Stories have been told, countless as stars—scrawled on scrolls, carved in stone, sung in taverns near and far. Legends of old, of valor and flame, of forgotten kings and beasts none could tame. Yet among these tales, one rises tall. A tale not first, but finest of all.

It is not the story of the first Mage who hunted a dragon, nor of a runaway princess hidden in a wagon. Not a saga of chosen kings or swords pulled from stone—no, this tale stands proud on its own.

This is the story of a noble lord, no less than divine. A man whose presence stilled tempests, whose wrath made mountains incline. He bore a spear in one hand, magic in the other, and with both, he shaped fate like clay bringing life where once lay decay.

They said he killed the hunger of famine with a single harvest’s bloom. That when beasts roared and Mages loomed, he met their fury, met their gloom. He stared injustice in the face, even when it wore his brother’s shape, and cast his judgment with unshaking grace.

He healed the sick, burned out plague with light, turned darkest night into morning bright. Yet this tale, this hallowed page, speaks not of courts or cities sage.

It speaks of sand. Of orcs and storms. Of a desert where chaos had taken form.

The noble lord ventured forth, chasing whispers of a gift left behind—his mother’s will, wrapped in time. But what he found was a land split wide: where orcs roamed free and men had died. Where chains bit skin and tyrants ruled, where cruelty thrived and justice cooled.

And so he stood between the sword and the scream, between what was broken and what should have been. Not alone, no, he was never alone. With him came comrades tried and true—men with steel and a woman with spirits few could subdue.

Through dunes that swallowed bones and sun that scorned the skies, they walked, unbowed, with fire in their eyes. The noble lord, with a voice like thunder and calm like rain, brought justice to a land drowned in pain.

Where beasts lay buried and orcs struck wild, He rose—a storm, a flame, the heavens’ child.

So let this tale be carved in mind, dear reader. Not of crowns, not of fate, but of a man who stood straighter than towers, who held no throne but bore the weight. A tale of might and magic, of righteousness tall. The story of a lord who brought justice to all.

And so it begins. The tale of spear and sand and magic.

It told of a dream, so vivid, so true, that even waking men began to doubt the world around them. The dream was seen by the noble lord, whose blood ran rich with legacy, and whose mother had hidden a gift—ancient, mighty, too grand for common fate.

With that vision seared in his mind, the noble lord made a vow—not for glory, nor for gold, but for purpose. To claim what was left, to uncover what was sealed, and to see it through to its rightful end. Thus began a journey of grit and resolve, carved not by roads but by will.

And with him went seven.

One forged from fire, whose rage lit the sky. One cloaked in silence, a figure of shadow and unseen eyes. A woman storm-born, whose laughter crackled and whose words summoned thunder. A girl untested, too young to bleed, yet chosen to learn. A son of the sand, quiet and scarred, who walked as one with the desert. Then two more—pupils of fate. One, a beast in form and strength. The other, a boy… who was me.

A bard too early handed a blade, yet gifted in tongue and steel alike. Awestruck by the lord, I made a silent oath—to tell his tale, to share his truth, so that others might learn what greatness looked like when it walked.

Their journey began at dawn, beneath a sky kissed by gold. In a carriage borne by the noble lord himself, they rode with purpose. But the first danger did not greet them under sun—it waited beneath.

The Cave of Spiders and Bats.

A place where venom dripped like rain and fangs gleamed sharper than steel. Yet the beasts of night, old and cruel, held no ground before the companions of the god-touched man. Through web and claw, spell and blade, they carved a path, silencing the dark and tearing through the first trial like wind through canvas.

Beyond the cave lay the Burnt Land. Scarred and godless covered in sand.

It was the tribal who led them, his feet upon cursed soil. Mana was void. The sun unrelenting. Each breath a burden, each step a test. Yet still, they marched—through storms and silence, through beasts that hid beneath the sand. They walked not as wanderers, but as those who knew their place in fate.

And then came the first true obstacle.

A village torn asunder, cries lost to wind, blood soaked in dust. Orcs had come—not as raiders, but as reapers. Sand tribals fell beneath brute force and cruel laughter.

The noble lord’s fury burst at the sight, for before the stars could claim the night, he had already seen the truth—the tyranny of the orcs laid bare in fire and cries.

And thus, began the reckoning.

As a noble lord, he did not hesitate. Bound by creed, forged in purpose, he stepped forth and planted the first seed—of rebellion, and of hope.

The orcs fell to steel and storm, their charge broken in mere moments by the might of the companions. Strength met courage, and courage did not yield. The humans were saved. But peace was fleeting, for grim news followed by a scorched breeze.

A city burned at the edge of the horizon.

And so the great lord moved—carriage abandoned, pace unrelenting—toward flame and ruin. But when he arrived, only ashes remained. The tribals had survived… but not all. The children were gone, stolen amidst the smoke. Taken for reasons none dared speak.

