I Was a Loner, but My Class Got Summoned to Another World…

With a simple order, the golems rose.

Each one spread out across the battlefield, absorbing the ground beneath them and creating massive craters. The terrain shifted, forming cone-like pits that sucked in dozens of demons, trapping them with no way to escape.

The golems, however, moved without difficulty. Their feet remained connected to the earth itself, drawing stability and strength from it.

They smashed, crushed, and pierced everything around them, their attacks sending shockwaves through the air, echoing with the cries of dying demons.

But even amid this devastation, the demons refused to stop. In acts of spiteful rage, they began slaughtering the prisoners—murdering the helpless in defiance.

That was why Roland charged ahead, fearless and unrelenting.

He knew he couldn't save them all. He only hoped that one day, he would be forgiven for the lives lost because of his actions.

But he could still save the majority.

With his sword in hand and two thousand soldiers at his back, Roland charged, the king riding beside him.

Everything became a blur after that.

Magic flashed across the sky. Arrows rained from every direction. Yet Roland didn't stop. He moved like a storm through the chaos, shielding the king not only with his wards but his body—it was one of his highest priorities.

At the same time, he directed his Water Blades to strike down demons poised to kill prisoners. He cast healing spells on the wounded he could reach and hurled bombs into enemy lines, sowing further confusion.

The golems held their ground, fulfilling their task admirably—each one tearing through hundreds of enemies before they were finally overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

By then, the main force had reached the prisoners. Soldiers broke through the lines and began evacuating them, one after another.

And Roland?

Roland became something else.

No longer a savior, but a reaper.

With his massive sword and bare fists, he tore through the battlefield like a force of nature, destroying everything in his path. Blood and shadows flew in every direction as he carved through the demon ranks.

That was when he felt it.

A powerful aura—twisted and cold—stood before him.

Roland slowed his wild swings, his eyes narrowed.

There, standing amid the carnage, was one of the demon generals.

Targo Grivoss.

A vampire noble of considerable power.

Roland smiled, tightening his grip on his blade. Finally, an opponent of worth. He was tired of the small fry, of enemies who died in seconds.

"Finally, the prophesied hero shows himself," Targo said, his voice smooth as silk and laced with malice. "Do you know how long we've known of your coming? It was my group who let you run free. Because of that failure, I've had to kill many of my own warriors, commanders, even their families. We vampires don't tolerate weakness or failure."

The man spoke out as all the demons around him pulled back, almost in fear.

"Look, I'm not here to talk. I want to get this over with and finish my quest—so don't go giving me your villain monologue."

Roland was more than ready to start the fight. He knew every second spent talking was another second of wasted mana.

He needed to end this quickly, then take over the fortress.

Only then would this battle be over.

"Young and rash... what were the spirits thinking when they brought you here?" the vampire muttered.

Suddenly, his wings unfurled—four large, bat-like appendages spread wide as his fangs elongated and red talons extended from his fingers. His face distorted, morphing into that of a monstrous bat.

This wasn't like the other demons or vampires—this was his full transformation.

"You know," Roland said, eyes narrowing, "it's easier to kill you when you look like a monster. Come on—forget the others and fight me. I've yet to test my real strength."

With a burst of force, Roland kicked off the ground and lunged forward. He needed someone to vent his rage on, someone to blame—and this vampire was perfect.

He swung with a vertical slash, putting all his strength behind it—his heaviest, most powerful strike.

But the vampire readied himself and punched it to the side.

The blow shattered one of his own hands—yet it was fast enough to knock the sword from Roland's grip.

It was the first time Roland had met someone stronger than him, at least in raw strength.

But he still had magic.

And countless Water Blades were still carving through demons nearby.

Roland began slashing at the vampire, who countered each blow with his claws. Every clash ended with either a blade shattering or one of the demon's nails snapping.

Roland was forced to constantly recall and replace his swords, but Targo was steadily losing his defenses.

Just as Roland prepared to slice off the final two claws, the demon hissed and leapt back.

He couldn't regrow his limbs outright, but he could manipulate blood.

He reached out with his magic, drawing it from the bodies of his fallen soldiers and even those living nearby as they writhed and convulsed on the ground. Using their blood, he reshaped it into hardened claws, replacing what he'd lost.

Roland didn't waste a second. He pulled several jugs of water from his inventory and dumped them onto the floor, replenishing his supply.

"How simple this would've been if it rained... but this makes things interesting," he muttered.

The demon, now armed again, understood that if he resumed fighting the same way, he'd face the same outcome. Targo had underestimated the hero's power.

But he wasn't about to stop.

This was just one of his forms.

He was already planning his next transformation—a surprise attack. But for that, he needed more blood. Blood rich in mana.

His eyes locked onto the king.

The man radiated power. A blessed human—rare and valuable.

Without hesitation, Targo took to the air and charged toward Roland again. He met a few strikes with his hands, but most of his attacks were feints.

If the hero lacked anything, it was experience—and Targo, a long-lived vampire, intended to exploit that.

He slashed wildly, feigning recklessness, but his movements had purpose. Each strike flung blood through the air, spraying it across the battlefield—some of it landing near the king.

Then, in a bold move, Targo sacrificed one of his own arms.

He tore it off mid-flight and hurled it straight at the king, aiming to catch Roland off guard.

Roland, who was busy with his strikes, finally felt it—one of the wards he had placed around the king to protect him reacted.

He recalled all his swords at once, sending them flying toward the target. The severed arm, still somehow moving, was struck mid-flight.

Countless Water Blades tore through it, each one hitting with precision until the limb was reduced to little more than dust.

But this action cost Roland dearly.

The sudden shift in focus made him too distracted to notice the demon closing in.

Blood-formed claws plunged into his body.

He gasped as they tore through his stomach and into his chest, nearly touching his core.

Each claw was sharper than the last, digging deeper, as if searching for his heart.

Everything seemed to pause after that.

Even the demons froze, watching as Roland glanced down to see what had impaled him.

Then, his blades moved again.

They rushed toward him without command, as if sensing his danger. It was as though they had been taken over by someone… or something.

And then, rain began to fall.

A miracle in itself, considering the sky had been a bloody red only moments before.

Thunder cracked. Lightning struck. The ground burst apart like landmines going off.

Demons died left and right, struck down by something—a shadow Roland couldn't see.

Some burst into flames that the rain could not douse. Others were lifted by violent gusts and slammed into the fortress walls.

But the vampire in front of him—he saw only the swords.

They pulsed with white light, no longer just water. It was as if something holy had seeped into them.

Suddenly, they pierced him from all sides.

The light burned as it purified, reducing the vampire to ash in mere seconds.

Then the swords turned toward Roland.

Each one seemed ready to slash into his stomach—but instead, they splashed against him.

Each impact struck like a pressurized jet of water, sealing his wounds, stopping the bleeding, and healing him from the inside out, as if nothing had happened at all.

But Roland did not withstand the pain.

He had already collapsed to the ground, eyes fixed on the clouds overhead.

Around him, destruction still raged.

Someone had saved him. He felt that, at least.

And whatever it was… it came from within him.

He felt a connection lost with each element, his power reduced to that of who he was before.

He lifted his arm weakly, trying to find answers.

But his eyelids grew heavier.

His vision dimmed.

All he could hear were voices—shouting, crying, cheering.

The sounds rose across the battlefield, as if something great had occurred…

… something that turned the tide for the humans.