Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Asher narrowed his eyes. “Is that the Crown of the Warfather?” he asked, his voice calm, yet edged with steel. His gaze fixed on the pitch-black helm she wore.

A diamond-shaped crystal gleamed at its center, embedded into the forehead like a third eye. Four sharp protrusions jutted skyward, giving the helm the cruel silhouette of a twisted crown.

Sariel tilted her head slightly, the faintest smirk curving her lips. “Is that what you’re here for? I thought you came seeking the Ring of Authority,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, yet laced with mockery.

Asher said nothing. He brandished his claymore in a fluid motion and dashed forward, closing the distance with terrifying speed. He had already seen it, her eyes, her posture, her aura.

Sariel wasn’t going to kneel. In fact, she hadn’t even acknowledged him as an equal. Whether that arrogance stemmed from the crown or her own nature didn’t matter.

The moment he stepped into her domain, she had begun leaking murderous intent. Subtle. Measured. But unmistakable.

Enough talk.

Let the blade speak.

A chorus of war cries erupted as thousands of Jotunn surged toward him, their massive weapons raised high, their thunderous steps shaking the mountain beneath their feet. The air trembled with the raw force of their charge.

As the distance vanished, Asher sprang into the air, his body arcing like a shadow slicing across the pale sky. His left hand rose, and then slammed downward.

A sudden pulse tore through the air.

A ring-shaped field of crushing gravity burst outward from him like a detonation of invisible weight.

The force collapsed the air, slammed into the charging Jotunn, and crushed them into the hardened ice below. Cracks split across the frostbitten surface like lightning across a mirror. Bones snapped. Armour dented inward with the screech of metal under ruinous pressure.

Then came the landing.

Asher dropped like a comet, his boots slamming into the earth with a quake. Without hesitation, he spun, swinging his massive claymore in a wide arc.

And the storm answered.

From nowhere, a fog rolled in, dense and blinding, like a living blizzard stirred by his will. The battlefield vanished beneath its white shroud, the frost swirling with an eerie, unnatural life. The giants stumbled, their cries muffled, their vision stolen.

Half the hill vanished in that storm of ice and death.

And Asher stood at its heart. The Jotunn soldiers glanced around, vigilant and tense, but it didn’t matter.

He came like a ghost through the fog, silent, swift, and merciless. One moment, there was stillness. The next, steel cleaved through flesh and bone, then vanished back into the storm. Screams echoed. Blood splattered the snow. And then, nothing.

Those who glimpsed a flicker of movement gave chase, charging recklessly into the mist. But there was no enemy waiting, only a blade. A flash of silver, a blur of blue flame, and they fell, never to rise again.

Sariel remained seated upon her dais, a smirk playing along her lips. Amused and unbothered. She twirled a single clawed finger idly while the wind howled around her.

But as time passed… that smirk faded.

An hour. Then another.

And still the fog persisted.

Still her soldiers screamed.

Still they died.

Her glowing blue eyes narrowed as her sharp gaze pierced the white. Her body tensed. The amusement drained from her face, replaced by something far more dangerous, doubt.

She rose from her throne of ice, every motion precise, her black armour glinting under the pale light. She reached behind and drew her greatbow, carved from onyx and pulsing with dark veins of elemental energy.

And then… the fog parted.

Like curtains peeled back from a grim theatre, the battlefield was revealed at last and what a sight it was.

Hundreds of ice spikes jutted from the ground, some towering as tall as trees, each one stained with frozen blood. Scattered bodies of her Jotunn lay about some cleanly severed in half, others brutalised and unconscious. Broken weapons littered the field. Groans of the wounded mixed with the eerie howl of the wind.

And among it all, he stood.

Asher leaned against one of the frozen pillars, breath rising in plumes from his mouth. His chest rose and fell, slightly uneven, but there wasn’t a scratch on him. His hair fluttered in the dying storm, his eyes still aglow like molten gold beneath frost.

His claymore rested beside him, its tip buried in the snow, as if it too needed a moment to breathe.

He raised his head.

Their eyes met.

And in that silent moment, Sariel finally understood, this wasn’t a mere man.

Sariel nocked an arrow and released it in one smooth motion.

