Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything! - Chapter 500: Battle Of Dura [3]

Chapter 500: Battle Of Dura [3]

The grassland of Dura, once a vast plain of peace, a place one could just stand and stare into the endless expanse, enjoying a view of peace and otherworldliness.

The sound of millions of grass blades fluttering as the wind danced through them refreshed and soothed the mind. A sacred hush used to linger here, like the land itself was holding its breath in gentle awe.

But currently, those same grass were trampled under the hooves of soldiers, hundreds of thousands of them at each others’ throats.

Their war cries shattered the stillness, and blood seeped into soil that had known only dew and sun.

The clouds rumbled thunderously, dark as ash, and bolts were launched from ballistas with screams louder than thunder. The ones from the United North Alliance found their mark in some titans, flesh-ripping projectiles thudding into monstrous forms. Some stumbled, shaking the earth with every falter; others snarled, yanked the shafts from their bodies, and surged forward with wrathful eyes burning like furnace coals.

From the side of Ashbourne, the dragon-head ballistas roared, formidable weapons shaped like beasts, spitting iron with hellish speed. Their payloads tore through the skies, impaling Swiftwings who had been circling above like patient vultures. Splashes of red mist burst in the air as some riders were skewered clean through, wide-eyed in disbelief as they spiraled downward, crashing with thunderclaps of steel and bone.

As Asher and his men drew closer, Aaron squinted through the haze and realized, despite the number of bolts they’d unleashed, the number of men downed on Asher’s side was pitiful.

Only fewer than a dozen titans had fallen… and some weren’t even dead, just angrier.

“Have our Heavy Cavalry meet them. Send the Immortals,” Aaron commanded. His voice was low but sharp as steel drawn across flint. Then his dragon, black-scaled with crimson eyes, took a bold step forward, flexed its wings and with a gust that bent nearby pines ascended into the skies.

Garen, wore his great helm, its visor carved with old runes and unsheathed his sword with a metallic hiss. He tugged the reins of his steed, and it began to walk. Behind him, twenty-five thousand heavy cavalry responded, an army of silence. These were the Immortals, undying warriors who could not perish unless their heads were severed. Veterans of forgotten wars, they traced their cursed legacy back to a forbidden army-creating process birthed in the Abyss Age.

Clad in heavy silver armor, their plate gleamed with ancient symbols, and their eyes glowed faintly behind visors. Each rode a towering warhorse, also plated in armour that clanked and groaned with every step. Their lances were iron pikes long enough to skewer three men at once, raised skyward like a metallic forest waiting to fall.

Front walking, their pace became a gallop. The earth trembled under their unified might, quaking with every stride as if the plains of Dura were waking up to a storm older than time. Yet even this awe-inspiring advance was nearly eclipsed by the raw brutality charging in from the north. The black flag.

It fluttered wildly, as the beastkin rumbled through the plains like unleashed thunder. Their formation was wild, untamed but no less deadly. Clawed feet tore up the earth. War howls rose. And in their eyes burned a savage joy for the bloodletting to come.

“No formation, no discipline. This is going to be a slaughter.” Nephis smiled faintly, her voice carrying a razor’s edge of amusement. She tilted her head toward Yuna, who sat atop a tall silver-maned stallion, staring at the battlefield below without the slightest twitch of emotion. Her face was still as stone, eyes unreadable.

“Your husband will win this war effortlessly. He will take the head of the man who slaughtered your family,” Nephis added, her tone soft, almost mockingly gentle.

Yuna glanced at her, her eyes like cold glass. “We both know the truth,” she said quietly. “The same way we both know only men need formations and strategy. What Lord Asher leads is a horde of beasts.” Her gaze sharpened, following the wild surge of Ashbourne’s army. “I see a slaughter too. But the opposite of what you see.”

Nephis’s smile died. Her jaw clenched. “You deserved what you got.”

Just then, the two sides collided.

The ground thundered like a happening earthquake as the Immortals lowered their lances and met the monstrous tide head-on. The clash was explosive, steel met flesh, bones snapped like branches, and screams tore through the wind. But almost immediately, the illusion of dominance shattered.

The charge of the Iron Saints, Ashbourne’s monstrous front line could not be held back. Instead of falling before the Immortals’ perfect wedge, they broke it. The Immortals, for all their fearsome armor and centuries of battle-hardened poise, were launched from their horses like dolls struck by a battering ram. Some were crushed beneath the hooves of their own comrades, others speared to death.

And yet, the silver lances did their work.

Dozens of Wolf-men were impaled, Werelions torn apart mid-leap, and even Minotaurs gored before they reached the cavalry line. The first wave of beastkin reeled from the impact, but the victory was fleeting.

Once the Immortals had gone deep into the Ashbourne horde, everything changed.