Yet from that blaze came more than sorrow.

The native—silent guardian of the sand—found his kin among the survivors. A brother, long-lost. But joy gave way to regret, for the reunion came too late, and the fire had already claimed what time could not return.

Still, grief had no room to linger. The great lord turned to the tribes.

They met him with doubt.

To them, he was an outsider, cloaked in glory and unknown names. They did not trust what they could not hold. But trust, like thrones, is earned in battle. And so, the noble lord offered a duel.

Five warriors. The strongest among them. One night.

By dawn, they had all fallen—defeated not through pride, but precision. Through clarity, and through grace. In that moment, the tribes saw not a stranger, but a figure worthy of respect. They gave him the approval—not allegiance, but recognition. A temporary bond that was more than enough for the path beyond.

For from their words, he learned of the true enemy.

A figure shrouded in smoke and fame. A name feared and hated in equal breath.

The Orc Tyrant.

Not born to power, but built upon theft. A creature who had clawed his way to dominion by leeching from the sacred gift the noble lord’s mother had once hidden. A gift not meant for war, but twisted into a throne of bones.

The lord heard the tale, and made a vow beneath the desert stars.

He would slay the tyrant.

He would end his reign.

He would return the sands to those who lived by their laws, not their blades.

And thus began a new quest.

One not of blades alone, but of unity. To bring together every scattered tribe, every corner of resistance, and forge them into a force of independence and fire.

Few believed him. But belief had never been his fuel.

So he walked. Through storm and silence. Through battle and siege. He moved across the sands, freeing tribe after tribe from the grip of orcish terror until whispers of his name became more than story.

They became a dream of hope and glory.

With thunderous acclaim and a tribal chief beside him, the great lord rode once more toward a village on the verge, its peace fractured by orcish surge. Yet this time, it was not he alone who stood the storm, but his companions as well—flames at their fingertips, lightning in their cries, their strength unleashed beneath burning skies.

The orcs were captured, their plans laid bare. And from their trembling lips came the truth—what the tyrant sought was never just war, but the tower, sacred and sealed. A relic of the noble lord’s mother, mistaken to be hidden by tribal decree. Power hoarded, faith distorted—thus was the tyrant’s creed.

War he waged, a ceaseless tide, bathing the dunes in crimson pride.

Realization struck like a sword unsheathed. The tyrant’s ambition was clear: conquer the tower, rule without peer. And so the noble lord made his vow—not whispered, not quiet, but carved into fate: to slay the tyrant and rally the tribes before it was too late.

He called a gathering, a council of flame and thorn, where voices rose sharp and scorn was sworn. There, he faced not only fear, but fury—men who called for his head before hearing his plea. Yet still he stood, unwavering. His proposal? To lead the charge himself, to cut the tyrant down and drive the orcs from sacred ground.

Accepted it was, though bitterly so.

With his resolve unshaken, the lord turned to the sands, eyes locked on the horizon and the tower that waited beyond man’s hands. Another tribal joined him—one whose past was hidden in dust, whose future would be forged in trust.

Yet might alone could not win this war.

The lord moved not just with sword, but with mind—deceit and trickery his tools this time. He let the orcs believe he was their god’s own kin, sent to guide them through death and sin.

Through danger and dunes they moved as one, companions cloaked beneath the noonday sun. Until at last the tower rose from heat and haze—majestic and dark, a monument to forgotten days.

Made of charred stone and divine wrath, it stood tall, ancient and grim along their path. The orcs had carved through its skin, a gaping hole where reverence had once been. Thinking it a gift from a god unknown, they tore through relics, flesh, and bone.

And thus began the final descent—Into sacred halls defiled and bent.

For the tyrant believed the tower his right… But little he knew, he would meet the Lord of Light.

The lord’s retribution had arrived, and with it came fire, fury, and fate. His heart was set to free the stolen, to claim what was his, to bring justice to the tower defiled. With companions behind and purpose before, he climbed.

And there, amid the shattered stone and divine echo, the tyrant joined him—mad in might, crazed by stolen power, believing the tower his birthright alone.

He ascended swiftly, clearing traps and breaking seals, blind to the truth that he carried the noble lord in his wake. For though he led, it was the lord who watched, and waited.

At the summit, the truth stood tall.

The tyrant turned and found not loyalty, but the man revered by all. The air grew heavy, the sky above hushed. There were wasted words, but blades were louder and battle was rushed.

The tyrant struck, his hatred for man burning in every blow. But the lord did not back down.

As their battle began, the companions scattered below, locked in their own war with the orcish swarm. Magic clashed with blade. Power met technique. The end was written in every spark and scream.

Madness drove the tyrant forward, relentless and wild, his rage overflowing like fire untamed.

The Lord called forth giants of flame—titanic beasts born of will and wrath—to crush the tyrant beneath molten fists. But the foe was no common beast. The tyrant bore gauntlets, stolen from sacred vaults, ablaze with ancient fire.

