Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Hidden beneath simple cloaks, two men dressed as peasants moved silently through the streets of Antioch.

From the moment they passed through the gate, Asher had seen it—this was not a city divided by wealth, but by chains.

There were no true poor or rich here, only the oppressed and the free.

Men, women, even children moved like cattle, some clothed in rags, others curiously clean, but all bore one thing in common: iron collars around their necks, clinking with every step. Some were led by ropes, others marched with heads down behind their masters. Not citizens. Property.

Asher had heard the tales. He had listened to the whispers that called Everard, the golden land of slaves—glorious on the outside, rotten within. But no tale could prepare him for the truth. Seeing it was worse. Far worse.

Yet his gaze remained cold. Unreadable. And he walked on, unflinching.

Until the sound of jeering broke the murmur of the streets.

He turned, drifting silently toward the crowd gathering at the corner of a stone-paved alley.

“You little piece of trash! You were supposed to attend to Lord Vulcan!” a man bellowed, whip cracking through the air. A young girl screamed as the leather tore into her skin, her body trembling where it knelt on the stone.

Her clothes were in shreds. From the bruises and marks already on her, it was clear this was punishment.

She tried to crawl away, but two men held her down like a wild animal.

Asher’s steps halted. His pupils narrowed. His breath caught.

It was her.

Baron Josef’s daughter.

The bright-eyed girl who had bowed shyly when he returned from House El’s territory. A noble child—Ashbourne’s child.

“I heard she was some kind of noble from a place called Ashbourne,” one man snorted.

“Ashbourne? Never heard of it,” another replied, eyes gleaming as they ogled her.

Nero, behind him, trembled with rage. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, his jaw grinding until the pain in his gums sharpened his senses.

But Asher? He turned away.

Silently. Coldly. Like he had never stopped at all.

His steps brought him to the towering Wall of Names—a monument etched with the names of thousands who had died crucified. So many they no longer fit on stone alone. Slaves. Forgotten souls.

His eyes landed on one man amongst the many crucified on it.

Josef.

A baron. A lord. A man who died not in battle, not in pride—but in shame, crucified and displayed like an example.

He closed his eyes.

“My Lord, let me—!” Nero rasped behind him, barely holding back his fury.

“No,” Asher said. The word cut through the air, firm and final.

Behind him, the city continued its twisted rhythm—screams, whimpers, laughter. Slaves sold like goods, some violated in the open, others displayed in iron cages like animals.

Women in chains, auctioned to please the lust of men.

Men stripped and branded, sold to fight beasts for sport or to toil until death.

Asher lifted his gaze to the sky.

Amid the filth, the rot, and the depravity, he drew a breath.

“When I claimed the mantle of lordship over Ashbourne, I swore an oath. I swore that no one under my banner would be bound in chains. I swore to protect them.”

His eyes lowered, golden irises glowing faintly beneath the hood, not with warmth—but with a cold, cutting light.

“I have failed them.”

He turned, his steps now steady. Unrelenting.

“But we…”

His voice deepened as he walked, and Nero followed in silence, understanding what came next.

“…we shall not fail to avenge them.”

….

A short while later, Braxen reclined in an open chamber thick with incense and false laughter.

The glow of sunlight glinted off his golden goblet as slave girls moved among the guests, their practiced smiles stretched tight across hollow faces—trained to seem genuine, or punished if they failed.

Raising the goblet, Braxen chuckled. “A toast,” he declared, voice oily. “To the six thousand men you purchased. May the One-Eyed God grant you victory in your conquest against Nightfire and Silvermoon.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing with a greedy glint. “And don’t forget our deal—sell me your prisoners. None can withstand the Death Knights, but surely some nobles will survive. They fetch a high price. We’ll split the gold, hm? What do you say?”

But before the guest could respond, a low, thunderous horn echoed through the chamber—deep and alarming . The floor itself trembled, subtle but unmistakable.

The guests froze.

Braxen’s smirk vanished as the sound repeated—closer this time.

He rose to his feet and hurried to the balcony. The others followed, their unease growing with every step. Still not satisfied, he hurried to the wall.

Once at the city wall, what they saw left their mouths dry.

Across the horizon, they emerged, gleaming silver armour and spears with white cloaks. Stormdrakes.

Rows upon rows of soldiers marched in gleaming, silver armor so refined, so inhumanly perfect it gleamed like polished silver beneath the sun. The very earth trembled beneath their steps.

They came not in haste, but in certainty.

Braxen squinted, unable to gauge their size from such distance, but their formation was clear—military precision that spoke of elite discipline. His pulse quickened.

“No…” he whispered. “Who would dare…”

Only one answer made sense.

This wasn’t a show of strength.

It was war.

“Who are they?!” he barked.

In front of the force stood six figures. Robed. Still. Then, as one, they raised their staffs and began to chant.

Power rippled across the battlefield like a rising tide, then… BOOM!

A section of the wall turned red-hot, molten, and collapsed like candle wax under a forge.

The guests stumbled back, eyes narrowed.

Braxen’s eyes widened. “Sacred-rank mages? All six of them?!” Even for a kingdom like Everard, such might was rare.

But he didn’t panic. Not yet.

The Hounds—Everard’s elite slave-soldiers, forged in blood and steel, emerged from the inner gates. Each one was at least Diamond Rank, some even higher. Their curved blades gleamed in the sunlight as they spread through the main street, forming ranks.

Catapults rumbled into position near the melted wall, crews hastily readying them.

Then came the voice.

Amplified by magic, cold and clear.

“Antioch!”

“Everyone with a shackle on your neck, stay your hand and you shall be spared. Move—and you shall die.”

The words rang through every alley, every marketplace, every slum. Silence followed, so heavy it seemed to crush the very air.

And then…

The Stormdrakes advanced. Shields raised. Weapons drawn.

The ground shook.

Braxen’s hands trembled as he grabbed the battlements. “Kill them! Kill these mad bastards! Fire!” he roared, his voice cracking with rage.

Archers loosed volleys of arrows. Ballistae twisted and snapped. But still, the Stormdrakes marched. Shields raised above their heads.

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