The Weakest Reincarnator Builds the Strongest Nation

The fires were out.

That should've been comforting. But instead, the silence left behind felt louder than the battle ever was. Smoke still clung to the trees, and the wind carried a burnt tang that made your eyes water if you breathed too deep. Ash dusted everything—rooftops, tools, my boots, even Bonk's ears.

Underleaf had survived.

But only just.

I stood at the central ridge, or what was left of it. The old watchtower was now a blackened stump, leaning like it might give up and fall sideways at any moment. From here, the scars were unavoidable. Roofs torn open like someone had kicked through them. Trenches carved into the ground where catapult stones had landed. Walls—burned, broken, bleeding memories.

And yet… goblins moved below, like ants stubbornly rebuilding a shattered hill.

Dragging timber. Lifting stones. Crying quietly while patching up homes. They didn't wail. Didn't scream. They worked like grief was just another task to finish before sundown.

Beside me, Riri scribbled furiously into a soot-stained notebook. She wasn't humming, which meant something was deeply wrong. Normally, she narrated her own writing like a tiny, overly enthusiastic scribe. Now? Just silence and swollen eyes.

"They're gone," she murmured. "Threek, Noma… even the two snoring brothers from the southern hut..."

I swallowed the ache. "We'll remember them. All of them."

"We should write it down," she said. "Their names. What they did. What they were like. If we're really building a future… it should have a past."

That… hit. I turned to her. "That's your new job then. Royal Historian."

Her hand froze mid-sentence. "Really?"

"Really."

She stared at me like I'd handed her a crown. Then she smiled, just a little. It was enough.

Behind us, coughing erupted from the healer's tent. Guk—still alive, somehow. Bonk was crouched beside him, feeding him what looked like boiled dirt and grass in a bowl.

"You're terrible at cooking," Guk rasped.

"Eat it anyway," Bonk muttered, sniffling. "It has moss. Moss is good."

"Where'd you learn that?"

"I didn't. I guessed."

"...Tastes like guessing."

Guk coughed again. Then grinned. "We fight like goblins. We survive like goblins. But we build like… like Taku."

I blinked.

That was either the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard—or the most meaningful. Maybe both.

Down below, mountain goblins had joined the rebuilding effort. No complaints. No ceremony. Just action. Among them was Bruz, a carpenter built like a tree stump with the charm of one, too.

"No offense, soft-skin," he grunted, snatching my sketches from my hand. "But your drawings look like you used your feet."

"That's because I haven't slept in two days."

He snorted. "Fair. Still better than anything I've seen from a goblin. I'll build it. But I'm adding extra beams. Goblin roofs need goblin bones."

"Wait, what does that mean—?"

"Figure it out."

I never did.

By midday, the village clanked and buzzed with sound again—not war drums, but hammers, ropes, pulleys. Life trying its best to restart.

That evening, I called a meeting. Not a formal council—just anyone still standing, more or less.

Grak leaned on his cane beside me. Gresh stood near the fire, arms crossed. Bonk brought snacks. Riri sat cross-legged, scribbling. And in the back, one of the mountain elders watched, silent and unmoving.

"We need to talk about what comes next," I said.

"Next?" Gresh raised an eyebrow. "We barely survived this one."

"Exactly. If we don't plan now, we won't survive the next. And there will be a next."

Grak nodded slowly. "Some want to flee. Go deeper into forest. Hide again."

"No," I said, firmer than I expected. "Hiding isn't safety. It's just waiting to die slower."

"So we reveal ourselves?" Gresh asked.

"Not yet. But we don't disappear either. We trade. We scout. We build. We don't let them forget us—but we make it hard for them to attack without looking like villains."

Silence.

Then the mountain elder grunted, gravel in his voice. "You want to make this place... a capital."

"Eventually," I admitted. "But right now? A safe haven. A symbol."

Bonk raised his hand. "Can I be king?"

"No," everyone said in unison.

That was the first real laugh we'd had since the fires.

Later, after everyone had dispersed, Elena stepped from the treeline like a ghost wearing boots. She didn't bother with a greeting.

"The Guild is sending inspectors," she said.

"Of course they are," I muttered. "Let me guess. They won't call it an investigation."

"They'll say it's to observe. But we both know it's bait."

"Right." I ran a hand through my hair. "One wrong word, one slip, one angry goblin with bad grammar—"

"And they'll call it an uprising."

"How long?"

"A week. Maybe less."

I didn't flinch. Just nodded. "We'll prepare. Misdirection. Dummy roads. Hidden stockpiles. I want Underleaf to look twice as large and three times as confident."

Elena's eyes narrowed. "You're bluffing again."

"Always."

She paused before leaving. "Steeljaw is under scrutiny. There are rumors. That she's... sympathetic."

I frowned. "So this isn't just about us. It's her trial too."

"Yes. And if you fail—she falls with you."

When she disappeared, the night felt colder.

Back in the village, I found Riri cross-referencing damage reports with a map that looked suspiciously like a sandwich. I tapped her shoulder.

"New job."

"I already have three."

"Add a fourth. You're our diplomat now."

She froze. "Me?"

"You're smart. Brave. You understand what Underleaf is becoming. If I can't speak, you will."

Her lip trembled. "Okay," she said, finally.

The next morning, we held a quiet ceremony. Goblins had carved names into flat stones and placed them in the village center. Candles flickered in a ring. Someone had left wildflowers, all mismatched and uneven.

I picked up a knife and etched a final line below the names:

"They lived not as monsters, but as kin."

No one spoke.

But I saw nods. Tears. Tightened grips on spears and hammers.

Underleaf had burned.

But roots run deeper than flame.

And from the ash, something was growing.