That time I got reincarnated as the Monster King

In the heart of the vast and ancient Great Forest of Jura, nestled within a ring of dense, mist-veiled marshlands, lies Lake Siss—a body of dark, pristine water said to reflect the true nature of any who peer into its depths. Encircling this sacred lake is the dominion of the Lizardmen, a proud warrior race adapted to both land and water, their scales hardened by battle and time.

Deep within the stone-wrought caverns that serve as their capital, the throne room hummed with tension. Flaming braziers cast flickering shadows against the stalactites, illuminating the figures assembled before the throne.

A heavily armored Lizardman dropped to one knee, his forehead pressed low to the cold, damp ground.

"R-reporting!" he called out, voice trembling. "We have spotted a massive Orc army advancing from the south of Lake Siss!"

The chamber fell into a stunned silence. The scout's voice echoed faintly through the hollow stone.

"They appear to be preparing to invade our territory," the scout added, more composed now, though the weight of his words could not be lessened.

Seated upon the elevated stone dais, the Lizardmen King, adorned in layered obsidian-scaled armor and a bone-forged crown, leaned forward, the weight of command heavy in his gaze.

"Orcs?" he growled. "Then we prepare for battle. We shall beat those pigs senseless."

His words stirred murmurs across the chamber. The silence broke further when his aide, a tall and battle-hardened female Lizardman whose scales shimmered faintly in the torchlight, stepped forward.

"How many, exactly?" she asked, voice steady.

The scout hesitated. "The estimated number… is two hundred thousand."

A gasp rang out.

"Two hundred thousand!?" the aide repeated, her tone breaking with disbelief. "That's more than twice our entire force!"

"We've verified the numbers multiple times, using both Magic Sense and Heat Source Detection," the scout replied firmly. "On my life, it is no exaggeration."

The king narrowed his slitted eyes, tapping a clawed finger against the armrest of his throne.

"You've done well. You are dismissed. Rest and recover."

The scout bowed once more and retreated.

As the heavy silence returned, the king muttered to himself, "Two hundred thousand Orcs… how does one even feed such an army? They're supposed to be an unruly, gluttonous breed. No cohesion, no discipline."

Another advisor, standing near the throne, added, "Rumors say they razed the Ogre village. Not a single survivor."

"They did what!?" The king's aide snapped in alarm.

The king's jaw tightened. "If an Orc has emerged who can command such vast numbers… then we may be dealing with the fabled Orc Lord."

Gasps and whispers stirred once more.

"The Orc Lord… a Unique Monster," the aide murmured. "If such a being truly leads them, then no ordinary tactics will avail us."

"The Orc Lord is no mere beast," the king said gravely. "He feeds on the fear of allies and enemies alike. A creature of insatiable hunger—strengthened by despair, driven by domination."

"Then… what can we do?" the aide asked.

"There is only one path forward," the king replied solemnly. "We must seek reinforcements. The Lizardmen cannot face this threat alone."

He stood suddenly, his voice echoing through the halls. "My son! Is my son present!?"

A confident voice responded from the entrance of the chamber.

"I am here, Father."

A youthful Lizardman strode forward, clad in polished armor adorned with ceremonial ribbons. He knelt, but his tone was filled with theatrical flair.

"But must you summon me so coarsely?" he said with a dramatic sigh. "I bear a name, after all—Gabiru—bestowed upon me by the illustrious Lord Gelmud."

The king ignored the pomp.

"Names mean little without deeds to honor them," he said flatly. "Gabiru, I have a mission for you."

At once, Gabiru stood straighter, the theatrics vanishing from his voice.

"What would you have me do?"

---

Meanwhile, in the flourishing Goblin village, training had begun under the watchful eye of Elder Hakurou, a venerable swordsman whose grace belied his age. His movements were a blur as he danced around a dozen young Goblin trainees, wooden sword in hand.

"You'll have to be faster than that!" Hakurou chided as he casually sidestepped and countered each strike.

"Come! Strike me with intent!" he urged.

Six young Goblins, including the spirited Gobta, charged together—only to be sent sprawling by a single sweeping blow.

From atop a grassy hill overlooking the training grounds, I observed the scene alongside Benimaru, a towering Oni with fiery red hair and arms folded across his chest.

"Orc Lord?" I asked, watching the sparring below. "That's the first I've heard of such a thing."

Benimaru nodded. "It's a unique existence. One is said to be born only once every few centuries among the Orcs."

"A Unique Monster," I murmured. "As if Unique Skills weren't rare enough…"

Benimaru continued, "The legends say he devours even his allies' fear and terror. That's how he maintains such unnatural control."

"The Orcs that attacked your village… they showed no fear, no hesitation," I said. "That kind of behavior would make sense, if it was under the Orc Lord's influence."

"It's only a possibility," Benimaru admitted. "But there's something else."

"Oh?"

"A Majin visited us before the attack. He wanted to grant me a name."

"And you refused?"

"I didn't trust him. He was too… flamboyant. When I declined, he cursed me and vanished."

"You think he holds a grudge?"

Benimaru gave a small smirk. "If he does, that's his problem. I won't accept a name from someone unworthy."

"What was his name?" I asked.

"Something like… Gelo? Geli?"

A voice emerged from the shadows—Souei, silent as the breeze.

"Gelmud," he said, appearing beside us.

"That's it," Benimaru confirmed.

Gelmud… the same Majin who named Elder Rigurd's son. My thoughts turned, wary of the web being woven.

Souei knelt. "A report, Great Arceus."

"Go ahead."

"I witnessed a group of Lizardmen passing through the forest—not Orcs. They were moving unusually close to the Goblin territories. It may be a precursor to diplomatic outreach."

"I see… Lizardmen, hm?" I mused.

---

Elsewhere, deep within the forest, Gabiru and his hand-picked elite rode atop swift, armor-clad raptors, their claws barely making a sound on the moss-covered floor.

Gabiru clicked his tongue. "Honestly, that old man of mine… telling me to ask Goblins for help."

The memory of his father's voice rang in his head: Go to the Goblin villages and enlist their aid.

"It's an insult to our race! We are Lizardmen—proud, strong!" Gabiru declared, puffing his chest.

"Indeed, sir Gabiru!" echoed his entourage.

"But sir," one rider asked, "when are you going to become chieftain?"

Gabiru paused.

"I may have spoken out of turn… but I am still not worthy. My father stands tall among our kind."

"No, sir! You are just as mighty as the chieftain once was!"

"If you don't step forward now, when will you?"

Their admiration stirred something in him. Was it pride? Or ambition?

"Could it be… that I am destined for greatness?" he thought, swelling with confidence.

"I will prove myself worthy!" he declared. "I will crush the Orcs and claim my rightful place as chieftain!"

"Sir Gabiru! Sir Gabiru!" the chants rose behind him.

With a roar, he raised his spear.

"Forward! To the Goblin village!"

The forest echoed with their names and their pride.