Asher deflected it with a flick of his sword but before he could draw breath, another arrow came from nowhere, piercing deep into his shoulder. The impact stung him slightly. Gritting his teeth, he yanked it out, his muscles twitching as steam hissed from the wound.

He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulder, and assumed a proper stance.

With a sudden surge of power, the ice beneath his feet imploded, launching him like a comet toward Sariel.

But she was already in motion, graceful and deadly. She somersaulted high into the air, almost ten meters above the battlefield, and released three arrows mid-spin. Each arrow hissed with dark mist trailing in their wake like serpents.

Asher batted them aside with practiced ease, but her voice suddenly whispered against his lips.

“A wooden sword…?” she mocked, the sound unsettlingly close. “Pathetic.”

Startled by her proximity, Asher turned and swung in a wide arc, unleashing a violent beam of sword energy that carved the throne behind her cleanly in two.

“Missed me,” she chuckled from above, her tone maddeningly calm.

This time, one arrow became many, splitting into dozens, each shaft whistling outward like a blooming flower, then curving sharply to converge on him all at once.

Asher didn’t hesitate. He pulsed mana into his left foot and exploded backward, propelling himself to the far end of the hilltop. The arrows hit where he once stood, but the rest twisted mid-air and pursued.

With swift, precise motions, he unleashed sword beam after sword beam, followed by a gravity pulse that tore through the incoming swarm. Many shattered mid-air but a few, the ones Sariel controlled directly, tore through his defense and sank deep into his flesh.

A sharp grunt escaped his lips.

From the wounds, dark purple tendrils burst forth, chains formed of shadow. They anchored deep into the frozen ground, yanking Asher violently to his knees.

Above him, Sariel descended, her form no longer mist, but flesh and armour, her presence like a goddess of war.

“You—!”

Boom!

A tidal wave of gravity slammed into her with devastating force.

Before she could react, her knees crashed into the ice, the sheer pressure forcing one hand to the ground to stop her face from slamming next.

“Argh!” she shrieked.

Darkness erupted from within her like a fountain, raw and vicious, breaking the pressure that held her bound. But just as she broke free, she saw him.

Asher, standing tall, dragging his body from the chains, his claymore already rising.

Then came the swing.

From the wooden sword she had mocked, a crescent arc of pure energy burst forth, white-hot and humming with divine fury. It tore across the battlefield, its edges screaming against the air.

Sariel’s eyes widened.

One of her soldiers leapt forward to shield her, and in a flash, the beam cut him down, split him clean through.

But it didn’t stop there.

The beam roared forward, splitting the ice hill itself in two, cleaving a chasm so deep it echoed with the cracking of ancient bedrock.

Asher exhaled, swinging his sword over his shoulder once more as he approached, his steps slow but relentless, like judgment incarnate.

“Kneel,” he said coldly, golden eyes locked on hers. “Or I won’t slow my sword the next time I swing it.”

The gemstone embedded in Sariel’s helm suddenly blazed with a piercing light.

Asher’s eyes narrowed. Around them, the air shimmered, and then, one by one, portals began to tear open across the battlefield. Through them, he glimpsed alien landscapes, rugged peaks, burning skies, frostbitten plains, and amidst them, more Jotunn, standing tall like sentinels of forgotten realms.

Whatever the helm was, it was summoning reinforcements from an unknown place.

But before the portals could stabilize, Asher acted.

With a thrust of his palm, jagged ice chains shot forth, wrapping around Sariel’s arms and legs. She screamed in fury, but the bindings dragged her down, slamming her to the frozen ground with thunderous force. The portals flickered violently, then began to collapse.

With a firm grip, Asher reached down and wrenched the crown-like helm from her head.

A gasp escaped her lips.

The black, ornate armour she wore cracked and clattered to the ground in pieces, vanishing like smoke scattered by wind.

Beneath it, a blue-skinned woman with flowing white hair knelt in the snow, her face ethereal, sculpted meticulously, her piercing blue eyes wide and filled with clarity, as though waking from a nightmare.

Something had left her.

Her voice was faint, but sincere. “That crown… don’t wear it. It’s not a weapon. It’s a prison.”

Asher studied the helm, its gem still glowing with a pulsing life of its own.

He looked down at her once more, unreadable.

“Is that so?” he murmured.

Then, without hesitation, he raised the helm and placed it upon his own head.

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