Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Asher slid the ring onto his index finger, its ancient weight settling as though it had always belonged there. His voice was low, almost lost to the wind, but the word carried with it the force of ambition.

“Yes.”

In that instant, the heavens responded. Golden beams rained down from above, not as searing, blinding columns as before, but as a majestic curtain of light that cascaded gently over the minotaurs like a divine mantle. The luminous veil enveloped their towering forms, while subtly repelling Asher, pushing him back as though recognizing the boundary between master and new kin.

From the mouth of the crater, Nero, Omar, and the remaining two hundred and forty battle-hardened soldiers emerged. Their boots crunched over the broken ground, the scars of their battle against House Nethaneel and House Intis still fresh in their memories. Their eyes were drawn, unwavering, to the broad back of their lord and the golden phenomenon unfolding before them.

It was different now. Once, this light would have forced them to shield their eyes, to turn away from its brilliance. But this was refined, controlled, contained within the sacred bounds of the upgrade.

The glow shimmered, powerful but respectful, as if acknowledging the strength of those who bore witness.

Moments stretched, each heartbeat a drum of anticipation. And then the light faded, the last rays retreating like the setting sun, revealing what stood in its wake.

Twenty-six thousand minotaurs stood transformed.

Their hulking frames were clad in black and gold armor, heavy and imposing, yet crafted with such perfection that it moved as fluidly as their own flesh.

The armor bore subtle textures, as if woven from the hide of ancient dragons, each scale glinting faintly in the lingering light. The gauntlets ended in long, curved claws that gleamed like obsidian, wicked and precise.

Around their waists, white loincloths fluttered gently, the emblem of House Ashbourne, a sigil now burned into their very souls, displayed proudly.

Behind them, matching white cloaks billowed, catching the wind as if eager to proclaim their newfound allegiance to the world.

Their helms were seamless with their flesh, forged as extensions of their very being. Each helm bore openings to accommodate their mighty horns, and the metal itself framed their faces so that the world could still see the ferocity of their fangs, bared and glinting.

Most striking of all, their eyes. Where once burned the fire of untamed rage, now glowed crimson irises, uniform across the entire army, the mark of their binding, their transformation.

Each minotaur gripped a weapon, a two-handed great axe, the weapon near five feet in height, edges honed to a deadly shimmer. The earth seemed to hum beneath the weight of so much potential destruction.

At the forefront stood Kaelor, now even more immense, a true colossus among giants. His breath came in slow, measured bursts, as if trying to comprehend the strength now coursing through his veins. He stared at the massive axe in his grip, the memories of ancient warcraft flooding his mind, the surge of power so far beyond what he had ever imagined possible.

He had thought himself at his peak. Now, he realized, that peak had only been the base of a mountain he had never seen.

The strength Kaelor now possessed was leagues beyond anything he had ever known. His massive form radiated power, each breath like the rumble of a distant storm.

He had crossed the threshold, officially stepped into the realm of the Awoken Ones. Yet, unlike the other races of Tenaria, his ascension bore no inner world, no spiritual domain hidden within. His might reflected entirely in the terrifying increase of his physical form, muscle and bone forged into living steel.

Thud!

The earth groaned beneath the weight of his submission as Kaelor fell to one knee, his massive axe planted in the soil for support. His crimson gaze lifted to meet Asher’s. With the binding of the ring, the ancient magic coursing through it, Kaelor and all his kin now beheld this man as their rightful king.

And in the face of the strength Asher had gifted them, their earlier indignation dissolved, replaced by respect, even awe.

“We are at your command, My King,” Kaelor’s voice boomed, echoing across the crater and beyond. The army of minotaurs, twenty-six thousand strong, echoed the sentiment with the silence of loyalty, their gazes fixed on Asher.

Asher’s golden eyes lowered to the glowing ring on his finger. His hand clenched into a fist, feeling the weight of what he had just accomplished and what lay ahead.

Nero approached, offering Asher his coat. With practiced ease, he clasped the brooch, the gentle breeze catching the fabric as he slung the whitewood claymore across his back.

He exhaled slowly. Before him knelt twenty-six thousand Saint-ranked warriors, their numbers stretching beyond the horizon. And still, it was not enough.

“What do you know of the Wolf King?” Asher’s voice was steady, but the weight of strategy pressed against it.

