwolf King's face darkened with sudden fear. His voice trembled slightly.
"Your son?" Orson raised an eyebrow, half-teasing.
The King didn't respond, but the answer was obvious. This Saint Lord, Gale, was the blood brother of Orlona—the saintess who had been chosen as a bride for the Empire.
"You filthy coward! I'll drink your blood and crush your soul!"
Gale bellowed like a wounded wolf, lunging at Orson. His mount—a battered Domain-class Frostwolf—collapsed within moments, unable to continue.
Gale fell, then dragged himself up again, eyes bloodshot. He summoned a white-feathered skybird with a trembling hand.
"Stay grounded."
Orson flicked his fingers downward. Sky Sovereign authority activated, slamming Gale from the air.
Seeing his flight suppressed, Gale screamed and hurled his sword into the sky in futile defiance.
"Pointless struggle."
Orson sidestepped effortlessly.
"Face me in a real fight, you spineless dog!" Gale howled, tears of rage streaming down his face as he slammed his fists into the earth.
Orson had never doubted the emotional depth of Infinite Dimensions NPCs. Bound by rules, yes—but they still knew joy, grief, rage... and despair.
"Gale! You've done enough. Return to the Frozen Waste!" the Ghostfang Frostwolf King shouted. Old, but still a king.
Orson smirked. The King was clearly trying to preserve his bloodline—he'd already accepted death.
But fearing the wrath of the God of Light, he was willing to sacrifice his entire tribe rather than disobey the divine order.
Gale sat frozen, eyes dead. Then suddenly, he looked up at Orson.
"Give me back my sister… Conqueror Baron Orgod!"
"Gale of the Ghostfang Frostwolf Tribe, Holy Son of the Wilds, requests to negotiate."
"Negotiation terms: Return Orlona, Saintess of the Frostwolf Tribe, and the Ghostfang warriors will retreat from the field."
"Do you accept?"
The system prompt flashed before Orson's eyes. He shook his head without hesitation.
"Your offer is weak. There's no sincerity in what you bring to the table."
He looked at Gale—angry, desperate, powerless—and couldn't help but think of his own past life.
Desperate to save a sister. Powerless against the world.
But if he wanted to lead his brothers into survival...
His heart had to be cold. His hands, ruthless. His will—unyielding.
Even if it meant crossing every line.
Gale froze. Veins bulged at his temple as he fought down the storm of fury.
Then he wilted.
Thirteen thousand Ghostfang Frostwolf warriors had charged into battle with him.
Over 70% were dead or dying.
Even if the Empire reinforced them later, Gale had already lost his command authority.
"Give me Orlona," he growled through clenched teeth. "I'll agree to anything."
"Shut your mouth! You are a Saint Son, not the King of the Ghostfang!" the King roared.
"It's simple," Orson said coldly. "You want the crown? Then do what must be done."
His gaze fell on the wounded king, heavy with meaning.
There was another way to unlock the Frostwolf Rider class: don't enslave the current king—replace him.
Based on Quarla's transformation into a Dragon King, and a tome titled Crowning the Apex in the Dragon God's Library, Orson knew the rules.
Infinite Dimensions rarely allowed a race to have more than one king. When a monarch died—by age or in battle—the next heir with royal blood would inherit their will.
But if multiple powerful heirs existed, they'd inevitably clash. Bloodline vs. bloodline, until only one remained to wear the crown.
Of course, some exceptions existed—like the Holy Light Dragons and the Darkflight. Their blood carried traces of divinity, so they could manifest multiple kings.
Gale had no peers. No rivals.
Only one thing stood between him and the throne—his father.
"Swear your loyalty to me," Crimson Lizard King bellowed under the moonlight.
"And the Wolf Spirit shall protect you for eternity."
Orson's voice grew low and sharp.
He'd already seen the flaw in goblin tech: immense firepower, but at the cost of mobility.
Against weaklings, that was fine. But against something like a Heaven Demon?
You were sitting in a steel coffin, waiting to die.
He needed a mobile strike force—Ghostfang Iron Cavalry.
"The Wolf Spirit lives on."
"What I do… isn't just for Orlona," Gale whispered. "My people will understand."
He picked up a shattered blade, wind ripping through his tangled hair, and marched toward the King.
He'd had enough.
Enough of the God of Light.
Enough of the Empire.
The betrayal of the Wolf Spirit had always been a dagger lodged in every throat.
"You'll be cursed. You'll face divine wrath, Orgod!" the King shouted, eyes blazing. Only a true king could understand how terrifying the Celestial Kingdom really was.
"Do it, my proudest child."
The King turned his back. With a soft clang, he dropped the Wolf Spirit Blade to the ground and knelt.
He offered no resistance.
He was ready to pass the crown.
Gale, hand trembling, grasped the sacred sword and screamed as he brought it down.
Holy Blade to the throat.
The head rolled.
A new King rose in the Ghostfang Frostwolf tribe.
"You're insane! You're a heretic! A dog begging for life from the enemy!"
The barbarian high priest roared with rage. His body burst into crimson light as he activated Berserk Form, morphing into a six-meter Titan giant.
He threw a savage punch straight at Gale.
"You damned barbarians really showed up just to die?"
Orson sneered, a six-pointed chaos star erupting beneath him as Hurricane Spear roared to life.
The priest hesitated, then instantly pulled his fist back to dodge.
But when he turned—
A gaping abyssal maw came flying at his face.