Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything! - Chapter 441

Chapter 441: Stromdrake Legion
12th Month Of Year 526, New Age.

Falcons circled high in the bright snowing skies, their cries echoing above the vast expanse of blue sea. Below them, a colossal vessel—an Estate Ship—cut through the waves like a drifting fortress. It was a marvel of engineering, so massive it could carry up to 20,000 souls and still glide like a behemoth with grace.

But this Estate Ship was not alone.

Several meters away, another just like it sailed in parallel, and further still—kilometers beyond the horizon—loomed a City Ship, a floating titan larger than most royal capitals. It was a city in every sense: towers, domes, streets, and plazas all nestled atop its immense frame, a wonder few in the world could even dream of.

Yet, among these leviathans, it was the first Estate Ship that held the greatest significance—for upon its deck stood Asher Ashbourne, the sovereign lord of these ships and the realm they embodied.

Clad in a long black coat that snapped in the salty wind, Asher stood far from the clustered buildings of the upper deck. His snow-white hair billowed behind him like a silver banner, and his golden eyes—cold, sharp, and regal—gazed over the legion assembled before him.

Eighteen thousand naval soldiers stood in formation on the deck, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, a living sea of leather and discipline stretching as far as the eye could see.

Once, these men and women were slaves—broken bodies chained to cruel masters, forced into backbreaking labor with no end in sight. But here, aboard the ships of Ashbourne, they had been reborn.

Fed well, given purpose, and trained relentlessly in the Path of Iron—a battle force art that honed both body and mind—they had forged themselves anew. The Path of Iron preached an ideal: to temper the flesh until it became unyielding, as indestructible as forged iron. And these eighteen thousand had answered that call.

They now stood as gold-ranked knights, the first true step into the sanctum of knighthood. In most kingdoms, that alone would command reverence and status. But in Ashbourne’s domain, where enchanted crops and miracle meals empowered even the lowest-born to greatness, gold rank was merely the standard. Anything less was unworthy of the Ashbourne military.

At the head of the formation stood a man with flowing blue hair, his bearing noble and poised. Like the others, he wore a black studded leather vest over a simple linen tunic, braced forearms, fitted linen pants tucked into sturdy leather boots. A wooden shield hung at his back, and in his grasp was a long, polished spear—its tip gleaming in the sunlight.

He stood at attention, a symbol of unity and strength, awaiting the command of the lord who had liberated and forged them.

He was Aegon, once a slave, though noble by birth. His lineage had been erased when Everard’s forces butchered his kin and razed his homeland. What remained of his identity now belonged to Ashbourne, the realm that had given him a second life—and a cause to fight for.

Aegon had proven himself early. Born with a rare, supreme-grade talent, he could breathe and move underwater with the effortless grace of a sea creature. It was this gift, and the discipline he’d carved from pain and perseverance, that earned Lord Finn’s attention—and his command over the naval force.

Still, nothing had prepared him for the sight that now stood before him.

‘This is him…?!’

Aegon’s pupils trembled as his gaze locked on the man before him—Asher Ashbourne—a towering figure in black, his snow-white hair flowing like threads of starlight, flanked by warriors who defied all reason.

Asher, himself stood at seven feet, but he was the smallest. Beside him loomed an eight-foot-tall man, a monster of muscle and poise: Nero, the snake eye. And around them, four paladins, each matching Nero’s height and wrapped in layered armor of dull gold gleam.

‘They’re giants…!’

Aegon sucked in a breath, stunned. In all his life, he’d never set foot beyond the City Ship, never touched the mainland. The stories he’d heard from wandering bards and drunken veterans—of towering soldiers, of scarlet-armored titans weighing over a ton, of cities buried deep in the earth and floating isles lost in the sky—had always seemed like drunkards’ tales.

Yet here they were. Living legends. Breathing proof.

And in their midst stood the man who ruled over this miraculous domain, whose presence alone felt heavier than iron and more commanding than the sea itself.

Aegon dropped to one knee and bellowed, “We greet His Lordship!”

