Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

About sixty thousand monsters stood assembled, an army born of fury and forged in loyalty.

The Minotaurs, massive and imposing, were clad in bulky black and gold-plated armor. Each warrior wore vast pauldrons that jutted out like the shoulders of ancient statues, their chests encased in solid contoured cuirasses. Great axes, forged for war, rested in their hands, each swing capable of splitting men and beasts in half.

Beside them stood the Wolves, just as broad but leaner in frame. Their armor was also black, though slightly lighter than that of the Minotaurs, allowing for greater agility. Each carried a towering shield rimmed with gold, and a heavy axe held firm in the other hand.

Then there were the Werelions, wild and regal in their presence. Their armor told of a different philosophy: leather for freedom of motion, but reinforced by thick steel plates across their shoulders and chests. Unlike the other two races, they wore their scars as medals. Their weapons reflected their combat style.

The males, tall as Minotaurs, wielded massive two-handed axes; the females, lithe and deadly, bore twin tomahawks strapped to their backs and hips.

The steady clinking of steel, the low growls of beasts at rest, and the crackling of fire filled the sprawling encampment that stretched far and wide, an iron tide poised for war.

At the heart of it all, under a star-strewn sky and the flickering light of great timber-fueled flames, Asher sat cross-legged on a raised platform, surrounded by his war council.

Around the fire were the once-proud kings turned generals: Kael’Zheran, the lightning-clawed Werelion; Kaelor, the crimson-eyed Minotaur warlord. Aside from them were Omar and Nero, ever loyal, their eyes reflecting the firelight as they discussed the campaign ahead.

In the center of the fire, an enormous elk, caught and slain by Kael’Zheran himself as a gesture of fealty, slowly roasted on a spit, its aroma thick in the air. The beast had fallen only hours after Kael’Zheran swore his oath and handed over his own ring to Asher, uniting his forces under a single banner.

If there was one thing that bound these kings to Asher, it was not just the ring, it was his power. A strength so absolute, so undeniable, that even creatures born to lead had bent the knee.

Kael’Zheran might’ve once ruled his kind through dominance, but here, beside this fire, beside this human burning with ambition, he sat silent and loyal. For in Asher, he had seen not just a ruler…

…but reckoning.

The rage within him was simmering, but it wasn’t just lying there, it was transforming him into someone more frightening.

“The Bear King or the Jotunn Queen. Who should we meet first?” Asher asked, his voice calm, yet heavy with the weight of leadership.

Kael’Zheran answered without a moment’s pause, his eyes narrowing slightly. “The Bear King.”

Asher tilted his head, intrigued by the immediacy. Kael’Zheran caught the silent question and spoke, his tone serious.

“My King, do you know what ‘Jotunn’ means?”

Asher’s brow furrowed. “Giants?”

Kael’Zheran nodded slowly. “Yes, but not just any giants. The Jotunn are not of the second repopulation, the common giants that rose after the first world was broken. These beings… they are amongst the Godblood. Their ancestors fled divine wrath ages ago and were brought here, surviving in the shadows of the world’s collapse. What started as a hidden village… grew into a kingdom of ancient titans.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “Unlike the brute giants that came later, the Jotunn are masters of elemental sorcery, tied to their divine ancestry. These ones…” his voice lowered “…are children of darkness. Ten feet tall at minimum, and veiled in shadow.”

A hush settled on the war council.

“They will not fall easily,” Kael’Zheran finished, “and though we may still conquer them, it will cost us men. Best we march with the Bear King’s army at our side first.”

Asher’s golden eyes moved from Kael’Zheran to the rest. “Do you have anything to add?”

Omar glanced at Kael’Zheran and gave a curt nod. “I say we go with his advice. The man knows the terrain… and the enemy.”

“What of the bears?” Nero asked, his tone probing. “What strength do they bring?”

Kaelor turned toward him, voice gravelly with age and memory. “Strong enough to rip the tusks off a full-grown mammoth.” He gave a slight grin. “Have you seen a mammoth before? They’re taller than any giant still breathing.”

