Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Chapter 520: Orc Tide [1]

Hooves thundered like rolling drums, three hundred strong, each belonging to a horse twice as broad, thick-necked, and muscle-bound as any creature of the surface. Their heavy gallop shook the stone beneath, a stampede of war-beasts surging through an underground road vast enough to let ten carriages drive side by side. At the head of the charge was Asher, cloak snapping like a banner behind him, his hands steady on the reins as Velmorne drove forward with relentless speed, hooves striking sparks from the polished stone.

“His Majesty! Open the gates!” a frontline sergeant roared, his voice booming through the cavernous passage. The shout carried like a battle horn, stirring his men into swift action. Soldiers strained at the massive gearwheels, iron chains clanking and rattling as the enormous double doors shuddered and groaned, pulled slowly inward.

Asher leaned low over Velmorne’s neck, the wind of his own momentum rushing against his face as he shot past the sergeant and his men, his paladins streaming behind him like a golden tide. They burst through the gateway into the surface world, and were struck by chaos.

It was as though he had ridden into hell itself. Fire dominated the horizon, orange and red tongues of flame devouring homes and barns alike, painting the sky in violent hues. The heat lashed at his skin, the smoke billowed thick and choking, rising in black pillars that smeared the heavens. Screams cut through the night air, shrieks of women, desperate cries of children, the dying wails of men. Beneath it all, the clamor of steel striking steel echoed endlessly, a cruel symphony of slaughter.

Asher’s golden eyes widened at the sight, their brilliance reflecting the inferno. With senses honed far beyond mortal measure, he heard everything at once, every clash of blades, every scream, every roof beam splitting under flame, from across the valley contained by the Ashkelon mountains.

The four mountains loomed high and immense around the burning settlement, their jagged cliffs forming a natural fortress that no army had ever breached. Together, they encircled the valley like colossal guardians of stone, a cradle of protection that had long shielded the people of Ashkelon. Yet now, even that cradle burned.

Once, families had built their lives here, farmers tilling rich fields, children running between cottages, merchants spreading their stalls near the roads. But now the farmland was ash, the cottages kindling, the fields blackened earth. Livelihoods and legacies vanished in an instant, swallowed by the madness of fire.

“Those cursed lunatics,” Asher growled, his voice low, edged with wrath. His jaw clenched so hard his molars ground against one another, the pressure sharp enough to send pain flaring into his gums. His hands tightened on the reins until his knuckles, beneath his gloves, whitened.

Orcs could not simply walk into Ashkelon, the fortress mountains barred their kind as though the land itself rejected them. But the Abyss Worshipers were different. They were men, once mortal like any other, but consumed by madness and reverence for Saelix.

Where an orc’s brute strength could never breach the mountain walls, a Worshiper’s profane rites could tear holes in reality. They could open rifts anywhere, letting the beasts of chaos pour through unchecked.

Asher’s jaw tightened. He knew these zealots glorified slaughter, etching and tattooing their flesh with the numbers of innocents they had killed. Some bore arms and faces entirely covered in bloody tallies, grotesque maps of murder worn with pride. Rage boiled through Asher’s veins, his golden eyes narrowing with a predator’s gleam.

A sudden crash shattered his thoughts, something flew out of the rolling smoke a few hundred yards ahead. The body hit the earth with sickening force, bones snapping beneath the weight. It was a Frontline soldier, his sword still clutched in hand, though a far larger axe jutted out of his chest, pinning him to the soil like a broken doll. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and glistening in the firelight.

Then, through the smoke, the beast emerged.

A hulking silhouette lumbered forward, seven feet of brute muscle and savagery. Its skin was the color of rot-stained moss, its lower tusks jutting upward past its snarling lips. Gray tribal tattoos wound across its body like scars branded by cruelty itself. It wore nothing but a necklace strung with finger bones and cracked teeth, and a battle-skirt of stitched hide that reeked of blood and smoke. Its bald head glistened with sweat as its yellow eyes locked on Asher.

With a thunderous roar, the orc yanked the axe free from the soldier’s chest, gore spraying the earth. Then it charged, pounding across the ruined ground like an enraged elephant, every step shaking the dirt beneath it.

Velmorne met the beast’s charge with one of his own. The unicorn steed’s hooves tore the earth, his horn catching firelight as his massive ten-and-a-half-foot frame surged forward like a living juggernaut. Empowered by the ancient blessing of the King’s Blood, Velmorne was no mere mount, but a beast born for war, every breath like a forge-fire. And upon his back rode Asher, ten feet tall himself, a towering warlord crowned in weathered silver armor.

To the orc, it was only in that final instant that realization dawned, the shadow he had dared to challenge was no man.

Ithamar slid free of its sheath with a shriek like tearing metal, its blade singing the song of death. A single stroke, fluid and merciless, carved through the air. The orc’s head snapped free from its shoulders, spinning, eyes still bulging with shock. A geyser of dark ichor burst from the thick neck, drenching the earth black. The headless body staggered two steps before crashing to the earth.

Asher did not slow. He spurred Velmorne through the veil of smoke, riding straight into the heart of chaos.

There, the streets boiled with orcs, hundreds of them. Some pounded villagers into the ground with crude clubs, their cries shrieking into the night. Others clashed with Frontline soldiers, brute strength hammering against discipline and steel.

Ice crawled from beneath Velmorne’s hooves, spreading in jagged streaks across the earth. The ground cracked as crystalline spikes erupted upward, impaling orcs from below. They screamed as the frost surged inward, invading their veins, splitting muscle and marrow, until their bodies burst into grotesque sculptures of shattered ice.

Even the flames recoiled before Asher’s presence. The fire guttered and hissed as the frost devoured it, smothering infernos that had raged only moments before. He was a frost storm given flesh, and as he rode, the eyes of his citizens found him, etched in awe, in relief, in reverence.

Ahead, the street rumbled with fresh thunder. A greater tide surged forward, an entire wave of orcs flooding the thoroughfare. Most were the common breed, green-skinned brutes carrying chipped axes and jagged cleavers. But among them rose greater horrors: red-skinned orcs, eight-and-a-half feet tall, their massive crude axes glowing faintly with heat. Their flesh shimmered with an unnatural furnace-fire, the air around them rippling with waves of blistering heat that distorted their hulking forms.

Asher’s lips pressed into a cold, thin line. His grip tightened on Ithamar as Velmorne raised its forelegs and neighed, not out of fear but anticipation.