Eighteen thousand soldiers followed in perfect unison, banging their spears against their shields three times, the thunder echoing like a tidal wave crashing against steel walls.

Asher did not speak. He merely offered the faintest of smiles—an expression that chilled more than it comforted.

Aegon felt a flicker of shame.

His hands, calloused and steady through years of battle and training, trembled. He was the only veteran knight among these eighteen thousand. And yet… he knew what Asher saw in them.

Weakness.

They were gold-ranked, yes—but in Ashbourne, where food worked miracles and battle force arts were taught like scripture, gold ranked was ordinary. The navy, in Asher’s eyes, was a novelty, not a war machine.

Compared to the Grand Aegis and Frontline army—a legion of record-breaking warriors clad in armor forged from rare metals, feared across all the northern territories—the Stormdrakes were little more than sea-born squires.

And Aegon, for all his pride, could see it now. Clear as the ocean’s floor.

They were not yet worthy.

[Criteria for upgrade has been met: Six months of intensive training. Would the host like to upgrade the gold-ranked Stormdrake Knights into Enchanted Diamond-ranked Stormdrakes? Yes or No?]

‘Yes,’ Asher replied inwardly, giving the slightest nod.

In an instant, golden light erupted from the bodies of the Stormdrake knights, streaking into the skies like golden flames. Gasps echoed across the deck as every one of the eighteen thousand stared at their own glowing forms in disbelief.

Then—

Boom!

The light intensified, blindingly brilliant, enveloping the sea-born soldiers in a bright storm. Their eyes widened as a deep stillness fell over them, and then—a flood.

Their minds were thrown open as the Mortal Scroll activated, pouring battle experience into their souls like a roaring waterfall. Tactics, reflexes, formations, instincts—they saw battles they had never fought, lived lives they had never lived. A decade of martial growth collapsed into seconds.

And their bodies responded.

Muscles coiled and reformed, limbs lengthened, bones hardened. They screamed—not in pain, but in awe—as their bodies morphed to match the warrior spirits now blazing inside them.

What once were weathered slaves reborn as gold-ranked knights now towered with lean, predatory physiques, each one rising to seven feet, with the genetically blessed breaking past seven-foot-four.

Their old armor could not contain what they had become.

The black leather cracked and flared, combusting in streaks of golden fire, only to be replaced by a new ensemble that made even Nero blink.

They were clad in iron mesh, dense yet flexible—twice as thick as ordinary chainmail, hugging their bodies like a second skin. Over it, instead of a full cuirass, they wore a sharp V-shaped chestplate, forged with angular ridges to deflect blows rather than absorb them.

Vambraces of reinforced silver, pauldrons that jutted like shark fangs, and bladed helms completed the look—each helmet adorned with fin-like protrusions from the top and sides, leaving only the eyes, nose, and mouth exposed for intimidation.

The final touches descended like royalty: a white plume cascading from each helm, matched with flowing white cloaks that fluttered behind them like banners of war.

Their wooden shields were gone, replaced by polished silver-steel rounds, engraved with the Ashbourne crest. Their spears, replaced for tridents, longer, sleeker, deadlier—tips gleaming like blades freshly drawn from a forge.

Now, standing before Asher, were not mere men.

They were eighteen thousand diamond-ranked Stormdrakes—veteran knights clad in sea-born war gear, their armor enchanted to feel as light as leather in water, yet able to withstand siege-grade force.

Their gazes were sharp and merciless, predators of the sea reborn as champions of the tide.

And at the head of them, stood Aegon.

Unlike the silver-armored elite behind him, his armor shimmered gold, radiant and proud. The battle force of an Ancient-ranked Knight pulsed from his form, fluid like the sea yet intense like a tide.

He clenched his jaw, breathing heavily.

He knew.

This transformation… this impossible leap in power…

It was Asher.

Only he could bend the rules of growth and pour years of mastery into seconds.

Was it permanent? Aegon didn’t know. But even if it wasn’t, even if it lasted only an hour.

This was power. Outrageous power.

And now it was theirs.