Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!-Chapter 486: The Mad Duke Is Alive

Although he was already close to the gate, the moment the commander turned around, his eyes flew wide in disbelief.

From the shadowed treeline, hundreds of titans erupted, towering monstrosities clad in obsidian-black armor and flowing white cloaks, like wrathful guardians forged by the hands of a forgotten god. Their eyes glowed faintly behind their helms, and their sheer size made the giant tree smaller in comparison.

Some hurled massive axes and shields with terrifying force, so great the very air screamed as it split. When those weapons struck, soldiers didn’t fall, they exploded into red mist, limbs flung like broken dolls.

The crushing weight of their presence alone pressed against the chest like a boulder. The commander had heard of giants before, tales whispered over firelight, but nothing in those stories had prepared him for this. These were not mere giants. These were something more.

"Open the gates!" he bellowed, voice cracking, tears stinging his eyes as the gate creaked, halfway shut.

Behind him, the titans charged, ground trembling beneath their footfalls. Ballistas fired in desperation, bolts shrieking through the sky. Some found their mark, slamming into the oncoming monsters. Yet even when impaled, the titans did not slow. Some shattered the bolts midair. Others kept moving, unstoppable, as if pain were beneath them.

Finally, his horse thundered into the fortress courtyard. He dismounted in a scramble, nearly falling as his boots hit the stone, chest heaving with every breath.

Soldiers rushed to his side, one of them offering a leather bag filled with water. He drank deeply, half the contents spilling down his chin.

Wiping his mouth, he turned sharply to one of the men. "Where’s the Count? He needs to inform the king immediately. The fortress won’t hold, not against that. It just can’t!"

"Calm down," came a firm, composed voice from behind.

The commander froze, then turned to face the man who had spoken, a tall figure in gleaming, thick-plated armor, resting one gauntleted hand lazily on the hilt of his longsword.

His face bore a calm, almost amused smile. A soft, confident expression that made the commander’s blood boil. He wanted to wipe it off with a dagger.

"We have over fifty ballistas, thirty trebuchets, and a few priests. We’ll hold them for a few days," the man added coolly.

The commander clenched his fists. "My general, an Awoken One led five thousand men into that forest, and he hasn’t come out. That means he’s dead. Those weren’t just giants, they were something else entirely! Set up those priests now and send word to the king—"

"You don’t give orders here," the general snapped, voice suddenly cold, iron in every syllable. His expression hardened.

He was a man of Intis, raised on discipline and pride, commander of this stronghold. The man before him, just a lowborn officer under House Nethaneel. They were allies, yes, but allies didn’t bark demands.

Before the commander could reply, a boom split the air.

A deafening crack shook the fortress walls. An arrow, no, a spear-sized projectile, thicker than a tree trunk and longer than a war horse, came hurtling through the outer stone wall with terrifying force.

Its enormous, triangular tip punched through and emerged from the inner side, just feet from where they stood.

Time seemed to freeze.

Sand and shards of stone rained down on their faces. The air tasted of dust and dread. All eyes locked on the monstrous arrowhead, still trembling from the impact, embedded deep in the fortress like a warning from death itself.

Silence followed.

The Intis commander spun toward his men, urgency etched into every line of his face. "Ring the bell! Call the priests. Have every soldier come right here, now! And someone, someone, make sure the Count is notified," he barked, voice sharp and desperate. "Only he can write to the king. Move!"

Around him, the fortress erupted into motion. The heavy thuds of marching boots thundered through the courtyards, forming a grim counter-rhythm to the chaos outside. Yet deeper within the fortress, all was far from alarm.

In the inner quarters, a grand open-air hall stood adorned with silk banners and polished lanterns. A festival was in full swing.

Hundreds had gathered, wealthy merchants, minor nobles, visiting envoys, lounging on velvet cushions and chairs gilded in bronze. Servants moved like ghosts through the crowd, pouring wine and carrying trays of roasted meats. Laughter echoed under the stone arches.

At the heart of it all, a staged mock-battle unfolded. Two entertainers clashed swords, clad in exaggerated armor with plumes and polished breastplates. One wore a flowing golden wig, the other a powdered white one. The crowd hollered and clapped as the golden-haired actor, playing the part of Prince Aaron, kicked the white-wigged "Blood King" to the ground.

With an overly dramatic sneer, he drove his blade through the actor’s chest, carefully hidden beneath the folds of the costume, and hoisted the man into the air.