Asher rose to his feet, and in that instant, sixty thousand warriors turned their eyes toward him. Silence washed over the camp like a wave, broken only by the subtle hiss of steel against whetstone.

His golden gaze swept over them, Minotaurs, Wolves, Werelions, armoured monsters of war, all watching the one man they now called king.

“We rest until nightfall,” Asher said, voice steady, resolute. “When the sun sets, we march for the Bear King’s den.”

He paused, scanning them one last time.

“I know your weapons are sharp, sharpen them more.”

With that, he turned and walked away.

….

Throughout the bitter cold of the night, sixty thousand armoured monsters marched, hooves, clawed feet, and padded paws pounding into the snow-laden earth. Each step pressed deeper into the frigid northern lands, the temperature biting harder with every league crossed. Behind them, they left a vast, haunting trail, massive prints carved into frost and soil alike, the ground itself groaning beneath their weight.

They moved in eerie silence, save for the rumble of their march and the soft fluttering of their white cloaks, fastened with burnished brooches shaped like snarling wolf heads, symbols of unity forged in blood and conquest. A host of nightmares dressed in discipline.

At dawn, the mist curled over the icy hills like a living veil. The cold fog grew so thick it devoured the sky and horizon, reducing the massive army to phantom shapes, ghosts in a grey world.

Then, without warning, Asher raised a single hand.

A deep, thunderous horn echoed through the cold, the sound reverberating like an omen through the hills. The entire army halted at once. Silence fell again.

A massive silhouette appeared in the fog ahead, shrouded in layers of mist. It moved slowly, deliberately, and with every step, it grew.

Larger.

Broader.

Until it broke free of the veil, revealing a giant.

A fifteen-foot-tall bear, upright and regal, clad not in fine armour but the primal trophies of battle. A monstrous skull crowned his head like a helm, its fangs lining his face. Around his thick, corded neck hung a necklace of fangs, each one longer than a man’s forearm. His fur, a rugged brown, bristled in the wind as it howled through the frozen trees.

But Asher saw it. Beneath the majesty, beneath the fearsome strength laid scars. Dozens of them. Jagged lines across his chest, shoulders, and arms, some fresh, some old, all earned in battle. However these were not from wild beasts, but blades, forged and wielded by warriors.

The great bear’s piercing blue eyes met Asher’s golden gaze.

“You are the king who has taken the authority of the others,” rumbled Thammuz, his voice low, heavy like an avalanche rolling through a valley.

“I am,” Asher replied, stepping forward. His grip wrapped around the hilt of his claymore, not in fear, but in readiness. The fog hadn’t lifted, and there was no sign of Thammuz’s army. If this came to battle, it would be swift and brutal.

Thammuz’s eyes flicked toward Kael’Zheran, who stepped forward behind Asher, his presence thunderous even in silence.

“Thammuz,” Kael’Zheran said deeply, “there is no need for this fight. If you oppose him… you will fall.”

But Thammuz chuckled. Not in mockery, but in resignation, an ancient sound filled with weariness and memories of things lost.

“I see,” the Bear King murmured. “Kael’Zheran… You’ve been so consumed with your petty war that you failed to see others growing in the shadows.”

His massive chest rose with a breath that steamed in the cold air.

“While you clashed like children… Sariel, the Jotunn Queen, acquired the Armour of the Warfather.”

He paused.

“Only… it is not an armour.” His voice darkened.

The fog suddenly grew heavier, and a stillness swept through the ranks.

“What does it matter now…” he whispered.

Thud!

The ground shook as Thammuz dropped to his knees, dust and frost billowing around him.

“She has slain my people,” he said, voice cracked with grief. “I am… a king of nothing.”

His head hung low, the giant skull mask casting a shadow across his face.

And in that moment, the giant seemed small, not in stature, but in spirit. A broken mountain humbled not by war, but by devastation.

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