Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

As the courtyard swelled with enemy troops, thousands more bottlenecked at the open gate, still pressing inward. Then, in a flash of steel, a soldier crouched atop the battlements stood tall. His blade gleamed in the morning light as it sliced clean through the pulley rope.

Clang!

The portcullis crashed down with a thunderous roar, sealing the gate shut. Steel slammed into stone, shaking the very ground.

“What’s going on?!”

“It’s an ambush!”

Panic rippled through the ranks like fire through dry wheat. The roars of confusion grew louder—until they were dwarfed by a heavier silence.

Up on the walls, figures began to rise.

First one. Then another. Then dozens more, stepping into view along the ramparts like awakened titans. At their center stood Asher—broad-shouldered, cloaked in battle sweat, his hair tousled and eyes burning like twin stars beneath storm clouds.

He inhaled deeply.

His chest expanded, cheeks bulging as he assumed a grounded stance, boots locked in place.

Then it happened.

A tidal force burst from him, invisible yet undeniable, sweeping across the castle like a crushing wave. The very air thickened, congealed under pressure. Men dropped to their knees, some collapsing entirely. Their bodies quaked. They couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe—not under that weight.

It was suffocating.

From the far-off makeshift fortress of House Wyvern, Count Rimmon felt it too. He stood atop the wooden palisade, one hand gripping the reins of his restless wyvern, whose wings twitched and eyes glowed with primal unease. The castle loomed on the horizon, distant yet oppressive—as if it grew larger the longer he stared.

The force reached him like a distant avalanche shaking the bones of the earth.

“Such force… An Awoken One.” Count Rimmon’s face turned pale.

Back at Castle Black, Asher’s chest swelled one final time—and then—

Fwooooosh!

A piercing mist exploded from his mouth, not hot but deathly cold—white as moonlit snow, spreading with supernatural speed. It flooded the courtyard, blanketing the trapped enemy soldiers. Shouts turned to silence. Motion turned to stillness.

Asher dropped to one knee, exhaling hard, his hand braced against the stone. The cold breath hung in the air, shimmering faintly as it began to clear.

His men stood in reverent silence, eyes wide.

Even they didn’t fully understand the monster in their midst.

And then, slowly, the mist parted.

A collective gasp spread through the ranks.

What remained were not bodies.

They were statues—frozen men, preserved in the exact moment of their last breath. Their faces locked in terror, their limbs encased in a sheen of frost, unmoving and lifeless.

Two thousand soldiers, slain in a single breath.

Even Asher’s own warriors stared at him with awe—tinged with fear.

Was this truly the power of the Awoken Ones?

And then came the cry.

“Flee!”

The remaining enemy soldiers outside the wall—over thirteen thousand—turned to escape, boots thudding in panicked retreat.

But from the eastern hills, thundering like a brewing storm, came the final blow.

Ten thousand Bladebreakers emerged.

Mounted atop enormous eagle-bears, their black heavy armor caught the dawn light like the shine of obsidian. Long lances lowered, banners fluttering behind them, they charged.

They had waited.

Now, they descended.

The ground trembled under the monstrous weight—each mount over a ton, their paws tearing through earth and flesh alike. The enemy soldiers scrambled into formation, but it was futile.

The charge landed like a divine punishment.

Metal screamed. Men were hurled like straw dolls. Spears shattered bones. The shrieks were swallowed beneath the roar of the Bladebreakers.

Even the Immortals—those feared warriors of House Wyvern—could not hold.

One by one, they fell.

Trampled. Skewered. Broken.

“Split!” Lambert bellowed.

The cavalry obeyed at once, dividing into five devastating wedges—two thousand men in each formation. From the vantage point atop Castle Black’s high walls, the Bladebreakers looked like rivers of black ink poured across a blank scroll.

And like ink, they stained everything in their path.

The United Army—battle-hardened, disciplined, infamous—stood no chance. The Bladebreakers tore through them with terrifying ease, each charge a grim reaper’s sweep. Trained soldiers fell like peasants with rusted pitchforks, their formation unraveling beneath the weight of iron beasts and merciless riders.

Death spread, black and unrelenting.

From his perch far away, Count Rimmon—Wyvern of the North—watched it all. His body trembled uncontrollably as his vision blurred with rage and disbelief.

These were his soldiers—men he had spent a mountain of coin to train, to arm, to ready for war. Now, they were cut down like common wheat beneath the scythe of a farmer.

His heart screamed in silence.

“Duke Asher!” Rimmon snarled through clenched teeth, his jaw grinding until blood welled beneath his tongue. The name was a curse. A firebrand across his soul.

He could see Asher even now—tall, unmoving atop the castle, watching the carnage unfold like a god overseeing judgment.

“I’ll kill you,” Rimmon hissed, voice trembling like a drawn bowstring. “I’ll be the one to kill you.”

His wyvern shifted uneasily behind him, sensing the fury in its master.

Even if it took every wyvern in House Wyvern, even if he had to burn the heavens and scorch the earth—Rimmon would not stop.

Not until Asher was ash.

Not until nothing remained.

That night, the battlefield drank deeply of blood—four thousand dead, and over seven thousand wounded beyond recovery. Count Wyvern’s once-proud host lay in ruin.

Crippled, humiliated, and outmaneuvered, he had no choice but to withdraw what little remained of his forces.

Before dawn painted the sky, the vast camp that had once teemed with soldiers and steel was nothing but a graveyard of smoldering embers and skeletal tents. The silence it left behind was louder than any war cry.

And the news spread like wildfire.

The United Army had suffered its first crushing defeat—one so decisive it rattled thrones and war councils alike. But what truly shook the world was the alliance that made it possible.

House Ashbourne and House Nubis.

Rivals for centuries. Their enmity was the stuff of legend, their blood-feuds etched into every chronicle.

And now—they stood side by side.

Together, they shattered the might of a royal army. Together, they handed His Highness his first bitter taste of loss.

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