"The Blood King doesn’t even know how to hold a sword properly," he scoffed, voice laced with mockery.

The audience roared with laughter. The actor playing the Blood King went limp, then was tossed aside with a theatrical grunt.

"I brought fewer men than him, and not one of mine was killed. Weaklings," the actor continued, spitting in disdain. "Weak Northern Wastelanders."

The crowd erupted again, clapping and cheering. Among them, seated at a raised ceremonial table draped in purple silk, sat the Count and his wife, flanked by his officials and retainers.

The Count chuckled heartily, goblet in hand. A slim man in his late forties with carefully trimmed facial hair and rings on every finger, he looked more like a merchant prince than a wartime noble.

His features bore the elegance of high blood, he was, after all, a relative of Duchess Nyx, and shared her noble surname.

"This is quite entertaining," he said with a smirk, swirling the wine in his goblet. "To think the so-called greatest swordsman of the North couldn’t last even a few bouts against Prince Aaron."

His wife, a poised woman in her mid-thirties with auburn hair wrapped in gold thread, leaned over delicately. With a gentle smile, she sliced a piece of seasoned meat and raised it to his mouth. "Are you sure he lasted that long?" she asked softly, almost teasing.

Still chewing, the Count replied with a chuckle, "I heard he begged for his life before the second strike. Even offered to give up his lovely wife in exchange."

Her eyebrows rose in amusement. "Truly?"

"Straight from the mouths of the mages who accompanied my sister. That boy was nothing before true power."

He leaned back, opening his mouth once more, waiting to be fed.

But before the meat reached him, the first sound of the bell rang through the hall, deep, sonorous, and jarring. It echoed across the stone walls like a cry of warning.

The laughter stilled.

Everyone froze.

A second toll followed. Then a third.

The count sat up slowly, the humor fading from his face.

The bell never rang unless the fortress was under direct threat.

Five times it rang. And then came the tremors.

The ground shuddered. Goblets clinked. Trays toppled. A low, deep rumble rolled through the floor beneath their feet, like the growl of something ancient awakening from beneath the earth.

Panic crept into the crowd like a slow-moving wave. One woman gasped. A servant dropped a bottle of wine.

The moment the Count stepped outside, the world had already unraveled into chaos.

Screams echoed across the fortress. Soldiers ran in every direction, some to take positions, others simply fleeing. Flaming debris littered the courtyards, and acrid smoke curled into the sky.

But it was the sight beyond the inner gate that stole his breath.

One of the outer walls had been breached, stone shattered, iron torn like parchment. And through the gaping wound strode a giant. Towering, monstrous, its black armor filled with bolts, the titan moved with terrifying ease, each step shaking the earth.

More were on the other sides, pounding at the walls with fists like siege hammers. With every blow, the fortress groaned in protest, the stones no match for such brute, overwhelming strength.

"Great God..." the Count whispered, voice barely escaping his lips. He staggered back, but his eyes were drawn upward.

Floating high above the battlefield, above the chaos, the fire, the falling wall fragments, was a figure. freewebnσvel.cøm

He hovered as if the laws of nature bowed to him. A white mantle whipped around his shoulders, coiling in the wind like a banner of judgment. Beneath it, his black armor glinted like dragon-scale. And his eyes...they burned gold, not with rage, but with purpose. Cold, and piercing.

Long white hair flowed past his shoulders and down his back, catching the sunlight in strands that gleamed like silver.

The Count’s knees buckled. His soul, steeped in wine and mockery for years, now drowned in dread.

"It’s him..." he croaked, throat dry. His trembling hand shot out and grabbed the arm of his bodyguard, pulling him close.

"It’s him!" he cried, face pale as death. "The madman! The deranged lord who slaughtered Everard! He’s going to kill everyone! Get me out of here!"

In his terror, he forgot decorum. Forgot pride. Forgot his wife. The guards around him tried to form a defensive ring, but he shoved them aside like furniture, dragging only his closest guard toward the nearest stairway.

Behind him, his wife remained frozen. She turned slowly toward the sky, eyes wide, mouth agape.

"Didn’t you say..." she whispered, voice cracking, "didn’t you say... he didn’t last a single bout...?"

Her hands trembled at her sides as she looked to her husband, as if seeking some sliver of assurance. Of leadership. Of strength.

None came.

There was no answer, only the thunder of giants, the crack of stone, and the chilling truth settling in:

It was every man for himself.

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