Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

All through the night, Asher remained seated beneath the scorched canopy, his back pressed against the rough bark of a tree. His golden eyes glowed faintly in the dim moonlight; brooding, thoughtful.

A storm brewed within him: anger at what had been lost, desperation at what might come, yet a strange, unexpected calm threaded through it all.

Had he been granted just a few more days…

Whitewood Town would have stood as more than rubble. It would have risen into a true stronghold, walls reinforced, defenses bolstered, its heart beating with the strength of two thousand souls.

He could see them in his mind’s eye: one thousand disciplined footmen braced for war, eight hundred archers darkening the skies with their arrows, a hundred mages weaving death with every gesture, and a hundred healers standing ready to mend the wounded.

Had he commanded such an army, the outcome might have been different.

Perhaps victory could have been wrested from the jaws of ruin.

But no matter. Loss was the natural companion of struggle, and Asher knew this truth well. Especially in a moment such as this, when ruin had seemed inevitable.

Even the great Kyros, a legend among legends, had fallen to the schemes of treacherous brothers more than once.

Yet what kept him standing through each fall was one thing, and one thing alone: undeniable strength.

Strength Asher did not yet possess.

But he would no matter the cost.

Lost in thought, his mind combed through strategies, possibilities, and grim realities. He sat for hours, the night creeping into dawn unnoticed, the chill of the air forgotten. So deep was his focus that time itself seemed to blur. He paid no heed to the whispering wind or the shifting shadows.

Until something pierced his awareness.

An alarm.

A subtle tingle in his bones, a prickle at the edge of instinct, danger.

Before conscious thought could catch up, his body reacted. Four years of war had trained him well. Four years of ceaseless battles, of standing at the front lines as thousands clashed, of honing his every movement into sharpened muscle memory. His reflexes, hard-wired by survival, took over.

In one fluid motion, Asher surged to his feet, the broken hilt of his shattered sword raised like a dagger.

His stance was steady, coiled, ready to strike or defend as needed. The night air seemed to hold its breath.

His eyes adjusted to the intruder’s form.

The tension in his arm held, but his gaze narrowed, sharp and disbelieving.

The intruder stepped into the clearing, its form bathed in the pale silver of dawn. Asher’s eyes widened, his breath catching for the briefest moment.

A centaur.

Half man, half horse, the creature stood at an imposing height of two meters, its sheer presence commanding attention. Broad shoulders, corded with muscle, bore the weight of a golden plate cuirass, the polished metal gleaming faintly even in the low light.

Beneath the armor, links of chainmail draped over its equine lower half, swaying gently with each subtle shift of its powerful frame. The horse body beneath was sleek and strong, the legs thick with the promise of speed and crushing force.

Strapped to its side was a long spear—nearly as tall as the centaur itself. Its shaft of dark wood bore signs of use, and the tip, though sheathed, seemed to hum with the memory of battle.

Thick braids of dark hair framed the centaur’s stoic face, falling down past its shoulders like warrior’s cords. Bright golden eyes, so much like Asher’s own, locked onto him with a steady, unwavering gaze.

Sharp brows lent the creature an air of nobility, of quiet strength honed by both wisdom and war.

Its arms were crossed over its chest, the massive forearms bare, scarred, and solid as stone. It made no move toward its weapon, nor did it shift its weight as if preparing to charge.

The centaur merely stood there, watching him.

And in those eyes, Asher saw something unexpected.

Intelligence.

Depth.

And above all… boredom.

It was as if the centaur had expected something far grander, and now found itself unimpressed by the scene before it.

The two stared at each other in silence, the tension between them as taut as a bowstring drawn back to its limit.

“I, human, am I’ron,” the centaur said, his voice deep, resonant, carrying the weight of countless ages. His golden eyes glinted with restrained power as he gazed down at Asher. “I am one of the primordial Old Ones. I can kill you where you stand, so do not entertain any foolish ideas.”

Asher didn’t flinch. His posture remained poised, the broken hilt of his sword still angled, ready—not out of defiance, but instinct. His golden gaze met I’ron’s without wavering.

“An Old One,” Asher said evenly. “You’re almost as powerful as Okeanos. But you look like… Golden Rider.”

At that, I’ron raised a thick brow, the faintest trace of amusement flickering across his otherwise stoic face. “You’ve seen quite a number of us,” he rumbled. “Many live entire lives; rise, fall, and vanish into dust without meeting even one of us. And yet you speak as if you’ve walked among our kind.”

He shifted his weight slightly, the chainmail on his lower body jingling softly. “Golden Rider is indeed one of the most powerful Old Ones of Tenaria. One of those who waged war against the Dark Old Ones, who once threatened to drown this world in shadow. But I suppose…” His voice lowered, heavy with meaning, “even the mightiest shall one day fall.”

The words hung in the air like a funeral bell’s toll.

Asher’s brow creased, his mind racing. That Rider—the one who had bowed to him without reason, without demand, without debt. That same Golden Rider had once stood against the worst horrors of the world? It felt… impossible.

“Even the mightiest shall fall,” Asher echoed softly. A bitter, wry chuckle escaped his lips. “Well then…” His eyes glinted with that stubborn fire that nothing could snuff out. “Shouldn’t I become the mightiest before I start worrying about falling?”

A slow, rare smile tugged at the corners of I’ron’s mouth. “Still steadfast,” he said, his voice softer now, touched with something that might have been respect. “You’re exactly as they described you.”

Asher lowered his broken sword, curiosity sharpening his gaze. “Who?”

“Tenaria,” I’ron answered simply. “She has bound me to watch over you. And I must say…” He cast his gaze at the blackened, ruined trees around them, the vast scar upon the land. “You’ve certainly wrecked my forest.”

The faintest flicker of surprise crossed Asher’s face. “Sapphira sent you?” His voice rose slightly, the name stirring emotions too tangled to name.

I’ron’s golden gaze deepened, studying Asher with a look that seemed to peer straight into his soul.

He couldn’t understand it. A continent, Tenaria herself, ancient, vast, eternal, choosing to watch over a man. A man whose life would pass like a breath compared to hers. A flicker of fire in a storm, destined to fade while she endured.

Why?

Why would Tenaria choose to love a human, of all beings? When so many powerful Old Ones, kin who would share her endless span stood ready to court her, fight for her, be with her across ages?

It made no sense.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!