Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

The light grew brighter, blindingly so, until it ruptured in a deafening roar.

Asher barely had time to register the sound before it hit. From the heart of the town square, a colossal sphere of condensed flame erupted, so dense, so tightly packed, it resembled molten liquid more than fire. It surged outward like a living entity, devouring all in its path. Buildings, stone, steel, everything vanished, incinerated in an instant beneath the tide of infernal force.

A blastwave struck Asher’s ears like a hammer. And then—nothing. The town was gone.

Erased.

As though it had never existed.

Yet the destruction hadn’t stopped.

The flames expanded in rippling rings of molten fury, heat and fire sweeping outward with unrelenting hunger. They came for him, unstoppable, all-consuming.

“Nephis, you madwoman!” Aaron roared. His voice cracked with both fury and desperation as he spun around and bolted, blasting through the air at his full speed.

But it was too late.

The inferno tore across the land in a circle two kilometers wide, annihilating everything. The very earth blackened and curled. Trees at the edge of the blast zone ignited like torches. Birds fell from the sky, and shadows melted into fire.

Only the quick intervention of the mages, executing a mass teleportation spell at the last second, saved their scattered forces. Their silhouettes vanished in flashes of light just as the firestorm overtook the outer ring.

Aaron managed to escape, barely, but he was a ruin of a man. His attire melted into his flesh, his hair charred to ash, and his skin scorched until he was nearly unrecognizable. But he lived.

Reuel and Asher, however, were gone—swallowed by the flames.

Aaron landed far beyond the charred boundary, crumpling to one knee, smoke rising from his blistered frame.

He gritted his teeth, not from the pain, though it was agony, but from the bitter realization clawing at his mind.

Nephis wouldn’t have killed her husband.

She was a thousand things, twisted, arrogant, unstable, but not the sort who would destroy Reuel in such a suicidal blaze. That man inside the flames hadn’t been the real Reuel.

It had all been an illusion.

A decoy.

And Reuel, that conniving rat, had once again hidden behind shadows and sacrificed someone else to die in his place.

Aaron clenched his fists. He understood it now. Reuel was never going to face death like a man. Not when he could slither away, safe and unseen. He must have known this was a trap, Aaron’s trap.

Because who better to kill Reuel than the Mad Duke himself?

Thick, black dust rose into the sky like a pillar of darkness, coiling into the overcast heavens above. Aaron groaned, staggering as his ruined body began to mend with unnatural speed. Scorched flesh reknit itself, bones aligned with sickening cracks, and within seconds, the worst of his burns had faded.

“At least,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “the Blood King has met his end.”

He didn’t wait to linger. With faltering steps that soon grew steadier, he vanished into the shadows of the charred landscape.

The trees surrounding the scorched zone smoldered long into the night. By dawn, most had collapsed into heaps of white ash, though a few stubborn trunks still crackled with flickering embers. With the wind shifting and smoke dissipating, the full horror of the battlefield came into view.

A massive crater, two kilometers wide and three meters deep, yawned like a wound across the earth. A land hollowed by fire and fury. But something else now caught the eye, gleaming, glistening, alien amid the desolation.

Hundreds of ice domes.

Crystalline and still glistening beneath the morning light, they dotted the crater like frozen sentinels, untouched by the inferno. As they slowly melted and shifted, armor-clad figures began to emerge, bloodied, bruised, but very much alive.

They were survivors.

All two hundred and twenty of them.

Every man turned toward the center of the battlefield where a lone figure lay on the blackened ground, unmoving.

Beside him stood a towering man, two meters tall, snow-white from head to toe, his presence serene and unearthly.

Loose robes fluttered in the morning breeze. A sword of pure ice rested in his right hand, its blade dripping cold mist. His long white hair cascaded down his back like a waterfall of snow, framing a face carved from stillness itself.

This was Kryos—the living embodiment of Asher’s Zenith-ranked talent. A myth made flesh. The only talent in recorded history believed to have an actual will… a soul.

“My Lord!” a voice cried out.

It was Nero.

With Omar and the remaining chief paladins at his side, he sprinted across the scorched earth. Fear tightened their chests, grief clinging to their expressions. The loss of so many had already scarred them—but the thought of losing their Lord?

Unbearable.

They reached him, half-afraid of what they’d find. But as they knelt by his side, their breath caught.

Asher was alive.

Flat on his back, battered and burned, he stared up at the sky with quiet awareness. His eyes were unfocused, distant—like he had glimpsed the very edge of life itself.

“M-My Lord?” Nero stammered, unsure whether to feel relief or fear.

Slowly, Asher blinked. His lips moved, but no words came.

And yet, something in his gaze said it all.

He wasn’t done.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Asher sat up. The air around him shimmered faintly with residual heat, the scent of scorched earth still lingering like smoke in a tomb. Bruised, burned, and burdened, he rose to his feet.

His golden eyes, dulled by exhaustion yet burning with quiet resolve, swept across the battlefield.

“You did well,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady. “Rest up. Tend to your wounds.”

There were no cheers. No proud salutes. Only the sound of armored bodies slumping to the ground, the shuffling of weary feet, and the soft groans of pain as the survivors began to treat one another. They had won—but at what cost?

Without another word, Asher turned and walked toward the nearby forest. He passed the broken trees and burning stumps until he reached one still standing—its bark white, its leaves blackened. He slumped down against it, letting out a breath that seemed to carry the weight of worlds.

Leaning back, he stared down at the dirt beneath his feet.

So much had changed.

From the very beginning, he had faced overwhelming odds—always fighting uphill, always bleeding for every inch of ground he gained. But now?

Now the town was gone.

His dominion—his seat of power in this realm—obliterated in a moment of madness. Without the town, he was no longer recognized by the laws of this world as a lord. His Name, once etched into the land itself, had vanished with the last stone of the foundation.

He could no longer summon new souls from Ashbourne.

No more soldiers. No more villagers. No supply lines. No reinforcements.

And worst of all, no communication with other realms.

The moment he left this place, he would reappear in the world proper—on the lands controlled by other lords, no longer a sovereign, just a stray warrior with no claim. His people would be stranded here. Cut off. Vulnerable.

He could open the portal now. He could return to safety with his men. Escape this ruin.

But what would that accomplish?

How would he ever win this war if he gave up now?

He clenched his fists. The bark dug into his back like a reminder that he was still here. Still breathing.

Aaron and Reuel—they would grow more powerful, entrenched deeper into the war’s heart. Their domains would thrive while he remained shackled in Tenaria, Limited. Isolated.

And yet…

His eyes, golden and fierce, narrowed.

There was still Kryos. Still two hundred and twenty battle-hardened warriors who had survived a spell meant to end them all. Still a purpose smoldering deep within his soul.

He wasn’t done.

Not yet.

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