There, among the dense wave of monsters, the beastkin had space to unleash their savagery. Massive Minotaurs hurled riders from their mounts like broken toys. Some skewered horse and man in a single motion, their horns bursting through armor and rib alike. Werelions leapt across entire ranks, tearing through necks and breastplates with claws that could shear steel. Wolf-men scrambled beneath the legs of horses, gutting them from beneath and dragging riders down into snarling maws.

The brutal difference in raw strength became horrifyingly clear.

Immortals, supposedly undying, were being cleaved apart along with their horses. Limbs flew. Blood sprayed in high arcs. An entire column of silver-armored cavalry vanished in moments, buried beneath a tide of roaring, howling beasts.

Above the chaos, Aaron watched in disbelief. His face darkened, and with a snarl he spurred his dragon downward. The beast tucked its wings and dropped like a meteor, its black scales glinting with firelight.

Then, flames erupted from its maw.

A cone of white-hot fire spilled across the battlefield, engulfing dozens, perhaps a hundred of Ashbourne’s warriors in an instant. Their screams didn’t last long. Flesh blackened, bone melted, and the air turned to smoke and ash.

Aaron pulled the reins, and his dragon ascended once more, wings flapping powerfully as it rose above the battlefield. Ballista bolts flew past, a few close enough to whistle by his ears, but none struck true.

As he climbed higher, safe again in the sky, Aaron looked down at the burning trail of carnage he had carved. A cocky smile crept across his face, slow and cruel, as he watched Asher’s men roast.

His eyes scanned the battlefield, sweeping across the chaos of blood and fire, until they finally found him.

There amid the clash of titans and the screams of dying men was Asher. Mounted atop Velmorne, he sat still as a statue. His Kingsword hung loosely in his hand, the blood dripping from its edge. He wasn’t looking at the carnage around him. He was looking at one man, Garen.

And Garen saw him too.

Both men, astride their war mounts, locked eyes across the sea of slaughter. Neither blinked. The weight of grudges unspoken and promises unkept, hung in the silence between them like a sword above the world.

Then they moved.

First a walk. Hooves clopped softly in the bloodied earth. But that slow pace surged into a thunderous gallop. Dirt exploded beneath their mounts, sparks flew from hooves striking broken steel, and soldiers scattered as the two titans hurtled toward one another like comets set on collision.

Asher leaned forward, holding his Kingsword low and horizontal, the blade humming with frozen mana. His eyes narrowed, breath steady. The man he was about to face wasn’t just a foe. He was Garen, the fourth-ranking knight in the entire continent, renowned, feared, revered.

When the distance between them vanished, their swords clashed.

The impact wasn’t sound, it was force incarnate. A shockwave burst outward, distorting the very air, rippling space around them, and sending nearby soldiers flying like ragdolls.

Asher’s mana flared with raw intensity. A frosty mist hissed from the Kingsword, curling around the blade like a living thing. He yanked Velmorne around with a swift pull of the reins, spinning the mount to face Garen, who had turned his own warhorse with equal precision.

“I promised to kill you the next time we met!” Garen bellowed, voice echoing with fury. Flames burst from his right eye, bright and wild, licking across his brow. His blade ignited, fiery spirals wrapping around the weapon like a vengeful spirit. Even the mane and hooves of his horse transformed, crackling with fire as the beast reared and neighed.

Then he charged.

Asher took a single, calm breath.

This time, the black stallion moved like lightning, faster than Garen had anticipated. Too fast. But Garen was no amateur. He twisted his burning blade into a sweeping arc, releasing a roaring torrent of flame in a horizontal slash that scorched the air.

But Asher wasn’t there.

He had leapt up, into the sky, twisting midair.

With both hands gripping the Kingsword, Asher brought it down his momentum and mana converging into a single, devastating vertical strike. The blade sang through the sky, unleashing a streak of ice. The very air froze. A howling gale followed.

The blow cleaved down.

Garen’s horse shrieked as it was sliced clean through, split into two halves by the frozen edge. Garen leapt back at the last possible instant, crashing into the ground as his steed fell apart.

Asher landed smoothly on Velmorne, his Kingsword still humming with frost. He wheeled the horse around, eyes locked on Garen, who was staggering to his feet. His helm had fallen, revealing a face smeared with ash and sweat, but grinning with a wild gleam.

“You trained,” Garen chuckled, wiping blood from his chin.

Asher said nothing. He removed his gauntlet with one swift motion, baring his palm. Then, with cold precision, he sliced it open. Blood welled up, dripping down the hilt of his blade. He knew what was coming. Garen would go all out now.

Overhead, the sky seemed to darken not from storm clouds, but from wings.

The silhouette of a dragon emerged through the smoke. A black dragon.

Its massive form blotted out the light for a moment, and it was reflected perfectly in Garen’s wide eyes.

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