Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

The vast skies stretched endlessly above, a void shrouded in ink-black clouds. Not a single moon shone that night—only a tapestry of dim stars hung in silence, like ancient watchers.

Beneath the canopy of towering trees, nestled within thick wooden walls, a town hummed with quiet life. Fires crackled in circles where tall men, half-giants and seasoned warriors, gathered with cloaks draped over shoulders, their armor resting beside them. The cold was biting, but the firelight danced warm across their faces.

At the heart of their gathering, a large cauldron hung over an open flame. Moses stirred the bubbling stew with a giant ladle, its rich aroma drawing out chuckles of eager anticipation from those seated near.

“Who taught a big man like you how to cook?” Levi called out, smirking.

Moses grinned, his hands steady as he stirred. “My father. Back when I was a barbarian, I was the best cook in my town.”

Laughter erupted around the flames.

“What were the women doing then?” one of the half-giants jeered with a snort.

“Fighting for his hand in marriage!” someone howled from the back.

Roars of amusement echoed through the camp. The air was light, even with darkness pressing at the edges of the forest.

Eleazar leaned forward, the orange flames flickering in his eyes. “I heard you had another name, back then. What was it?”

Moses paused, setting the ladle against the cauldron’s edge. “Buba,” he said. “Buba, the One-Eyed Flamethrower. I fought His Lordship before I joined him. Got myself thrown into Silverleaf Prison.”

A silence fell over the group.

Levi’s eyes widened. “You survived that place?”

Everyone had heard the legends. Silverleaf Prison—a colossal fortress of metal built on the Ash mountains, a place where Force could not flow. A place of nullification, where the strong became prey and the weak… didn’t last long. It was home to the Custodians. And their Warden, it was whispered, could transform into a dragon.

No one questioned Moses after that. They just nodded, offering silent respect.

….

Meanwhile, within the lord’s residence—a tall stone structure reinforced with stone pillars and wood—another fire flickered. This one danced in the confines of Asher’s private chamber.

The air inside was heavier.

On a wide stone table in the center, a crude map lay stretched across the surface, fashioned from sand, pebbles, and sticks. Stones marked the distant cliff-fort where they’d spotted the minotaur crater. Thin sticks stood for the tree lines. Patches of moss represented the various paths and hills.

Asher stood before it with arms crossed, his Leviathan Armor glinting faintly under the lanterns. Simon was beside him, calm but watchful, while Nero rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uneasy.

“We’re surrounded by whitewood. No rivers. No lakes,” Nero muttered. “The only source of water we’ve got is the barrels we brought from our homeland.”

Asher’s eyes stayed on the map. “We build a dam, and we dig a well. If there’s nothing, we create something.”

Simon spoke, voice low. “It’s not just the lack of water. It’s the silence.”

Nero nodded grimly. “We’ve walked forests like this before. There should be something. Boars, serpents, rogue beasts—something. But it’s like everything knows not to step foot here.”

Asher picked up a small stone and placed it near the crater’s edge.

“They’re not gone,” he said. “They’ve been cleared out.”

Simon’s brows furrowed. “By the minotaurs? Everything?!”

“They’re not hunters,” Asher replied, “They’re colonizers. What we saw—tens of thousands, maybe more—was only what was outside that cave.”

The room fell into silence, save for the crackling fire.

Asher’s voice lowered. “We’re building on the edge of a sleeping storm. One wrong step… and it’ll wake up.”

Just then, a horn blew—deep, guttural, and laced with alarm.

Asher’s breath caught.

He turned sharply toward the sound, his eyes narrowing. Then they widened. From beyond the trees, in the distance, a red glow pierced the blackness of night.

Flames.

And thick coils of smoke.

A watchtower signal.

The signal was clear: Enemies were near. And they were closing in—fast.

“Arm yourselves! To the wall!” Asher bellowed, his voice cutting through the air like thunder. Warriors scrambled, grabbing spears, swords, and shields, the town erupting into motion.

In one fluid motion, Asher drew his sword. His boots dug deep into the soil—boom—and with a burst of Force, he leaped into the sky, landing hard atop the wooden wall, his coat whipping in the wind.

He scanned the horizon.

There, just past the second ridge, figures moving in the dark.

“Light them up,” Asher growled.

He swept his arm outward, and every brazier along the walls exploded into fire. Flames danced high, pushing back the shadows, illuminating the night. The warriors on the walls let out a rallying cry.

Below, Omar thundered forward, his massive frame slamming into the half-latched gate. “To me! Brace the gates!” he roared, several half-giants surging forward behind him. With thick rope and reinforced beams, they started locking the gate in place.

Nero appeared beside Asher atop the wall.

“Do you see them?”

“Cavalry,” Asher said grimly, his voice low as the weight of the moment settled on him like a shroud.

The leaves whispered with growing urgency as a half-giant, broad and towering, emerged from the thick forest, sprinting heavily toward the final line of trees. His armour clanked with every step, muscles rippling beneath steel, his breath misting in the cold air.

But he never reached them.

A sudden silver gleam sliced through the darkness—a blur too fast for the eye.

Shhkkk!

The half-giant’s head snapped clean off, a crimson spray arcing through the air like a fountain. His massive body crumpled to the ground, the earth shuddering beneath him.

Out of the shadows came a rider.

Clad in white and gold, he sat astride a magnificent destrier, its coat like freshly fallen snow, its mane braided with silver thread. The rider held aloft a massive sword, glimmering with divine radiance—its entire body seemingly forged from lustrous gold, runes etched so deeply along the blade they seemed to pulse with power.

Asher’s eyes narrowed.

He knew exactly what that was.

A Kingsword—a weapon of supreme authority, one reserved for those who wore the crown of kingship. A weapon he greatly desired.

The rider was Aaron, a name that still echoed across Tenaria.

And he was not alone.

From the gloom of the forest behind him thundered a legion of mounted warriors. Hundreds of elite cavalry emerged, armour shining dully in the firelight, hooves pounding like war drums upon the forest floor. Their faces were masked, their eyes glowing faintly beneath helms of silver steel. Banners rippled behind them, a royal purple, stitched with the sigil of the Immortals—the elite, deathless guard of a fallen empire.

At the heart of them rode another figure.

Draped in a cloak of night, sat Reuel, king of Intis, Asher’s old friend.

Asher’s pulse quickened.

The message was clear, they had come to eliminate him.

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