Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Deep within the Whitewood Forest, far removed from any trace of civilization, over two hundred soldiers honed their skills beneath the canopy, training tirelessly outside a small village built entirely among the towering trees. Their new home: the sacred domain of an Old One.

Old Ones—so named because they were the first existences at the dawn of creation. Each either born from the will of the Creator Himself or forged by the power of even greater Old Ones. Beings like Tenaria, who embodied the land, or Okeanos, who ruled over the endless seas.

It had taken the soldiers an arduous week to penetrate this deep into the forest’s heart. Asher had gone farther still, disappearing deeper into the ancient woods to undergo training under I’ron’s ruthless guidance.

Two weeks had passed since then. And for two weeks, the forest echoed with sounds so terrible and violent that it seemed as though the earth itself might split apart.

A mile from the treetop village, I’ron stood at the edge of a glacial lake, one massive hand stroking his bearded chin, his golden eyes fixed on the water’s surface. Beside him loomed another Old One—a figure with the lower body of an elk, great horns that resembled flawless ice sculptures, and in his hand, a staff that gleamed like forged steel yet bore the delicate clarity of carved ice.

Asher had once wondered how something as fragile as ice could shape a weapon so solid, so real, that it felt more like tempered metal. But such thoughts were far from him now.

At the bottom of the lake, chained by massive enchanted boulders older than memory itself, Asher hung like a prisoner condemned by the gods.

The boulders, infused with the magic of creation, were immovably heavy, their chains binding his arms, legs, and torso, holding him fast against the crushing cold.

The lake’s waters were laced with Frost’s own ice clouds, so cold that even a volcano submerged here would freeze solid in an instant.

For two weeks, I’ron had spent his time reducing Asher to near death, shattering his bones in brutal sparring sessions, again and again, forcing him to the brink.

From his skull to his toes, nearly every bone had been broken, only to heal and be broken anew.

The pain was inhuman, the sort that should have driven any man mad or left him hollowed out and broken. But Asher had embraced it. Fueled by rage, by ambition, by a will as unyielding as steel, he endured.

With every fresh agony, his hunger for victory deepened, his desire to crush his enemies burned hotter.

Aaron, Reuel, the schemes of King and prince, the might of empires like Galvia and Cyrenia, even powers he had yet to know, he would not bend the knee.

Scars crisscrossed his body, marks that no healing could erase. The wounds left by I’ron’s spear, by Aaron’s Kingsword—crafted by the Kingmaker, were permanent, etched upon him like grim tattoos of his struggle.

Now, at the lake’s depths, Asher felt as if he had died a thousand deaths. The cold gnawed at his soul. His lungs burned as the last of his breath fled him. Yet still, he refused to yield.

Above the surface, Frost watched in silence before finally speaking. “Are you trying to kill him in the most brutal way imaginable?”

I’ron gave a low scoff, his gaze never leaving the water. “He’s growing. Every bone I’ve broken, every limit he’s shattered, brings him closer to what he must become. His King Body stirs beneath the shell of his humanity. This is only the beginning.”

He stepped forward, peering down at the depths. His voice dropped, heavy with anticipation. “I want to see what will emerge from this.”

Frost tilted his head, one brow raised. “You were made for war. You expect this human to match what you are?”

A slow smile spread across I’ron’s face, as if he saw something Frost could not. “Because this human… he is God’s battle axe. The Mortal Scroll has resides in him. His talent is undeniable. His will is steel. He is the axe that will either cleave through the enemies of this world… or bring ruin to the continent itself, consumed by the fire of his own hatred.”

“Well, his defeat was inevitable,” Frost said, his voice low, as his azure eyes traced the ripples on the lake’s surface. “How could he hope to overcome lords who inherited their dominions from generations past? How could one man bring down rulers with centuries of growth and power behind them? These lords command ancient fortresses—fortresses built over lifetimes, expanded and fortified from king to king. How could he, without a heritage, emerge at the top?”

Frost’s doubts were not just valid, they were undeniable. The sheer weight of history, of legacy, pressed against Asher like an unmovable mountain. That he was even still alive was nothing short of a miracle.

Unless he bowed his head, unless he knelt before the Sacred Flame Empire and accepted their dominion, Asher had no path forward. Without that submission, he would remain forever bound to the rank of Duke—no more, no less.

It was a cruel fate, carved into stone by the realities of Eden.

But I’ron’s eyes gleamed with something fiercer. “You’re right,” he said at last. “But if he cannot summon aid from his home continent, why should he not bend this land’s warriors to his will? Why not conquer them, and raise their blades beneath his banner?”

Frost turned sharply, his gaze narrowing. “What are you saying?”

“The Monster Kings.”

Those words fell from I’ron’s lips like the toll of a funeral bell, and the weight of their meaning made Frost shiver. A silence fell between them.

“You’re trying to get Tenaria’s husband killed,” Frost said finally, his voice thick with disbelief. “You know what those beings are capable of. The Monster Kings wield strength enough to slaughter Awoken Ones without effort. There’s a reason humans steer clear of their dens, the same reason vast swaths of this forest remain untouched, wild, and unclaimed.”

But I’ron merely chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound like distant thunder. “And yet, he must grow. If he does not seize strength, death will claim him soon enough. He has two paths before him: defeat the Monster Kings, beginning with the Minotaur King, and command their mighty legions… or fall to the blades of the lords who already seek his ruin. And not merely his ruin, they will not stop at killing him. They will tear down his name, his memory. They will humiliate his family, grind his legacy into dust.”

He stepped closer to the water’s edge, his golden eyes burning with a dangerous light. “We both know the truth, Frost. Tenaria is gravely weakened. The spread of the Abyss Force has gnawed at her strength, hollowed out her creations. The forest, her children, the very land itself, all are shadows of what they were. If Asher falls, if the lords of men realize that the will of the very continent they tread upon walks among them in the form of a woman, and that she is vulnerable, what do you think they will do?”

Frost clenched his jaw, his frown deepening. He knew I’ron’s fears. He shared them. The Abyss Force had done more than weaken Tenaria’s creations, it had opened minds, hearts, and souls to the filth and corruption of the other side.

And humankind, with its endless hunger, its boundless greed, would not hesitate to defile what they could not conquer.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!