Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

The skies loomed dark, shunning the stars. Even the twin moons—so often bold—were tucked behind ghost-pale clouds, casting a dull, sickly light over the land.

Asher sat astride Velmorne at the edge of a ridge, kilometres from the battlefield, yet the roars of men, the clash of steel, and the tremors of the earth all reached him. He could feel the heat of war, as if it were a living thing breathing against his skin.

Reflected in his golden, glowing eyes were thousands—no, tens of thousands—charging like waves towards a war-beaten castle wall. Like sand rushing to drown the shore, they stormed forward without hesitation.

The once-proud spiral towers of the stronghold lay shattered, likely crumbled beneath the relentless weight of catapult boulders. The banners of House Nubis hung limply from the colossal wall, torn and stained crimson. Most of that blood belonged to the defenders.

Along the ramparts stood hundreds of Dark Skies, their silver bows towering nearly the height of a man. Twin strings hummed violently as arrows shrieked into the night air. Each archer could unleash a dozen arrows within the blink of an eye. Their prowess was unparalleled, but even they struggled now—three wyverns swooped above the invading horde, their screeches puncturing the air. Painful losses were inevitable.

Torches lit the wall, revealing its scars—long cracks etched deep into brick, smears of dried blood, the broken remnants of earlier battles. The gate, though upright, groaned under the pressure. It would not last much longer.

The defenders were losing. The United Army was every bit the terror they’d been whispered to be. To reduce Castle Black—a fortress said to endure a siege for a full year—in mere months was nothing short of terrifying.

Among the attackers, nearly every soldier bore a shield—a calculated move against the Dark Skies’ deadly archery. Still, their arrow force was so potent that even steel buckled. Wooden shields fared far worse, shattering under impact.

Hoofbeats neared. Asher turned his head slightly. From the corner of his eye, he saw Count Alec approach atop his Arkon—a fierce eagle-bear war mount, chosen specifically for him, just as each military leader received theirs.

“My Lord. What are your orders?” Alec asked, voice steady but urgent, one hand reaching for the spear secured at his side.

Asher replied calmly, “Inform our ally of our arrival. Move the Titan X to the front line. Keep the Orc Siege Catapults behind them—they’ll strike first. Commander Lambert will lead the cavalry, backed by the wolf regiment. We need mobility. The infantry will have their time soon enough.”

Alec gave a nod and rode off.

Soon after, Asher’s commands rippled through the ranks. Fifty Titan X war machines rolled to the front. Levi, one of Asher’s paladins, raised the horn and blew. The low blast thundered across the hills. The Titan X machines—wooden and iron beasts on wheels—began their slow, purposeful advance.

Behind them, the Orc Siege Catapults creaked to life, pulled forward by hulking black wolves. The wolves growled as they ran, their heavy paws thudding against the earth, breath misting in the cold air.

In the gaps between the war machines, white wolves ran—silent and swift. Their muscles rippled beneath pale fur, claws tearing at the ground as they surged forward in perfect formation.

“Lance!” Commander Lambert’s voice rang out.

He thrust his ten-foot lance toward the sky. Behind him, ten thousand lances followed—thrust high like a forest of blades. The Bladebreakers, clad in full plate, let loose a roar that shook the night.

“Charge!”

Then came the quake.

Ten thousand warriors, each over eight feet tall, their bodies packed with muscle and encased in 200 kilograms of steel, surged forward atop war mounts that weighed over a ton. The ground trembled beneath their thunderous descent, like metal-clad titans descending from the heavens.

Their charge eclipsed the battle already underway. Soldiers on the field turned instinctively, eyes wide with disbelief as the Bladebreakers stormed down the slope.

Then—release.

Each Titan X unleashed its hwacha. One hundred arrows fired from each—five thousand in total. The sky filled with screaming bolts, arcing high before crashing down with deadly force.

Men collapsed where they stood. Shields broke. Screams filled the air.

Then came the boulders—fifty of them, each wrapped in flame.

BOOM! BOOM!

Explosions tore through the field. Fire surged, bodies were flung, and ranks dissolved into panic. Hundreds of men were annihilated in seconds. No shield could stop what was falling upon them.