One by one, the giants fell.

Wounds seared by lightning closed as the tyrant roared, his strength swelling… yet his fate approaching.

Knowing defeat drew near, he drank of liquid mana, a desperate draught to fuel the hate that hollowed his soul. But the lord had not yet begun to fight in earnest.

Upward he soared, toward storm and flame, his cloak trailing like twilight behind fame.

The sky split as flame painted the firmament. And from it came the answer.

The Cosmic Tribulation.

A dragon of celestial fire. It roared like the heavens torn, its wings casting shadow over the sun, its eyes burning with fate.

Lost in his rage, the tyrant met the dragon head-on—madness in his eyes, flame in his fists. But against a creature born of tribulation, forged from divine fire and righteous wrath, his strength was smoke, his fury dust.

His fate was written in the stars above, yet still he fought. Still he roared and he dreamed.

He believed himself chosen—destined to rule, to rise, to seize the world beneath his heel. But the heavens do not bend for the deluded.

The dragon answered. It struck with fire older than time, and the tyrant’s resistance shattered like glass in a storm. Swallowed whole, his screams silenced in flame, he was cast back to earth—spat out onto the sands from which he came.

The noble lord descended, silent as dusk. Wind curled at his back and judgment in his eyes.

He stood over the broken tyrant, offering one last breath, one final chance. A moment to see the ruin he had wrought. A moment to grasp the weight of his sins.

But madness had long devoured the mind behind those eyes. And so the lord ended it so he couldn’t rise.

With a single stroke, he severed the head of the tyrant king—the warlord of sand, the usurper of power, the beast who had dared defile his mother’s gift.

Thus fell the ruler of ruin.

And with him, the desert was freed.

The tribes gathered, their chains broken, their hearts unbound. They looked to the great lord not as man, but as myth. They called him god. They offered gold, thrones, and worship.

But the noble lord refused.

He had no throne to sit, no time to linger. He had seen too many crowns lead to blood. Instead, he gave the desert back to its people.

He told them— build. Unite. Bury old grudges, and raise new homes.

“A city,” he said, “where no tyrant may rise again—

The sound of footsteps pulled Kael from the final line.

He lifted his quill, staring down at the pages before him, the ink still fresh.

Behind him, the heavy clink of armor echoed, and when he turned, he saw Feroy approaching—sand-streaked, sweat-drenched, and grinning like a fool.

His hair was frayed, his chestplate scuffed.

Clearly, he’d been sparring again. Likely taking on multiple Sand Knights at once. Again.

Feroy glanced down at Kael’s table, catching sight of the parchment. He reached for a page—curious—but Kael swiftly snatched it up, tucking the sheets behind his back like a child caught sneaking sweets.

Feroy arched an eyebrow, smirking. “Writing another story?”

“Yes. And I believe this one will be famous in the bars and taverns of the Sylvan Enclave. I’ve already had three innkeepers offer me coins to recite my previous tales.”

Feroy grinned, his teeth white against the dust on his face. “Is it about Lord Arzan again? I swear, you’re half the reason for all the rumors flying around the city.”

“They’re good rumors,” he said, tapping the stack of pages. Kael smirked without shame. “Besides, I just take a bit of creative liberty. No names mentioned.”

He glanced down at the parchment in his hands, flipping through the inked lines.

“For all I know, this is just the fourth book in the Great Lord series,” he added with a grin. “The ones the kids adore.”

Feroy chuckled. “I know they do. But maybe it’s time you put the quill down for a bit and come with me. Khalid and the others are waiting.”

Kael frowned. “Why? It takes hours to get there from the tower.”

Currently, their entire party was living in Magus Valkyrie’s tower. They’d made the place their temporary base, mapping its endless halls and cataloging the strange artifacts and ancient relics left behind.

“They’re in Rakhaal,” Feroy replied, turning slightly toward the door. “Or… what was Rakhaal.” He looked back over his shoulder. “With the orcs scattered, the tribal groups are coming together. They’re forming a council—a real one—to rule the region properly. And they’re finally renaming the city. The one the five tribal council rules.”

“They never had a name for it?”

“Apparently, the council could never agree. Especially not Adil. But now that he’s off doing his own thing, they’re gelling better.”

Kael nodded, slowly gathering the scattered pages from his desk. “Sounds good to me.”

Feroy gave a brief nod and started walking the same way he came from.

He jogged to catch up with Feroy, still holding the parchment in both arms like treasured scrolls. As they stepped out into the sunlit corridor, Kael looked down at the title scrawled on the top page and asked, “Do you think they’ll like The Adventures of the Great Lord?”

Feroy gave a lazy smile without breaking stride. “Guess we’ll find out soon.”

***

A/N – You can read 30 chapters (15 Magus Reborn and 15 Dao of money) on my patreon. Annual subscription is now on too.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep