Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Four months later.

The first light of dawn had yet to touch the land. The world was still bathed in the silvery haze of night’s end, the air thick with morning dew that clung to the leaves and misted the ground like a veil.

In the heart of the Whitewood, the door of a small cabin creaked open, its aged wood groaning softly beneath the push of a hand that now bore strength beyond mortal reckoning.

A figure emerged, so tall he had to bow his head beneath the lintel. He strode into the cold embrace of the dawn. The earth seemed to hush at his passing.

He was a giant of a man, ten feet tall, his frame carved by hardship and warlike training into a masterpiece of raw might and honed control. Snow-white hair, long and unbound, fell in a thick cascade to his chest, catching the faint glimmers of the early light like strands of silver. His pale skin, kissed only by the cold winds of the Whitewood, was a canvas of old scars and fresh ones alike, each a silent tale of battles survived and trials endured against I’ron.

They marked his torso and arms, but none marred his form’s perfection. Every inch of him was built for explosive speed, relentless endurance, and crushing power, a creature born of the forge of suffering.

The faint outline of a beard accentuated his sharp jaw, lending his chiseled features a mature nobility.

His face, once that of a young man, now bore the weight of something more, something that stood between the realms of mortal and legend. His eyes, those piercing golden eyes glowed faintly in the dimness, as if lit from within by the fires of his will.

There was no softness left in his gaze, only the keen, cutting sharpness of a predator, a king in the making.

He came to a halt before a wooden claymore, its massive form buried deep into the earth where he had left it last night. The weapon seemed more like an extension of the landscape than an instrument of war, until he reached for it.

Asher flexed his colossal arms, muscles rippling beneath scarred skin. His fingers wrapped around the hilt, and with a single, effortless pull, he drew the great blade from the soil.

In that instant, the world seemed to change.

The air grew cold, as if winter itself had stirred awake. A piercing chill radiated from him, rippling outward like the silent roar of a blizzard. Even the mist recoiled, drifting back from the force of his presence. The birds that had begun to stir fell silent. The trees stood still. Everything, from the smallest insect to the mightiest oak, seemed to sense it, the dominion of one who had conquered pain, defied death, and risen reborn.

Asher stood there, claymore resting upon his shoulder, eyes turned toward the distant horizon where the sun would soon rise.

With a deep, measured sigh, Asher shifted his stance. His colossal frame straightened, and with one hand he began to swing the great wooden claymore.

Each swing cut through the quiet of dawn, tearing the veil of morning mist. The blade whistled through the air with a howl, a sound so sharp and fierce that it seemed to slice the very dew hanging in the air.

During these four grueling months, Asher had not simply endured, he had transcended. Under I’ron’s relentless tutelage, he had mastered hand-to-hand combat, honed his weapon techniques until each strike was an extension of his will, and even clashed with the elements themselves in battle. His body, mind, and soul had been reforged in the crucible of hardship.

And now, he wielded his mastery of the sword had ascended from swordmaster to sword sovereign.

Asher’s gaze dropped to the claymore. His fingers tightened on the hilt, and he poured his mana into the blade.

In an instant, blue flames erupted from its surface, not like normal fire, but as if the blade had been waiting, hiding this terrible gift within.

Yet these flames did not burn with heat. Instead, they unleashed a cold so profound it seared the air. The ground beneath Asher’s feet froze, ice spreading in jagged veins outward, crackling beneath the weight of his power. A frost so savage it could blister the flesh swept around him.

From deep within his massive chest, the second heart began its war-drum beat.

Badum! Badum!

Each thundering pulse sent torrents of mana flooding his bloodstream, the rhythm of a king’s rebirth shaking the dawn’s silence.

Asher closed his eyes and took slow, steady breaths.

With each exhale, the blue frostfire flickered and died, and the heavy drum of his second heart softened until all was still. The ice stopped spreading, and the air gradually began to warm again.

“Ice so cold it burns… Frostfire,” he whispered, his voice low, as he twirled the blade effortlessly in his hand.

And then, as if at will, his towering figure began to shrink. From ten feet two inches of regal might, he diminished to a still-formidable six foot nine inches. His weakened form.

A form better suited for peace, for restraint. The King State was for war and for war alone.

From the shadowed edges of the forest, I’ron and Frost stepped into view, their eyes fixed on him. Even now, as Asher descended the slope toward them with casual, easy strides, the very air about him seemed to demand fealty. He had no throne, no domain, no crown yet he carried the weight and aura of a sovereign.

I’ron spoke first, his voice calm but edged with steel. “You return to your men today. Tomorrow, you set out for the Monster Kings. Each of them holds a ring. Bring those rings together, and they will merge.”

Asher halted, standing a mere meter from them. His golden eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “Why would they possess these rings? It’s as if they were meant to fall from the start.”

Frost glanced at I’ron, then back at Asher. His expression was grave. “Those rings were forged to grant lords dominion over them… should the need arise.”

“I see…” Asher said quietly, his mind working through the weight of this revelation. His gaze hardened. “So, there are five Monster Kings, and I’m to slay them and claim their armies. But why do that? I don’t just want their armies, I want the kings themselves. If I defeat them… force them to yield… can I not have them spill their blood upon the rings and bind them to me?”

Frost’s jaw nearly dropped. His eyes widened, the idea so unthinkable that for a moment, he could not find words. “You… you wish to command a Monster King? That’s impossible!”

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