Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

“Lord Asher…” Aaron’s voice rang out like a bell in the stillness of night, calm yet layered with veiled amusement. “A pleasure to finally meet you, though the circumstances are… less than ideal.”

He reined in his white destrier just beyond the treeline, the steed’s breath visible in the cold air. Behind him, the ranks of his cavalry stood still as statues, their steel armor catching glints of firelight from the distant braziers.

The air between the armies was heavy, charged with the weight of what could erupt at any moment.

Aaron’s eyes scanned the settlement before him and his brows twitched ever so slightly.

A wall. But not just any wall.

Nine meters tall, fashioned from tightly interlocked timber beams thicker than tree trunks, reinforced at the seams, and crowned with defensive platforms. Its surface bore marks of recent construction, yet it stood as if weathered by years. Solid. Rooted. Defiant.

And that gate—double-hinged, braced with metal and reinforced by giant crossbars that half-giants were already locking into place—looked strong enough to halt siege rams.

Aaron’s sharp gaze flickered with disbelief. How…?

This town was newly formed. It should have been only a scattering of structures, meager walls, and a hundred people within these few days he just arrived.

And yet, what stood before him now was a stronghold-level wall—an organized, disciplined bulwark pulsing with preparation.

There was no logical explanation.

Unless… the rumors were true.

For weeks now, he had dismissed them as myth—Asher the Builder, they whispered. Some claimed he could raise a city in a single season. Others swore they’d seen floating towers, roads spanning miles, or strongholds that hadn’t been there yesterday. Madness, he’d thought.

But seeing this…

Was this wall a feat of rapid ingenuity? A clever trick with smoke and mirrors? Or… something far greater?

His gaze rose once more to the white-haired man on the wall, eyes like ice, posture like stone.

“I’ve heard stories, Lord Asher,” Aaron called, his voice softer now, laced with grudging respect. “That you build cities as other men draw breath. That entire fortresses bloom under your hands.”

A small, mirthless chuckle escaped him as he tightened his grip on the reins.

“Now I wonder… was that floating island always there?” His golden Kingsword pointed slightly toward Asher. “Or is that, too, your doing?”

Asher didn’t reply.

His expression was carved from granite—unmoved, unreadable. The flames from the wall braziers cast long shadows across his face.

There had been two watchmen stationed at that tower. Asher had seen Aaron decapitate one in cold blood. The other… likely dead too.

Honourable men. Slain without honour.

Asher’s jaw tightened, fury rising like a storm behind his eyes.

“I hear you’ve never lost a battle,” Reuel said, trotting up beside Aaron, his armor glinting under the torch-lit gloom. His voice was sharp, cutting. “You’re just a mad duke who butchered millions… in cold blood.”

Asher’s gaze slid to him, ice-cold. “Is that right?”

No sooner had the words left his lips than Reuel’s eyes shimmered with an eerie light—iridescent, almost serpentine. The world tilted.

Without warning, Asher was no longer standing on the wall.

He was underwater.

A vast, ink-black lake swallowed him whole, the surface vanishing into darkness above. His lungs burned. Bubbles of air escaped his mouth in panicked streams, rising like silver ghosts, but he was sinking. Deeper, faster.

He kicked, struggled, fought—but his limbs suddenly vanished.

His arms were gone.

His body drifted like dead weight in the abyssal cold. Shadows closed in. The silence roared louder than any battlefield.

No air. No escape.

He was dying.

Thud!

Back in reality, Asher collapsed to one knee, gasping—but no breath came. His face turned crimson, veins bulging as he clutched his chest.

“My Lord!” Nero sprinted to his side, catching him just as he started to fall sideways. “My Lord, stay with me!”

But Asher’s eyes were wide and unfocused. He wasn’t there.

Reuel’s smile widened, his gaze never leaving his prey. “Should I kill him?” he asked, turning calmly toward Aaron.

Aaron chuckled. “Do it.”

Reuel’s eyes glowed brighter, pulsing like twin suns.

Asher’s surroundings shifted again—this time crueler.

He stood on a raised platform of jagged stone, high above a pit of screaming silence. His wrists were shackled in bloody chains, their links dripping, pulsing like veins. Thick iron nails plunged through his knees, shoulders, and spine, pinning him like a crucified beast. His hair hung in damp, matted clumps over his eyes, caked in blood and sweat. Every breath was pain. Every thought was agony.

And then he looked down.

Below the platform lay his two sons.