“W-What is that?” a young soldier from House Wyvern gasped. His sword shook in his hand as he watched the towering machines lumber forward, unstoppable.

Another volley—five thousand more arrows.

He watched them tear into comrades—men who had laughed beside him, looted cities beside him.

Rage gripped him.

“Argh!” he howled, breaking formation as he charged. Around him, others followed. Hundreds broke rank in blind fury.

But from the mounted towers atop each Titan X, Seekers took aim. Their arrows were swift and cruel. Dozens fell before reaching the machines, but more pressed on, leaping over the dead.

The wolves arrived first.

The footman raised his blade just in time to slash one across the neck. It crumpled mid-leap. For a heartbeat, he smirked—

Then two more wolves lunged.

One tore into his throat. The other raked clawed through his leather chestplate, ripping deep into flesh.

War cries turned to screams. Like wildfire, it spread through the footmen of House Wyvern—the panic, the screams, the blood. One by one, they were torn apart by the white-furred predators, their fangs sinking into throats, claws raking through armour as if it were paper. Men who had marched with pride now whimpered beneath the weight of war, their cries drowned by the howls of the relentless wolf regiment.

Above, the skies churned with turbulence as the wyvern riders circled like vultures. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man with close-cropped black hair and a jagged scar across his jaw, bellowed into the night:

“Burn those machines!”

At once, the leathery wings of the wyverns shifted, their massive frames veering away from Castle Black and toward the advancing army of House Ashbourne. Like falling stars, they soared with terrifying speed, fire already glowing in the depths of their throats.

“Burn them!” one rider yelled again, tugging at his reins. Flames, brilliant and orange, began to gather in the maw of his beast.

But in the span of a heartbeat, a metallic shriek cut through the air—a barbed bolt, glinting like death under the moons, pierced through the wyvern’s throat. Its scream was jagged and guttural as blood sprayed in arcs, the beast flailing mid-air.

Another bolt struck its underbelly. Then a third. The final strike—a flaming boulder from the Orc Siege Catapult—slammed into its flank, engulfing the creature in fire and hurling it down to earth in a crashing spiral, raising a fog of dust and broken bodies.

The wyvern corps commander’s eyes widened. He traced the source of the barrage and spotted them: monstrous constructs, like colossal ballistas mounted far away. One had already realigned—its gaze locked on him.

“Turn!” he barked, forcing his wyvern into a sharp, desperate arc. His comrade wasn’t so lucky. The next bolt tore through the forelimb that supported his wyvern’s wing. With a screech, the wyvern lost all lift, spiraling downward in a death spin.

The rider clung on—until he saw him.

A figure on one of the Titan X towers—eight feet tall, clad in dark, horned armor—drew a long arrow and notched it with eerie calm. A Seeker.

Their eyes met. For a moment, the world held its breath.

“No—!”

Puchi!

The arrow struck clean through the slitted visor of his helmet. A spray of red mist erupted as the rider slumped forward, lifeless, still strapped to the dying beast tumbling below.

The last surviving wyvern rider, the commander turned back, wings beating furiously as he retreated toward camp, his face a mask of rage, confusion, and shame.

Meanwhile, in the heart of the United Army camp, behind thick velvet drapes and glowing oil lamps, Count Wyvern lounged in a richly adorned tent. Two young women, stolen from the fallen cities of Nubis, sat at his side. One of them he stroked possessively, the other he guided onto his lap.

He had paraded them before the troops, declaring they would become his concubines, but in truth, he had brought them here for release—war’s strain had grown heavy on his shoulders.

“Sit,” he said, a predatory smile curving his lips.

They obeyed.

He closed his eyes, savouring the soft weight of them when the tent flaps burst open with the force of a storm.

A baron, general of the Wyvern infantry, stumbled in, sweat streaking his face, his armour dusted with ash.

“My Lord…” he gasped, voice hoarse. “I saw them… the flags of House Ashbourne!”

“You saw what?” The glee in Count Wyvern’s heart died like water poured on a flame.