Kaelor lifted his head, his expression thoughtful. “My King, the Wolf King and his people are not as we minotaurs. They have no code, no culture of honor like ours. He will send his army, of that I am certain. But do not mistake his ways for weakness. His wolves are well-armored, disciplined. Their numbers, three times ours. Last I heard, he was at war with the Werelion King.”

Asher’s gaze sharpened. “And when was that?”

“It has been… a century.”

A flicker of disbelief crossed Asher’s face. “A hundred years of war? Over what?”

Kaelor shifted, the question heavy upon him. He hesitated, but the ring’s glow intensified, compelling truth.

“T-The Armor of the Warfather, My King. A relic… forged by the Kingmaker’s twin brother, an Old One. They say it can adapt to the wearer’s body, granting the gift of flight, and making the bearer nearly indestructible. The kings seek it to break into the domain of the lords. It’s the only thing said to stand against a Kingsword.”

A stunned silence fell over Asher’s men. Nero, Omar, and the others exchanged glances, the weight of those words sinking in.

“A fabled suit of armor has fueled a century of bloodshed?” Asher muttered, incredulous. “And no one has seen it?”

Kaelor shook his head. “No, My King. But the legends say it was worn by the man who once united Eden beneath a single banner, thousands of years ago.”

“I see.” Asher crouched, his mind racing. “And if these two kings have spent a century locked in battle… why have you not crushed them both while they weakened one another?”

Kaelor growled low. “Because the Bear King and the Jotunn Queen have not stirred. And I chose to strengthen my kind instead, through the adamantine mine.”

Asher rose, golden eyes burning with resolve. “I don’t have time to dance with each of them one by one. We march on the Werelion King and the Wolf King. Time is short. Four months already lost.”

He turned, striding toward the crater’s edge. “Nero, mark this place. We’ll return for the mine.”

….

Meanwhile…

On a vast grassland beneath the open sky, two figures broke from their entourages, riding to meet midway. The wind stirred the tall grass around them, the moment heavy with unspoken tension.

One rider, cloaked and hooded, drew close and at last revealed her face, Morgana, crown princess of Silvermoon, her beauty as striking as the moonlight her kingdom was named for. Her guard of silver-armored women and a few Queen’s Glaives watched from a distance.

Aaron smiled, warm and disarming. “Princess Morgana. A pleasure to meet one of the most dazzling roses of Tenaria.”

Morgana returned the smile, soft yet knowing. “I hear you keep company with Lady Nephis, the young archmage. Compared to her, I am but a wildflower.”

Aaron’s tone deepened. “What brings Silvermoon so far north?”

“Sacred Flame seeks alliance, Lord Aaron. Over the mithril gem mine you found. We need it and we both know, should Cyrenia or Galvia set their eyes upon it, it will slip through your grasp.”

Aaron’s smile did not falter. “I assure you, Princess, I am more than capable of defending it. I am a son of the greatest empire.”

Morgana’s gaze sharpened, a hint of steel beneath her charm. “And the Mad Duke?”

Aaron’s smile faded. “What of the dead man?”

“They call him dead often enough. But each time, he returns and disaster follows. War Bringer, they name him. I see the Warfather’s ghost. A man who will not stay dead. An anomaly. And that man walks in your lands.”

Aaron’s laughter rang across the plain. “Your concern flatters me, Princess. But this time… this time, he died.”

Morgana tilted her head, the breeze lifting a strand of her hair. “Did you see his corpse, then?”

….

While this conversation unfolded beneath the open skies, hundreds of miles away, a thunderous march echoed through the land. Beneath the orange canopy of the Whitewood Forest, where the ancient trees pierced skyward, an unstoppable force moved.

Thousands of minotaurs, their black and gold armor glinting beneath slivers of sunlight that pierced the foliage, advanced in formation. Each step of the colossal warriors made the earth tremble; the ground cracked beneath hooves like rolling thunder.

Their massive great axes rested upon broad shoulders, their crimson eyes burning with purpose.

The forest itself seemed to recoil. Birds erupted from the branches, fleeing in frenzied flocks. Deer and boar scattered in every direction, desperate to escape the coming storm of steel and muscle. The very air seemed to hum with the raw power of the march.

They moved as one, the army of Asher’s new might, hidden from prying eyes by the autumn blaze of the forest’s leaves, their path set toward their king’s next conquest.

And ahead of them, unseen through the trees, the distant peaks of Wolf lands.

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