Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Nephis, the genius of Intis, stood quietly upon the thick branch of a tall tree with bark as pale as snow and leaves that shimmered in a deep orange hue — like flames frozen mid-sway. Cloaked by a spell of veiling, the wind passed through her illusion as if she were no more than a whisper in the woods.

Her black hair, long and unbound, cascaded down her shoulders in dark waves, a stark contrast against the snowfall clinging to the boughs around her.

Yet even the cold dared not touch her skin. She was adorned in a regal gown of deep midnight velvet, the fabric clinging elegantly to her form, drawn tightly with a lattice of crimson threading across the bodice.

Golden embroidery — intricate as arcane glyphs, crowned the neckline and trickled like frost-laced ivy toward her waist.

An over-cloak of burnt orange silk, woven with silver filigree, draped across her shoulders like the fiery remnants of autumn.

Beneath it, a lining of luxurious fur wrapped her arms and hips, the pelt of some long-extinct beast, enchanted to warm and silence her passage.

Around her neck hung a single pendant, a black opal swirling with stardust, bound in silver, humming faintly with magical resonance. Her eyes, veiled beneath the illusion of still air, observed the snowy world below, calm and calculating.

Flanking her on either side were two elder mages, men well into their sixties, suspended in mid-air as if standing on solid earth.

Their long gray hair was tied back with precision, their faces lined with the marks of time and knowledge—seasoned mages of the arcane path. Yet even with their decades of study, they stood deferentially beside her.

The journey of magic was grueling, one that devoured lifetimes and demanded relentless study, discipline, and sacrifice.

Yet what took others ten years to master, Nephis conquered in one. With her unmatched intellect and the power to create dozens of autonomous avatars, she eclipsed her peers with terrifying ease.

Knowledge bent to her will, and magic, ancient and elusive, answered her call without hesitation.

But even the most gifted are not spared betrayal.

Yes, he betrayed her.

She remembered him, how he had once fawned over her like a loyal dog. How he showered her with praise, eyes gleaming with obsession. But all that admiration crumbled the moment he learned of her engagement to Cheng Dong. The praise vanished like the wind, the loyalty to hatred. He burned everything she had built—that game company was hers to inherit, she had been told that from a young age and he brought it down in one night!

Now, in this new world, far removed from what once was, the scars still throbbed. She had risen again, stronger, more dangerous, cloaked in power and surrounded by allies. And yet—he returned. Asher.

A thorn that never dulled.

She clenched her jaw, her breath steaming in the cold. Why couldn’t he be like the others, desperate, eager, groveling for her favor? Why couldn’t he just fight for her like other men did for those they loved?

Who gave him the right to move on? To marry a woman like Sapphira?

Her teeth ground together, her face contorting with fury. Madness shimmered behind her eyes.

“This is your end,” she hissed, voice heavy with vengeance.

She raised her hand, and with a crackle of force, a staff began to form—shaped from mist and light, then solidified into obsidian with runes etched in molten gold. The two mages mirrored her, summoning their own staffs as their voices rose in a low, synchronized chant—ancient and powerful, their harmony resonating like a chorus from another realm.

One of them broke away from the chant, veiling the surroundings even further, layering silence and concealment upon their already imperceptible presence.

No flicker of Force, no trace of movement would escape this fortress of invisibility.

Meanwhile, far below in the snow-drenched clearing, Asher battled two lords with Kryos’ avatar at his side. Steel clashed with steel, sparks flying, snow melting in bursts beneath their feet. Leaning sharply to the left, Asher narrowly dodged Aaron’s wide sword swing—only to be struck by something far more insidious.

It wasn’t a blade. It was a fleeting scene in his mind eye.

Nero, lying dead at his feet. Alex, staring at him, asking questions in a voice void of life. The image struck him like a hammer to the chest. For a moment, his heart trembled. But it wasn’t over.

The next scene tore through him—a glimpse of half his dominion reduced to desolate, rotting wastelands. Black earth. Lifeless skies. Ashes where his people once stood proud.

This wasn’t an illusion. Not like Reuel’s manipulations, where the mind was lured into a world of crafted lies. No—this was different. This was truth, or at least a fragment of it. This was fear—his fear.

He was caught in Aaron’s inner world now, a world that unearthed the deepest fear.

To make matters worse, every strike Asher landed on Aaron vanished beneath a wave of regeneration, wounds knitting back together as if they had never been.

But every cut Aaron landed on him carried a rot—a decaying venom that ate into his flesh and soul, and slowed even his own formidable healing.

Asher’s gaze sharpened, his stance shifting. The fury of his predecessors pulsed through him, their will like thunder in his veins. But even their rage, their power, their guidance—none of it was enough to end Aaron.

All he could do was wound him… again… and again… while Aaron healed like a cursed echo, relentless and eternal.

And somewhere above, Nephis watched it all, her grip tightening around her staff, her chant rising with hunger and fury, the veil pulsing, the end drawing near.

Asher lunged forward, his blade tracing a crescent arc through the air in a horizontal, upward slash.

A storm of frost bloomed from the weapon, coating it entirely in shimmering ice. So intense was the chill that a dense white fog erupted around him, blanketing the battlefield like a winter breath made manifest.

He summoned the full might of his body, channeling a surge of Force into his legs. The ground beneath his feet erupted, splintering stone and soil as he launched forward like a phantom unleashed. In that instant, he was faster than he had ever been.

Across the field, Aaron’s eyes narrowed. With practiced ease, the warlord raised his weapon, the Kingsword, an ancient monstrosity of a blade. He met Asher’s charge with a towering vertical slash, so heavy, so absolute, it seemed as though he intended to split a city, no—a mountain—down the center.

And then they clashed.

The world held its breath.

A deafening crack echoed through the clearing as the two forces collided, frost against might, wolf against monarch. Asher’s blade, empowered though it was by elemental wrath and sheer velocity, met its superior.

With a sound like a thousand mirrors breaking at once, the Leviathan sword shattered. Shards of enchanted steel scattered into the air, caught in the fading mist like snowflakes.

Only the hilt remained.

Asher stumbled back, his breath caught in his throat, staring at the broken remnant in his hand. The once-proud Leviathan sword, his trusted weapon, named after extinct sea behemoths and forged with Black star slloy, reduced to nothing but memory and metal ruin. The raw dominance of the Kingsword had made its judgment clear.

Aaron didn’t pause. With a fluid motion, he turned into a ruthless backward slash, seeking to cleave through Asher’s exposed flank and end it there.

But Kryos intervened.

The moment the blade moved, Kryos abandoned his bout with Reuel. A blink, a shimmer, and he was there. His avatar materialized between Aaron, parrying the incoming strike with a sharp, echoing clash of Force and steel. Sparks flew.

The ground trembled beneath their feet. The two forces locked for a heartbeat before Aaron recoiled slightly, reassessing the new angle of battle.

Asher, still gripping the hilt, stared down at it with a strange emptiness. The frost around him melted, hissing as it hit the warm blood on his skin.

Everything was breaking. His sword. His rhythm. His certainty.

But his spirit had not shattered. Not yet.

And Kryos stood by his side.

Unfortunately, a bright orange light from the center of the Whitewood town caught his eye. It was like… like a—

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