Their skin was pale, too pale. Lifeless. Bloody craters in their tiny chests marked where their hearts had been torn out.

Beside them… was Sapphira.

Or what was left of her.

A charred corpse, fingers curled toward the boys even in death. Her lips frozen mid-scream.

Asher’s heart shattered. His soul screamed, but the sound was trapped in his throat.

A tear welled up in his right eye, trembling on the edge.

Behind him, the executioner raised an axe, massive, stained, merciless.

The blade gleamed red in the phantom sun.

As the executioner swung the axe downward, the wind screamed against Asher’s ears, the very air splitting with a thunderous shriek. But he remained limp—motionless, hollow-eyed—like a man whose soul had long since bled dry, leaving behind only a shell stitched together by pain.

Yet just as the blade descended, a breath away from his nape—

Light bloomed.

Asher’s eyes ignited.

Twin golden flares burst forth, so bright they painted his face in firelight, as though torches had been lit behind his irises. His gaze pierced through the illusion, through the world itself.

Then he moved.

His right arm swung back with terrifying force. The thick chains that had bound him, tempered steel meant to hold giants, snapped like brittle glass.

CLANG!

His fist rocketed upward and struck the descending axe. The impact shattered the forged steel, sending fragments flying like razored shrapnel across the platform.

BAM!

Before the executioner could blink, Asher’s hand closed around his thick neck—fingers coiled tight like iron pincers used to carry molten gold.

The giant thrashed wildly, but it was no use.

Asher’s body surged with newfound might. He lifted the man off the ground with one arm, roared with the fury of a wrathful king—and slammed the executioner into the stone.

The platform cracked and caved. Stone burst apart. Blood sprayed. Bone shattered.

All that remained of the hulking man was mangled flesh, broken limbs, and a skull flattened like clay beneath a smith’s hammer.

Asher straightened, spine arching like a marionette whose strings had been violently yanked taut. His head snapped to the side, eyes still burning like miniature suns.

They weren’t just flames now. They were judgment.

Across the distance between them, Reuel’s expression twisted, from smug disdain to pure terror.

Thud. Thud.

Asher ran.

With each step, the illusion peeled away. The tortured prisoner faded.

And in his place emerged a warlord—clad in heavy armour, gray and gleaming with streaks of black. His shield appeared in his left hand, broad and heavy like a castle gate. His sword, long, cruel, and humming with power, rested in his right, ready to taste blood.

Reuel stumbled back, hand reaching for a weapon he no longer remembered how to use.

Too slow.

Asher leaped, a blur of fury and steel. He landed like a thunderbolt—and drove his blade through Reuel’s right eye with a sickening crunch.

“ARGHHH!”

The illusion cracked.

Reality snapped back.

In the silent night lit only by braziers, Reuel shrieked in agony, clutching his bleeding eye. Crimson gushed between his fingers, staining the soil beneath him.

Asher stood, chest heaving.

Alive.

Awake.

Changed.

“You mad, Blood King,” he growled, voice hoarse but thunderous. “I’ll take your head. I swear it. I’ll rip it right off!”

BOOM!

Dust exploded as Asher leapt from the top of the wall, landing with the weight of a falling star. The ground cracked beneath his boots. The very air seemed to ripple.

Then, the gates groaned open.

And behind them stood his men.

Steel glinted off their armour, eyes sharp beneath their helms. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Every sword was already drawn. Every will already sharpened.

A frightened neigh rang out.

Aaron’s horse reared up, nostrils flaring. Not at the sound—but at the overwhelming presence flooding the battlefield.

It was Asher.

And his bloodlust poured from him like an open wound in the world.

The temperature dropped.

Then, softly, snowflakes began to fall.

But Aaron knew.

This wasn’t Eden’s snow. Not the blessing of the skies.

No.

This snow rose from the ground—as if the earth itself could no longer bear to contain Asher’s fury. Snowflakes spiraled upward before drifting back down in thick, weighty silence. The ground froze beneath their boots. Frost chased across the stones like spreading veins.

And worse…

Boulders now floated in the air—some barely above the ground, others high overhead like silent sentinels.

Frozen. Suspended.

Unnatural.

Aaron’s breath caught.

This wasn’t just snow.

This was Asher’s inner world.

The manifestation of a soul too vast for flesh to contain.

His heart pounded painfully.

“He…” Aaron whispered, voice hoarse with fear. “He… broke through…”

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