Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

The journey stretched on until the sun dipped toward the horizon, setting the skies ablaze with hues of gold and bleeding orange. As the light waned, the convoy, grand and deliberate, veered from the main road into the open grasslands.

The procession was a testament to nobility and power: Asher’s personal carriage led the way, followed by supply wagons laden with crates of gifts and provisions, additional carriages bearing priests, priestesses, servants, and maids, all flanked and guarded by three hundred Paladins on horseback, their dull golden armour glinting in the dying light.

By the time Asher stepped down from the carriage, the camp was already alive with purpose.

Tents were rising like miniature palaces across the field. Soldiers and attendants moved with practiced precision, some pitching pavilions, others setting up perimeter watches, while cooks began sorting spices, meats, and grain for the evening’s feast. The air was filled with the sounds of hammering stakes, murmured prayers, and the rustling of canvas in the wind.

It was a camp fit for a king.

Two tents were being worked on first, both larger than the rest and close to the center. The first was reserved for Asher and Sapphira, a regal shelter lined with heavy curtains and gold-threaded banners. The second, smaller but still noble, was for the twins, placed just beside their parents’ with its own set of guards and caretakers.

The scent of firewood and spiced meat was beginning to rise as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the field.

Asher looked around at the harmony of motion, the careful attention to detail, and the loyalty written across every face.

“My sword?” Asher asked softly, his voice barely above the whisper of the wind as he turned to Nero, slipping on his gloves with a familiar precision.

Then, without another word, he began to stride away from the encampment, his long figure cutting a regal silhouette against the horizon.

The orange light of the setting sun swallowed him slowly, his black mantle rippling like smoke behind him as he moved farther into the fading day.

Watching him vanish into the amber haze, Sapphira let out a long, quiet sigh.

“He’s leaving to train again?” Mia asked gently, her eyes following Asher’s form before settling on Sapphira.

Sapphira nodded. “He is… it feels like with every year, he becomes more and more bound to that sword.”

Mia gave a faint smile, compassionate, yet touched with concern. “His burdens are growing heavier, Lady Sapphira. And your love for him… it clouds your vision. You’ve existed for thousands of years, yet your foresight has dulled.”

Sapphira turned to her old friend, her eyes soft but firm. “Wait until you have a family, Mia. I studied people and their emotions for millennia, dissected them like puzzles in my mind. But I never truly understood the weight of love… not until I held my own children.”

She looked once more at the orange-streaked horizon, where her husband had vanished into solitude.

“No prophecy. No logic. No ancient truth ever prepared me for this.”

….

In a clearing where the trees stood well-spaced like watchful sentinels, Asher stood alone, save for the wind and the weapon in his grasp.

The Everard Kingsword rested in his hands, its long hilt forged for two-handed mastery. The blade itself… it looked as though it had been soaked in blood for a century, dark crimson steel with a sheen so deep, it seemed to whisper of legacies carved in violence and rule.

What he held was not just a sword. It was the authority of kings. The authentic version is on NovelFire.

But authority alone wouldn’t win the war ahead.

Not against enemies who bore their own Kingswords.

A breath left his lips.

“Are you prepared?” Asher asked quietly.

A ripple of ethereal energy stirred from his body, and from it, a phantom stepped out, forming into flesh and form. Kryos Avatar, the living form of his talent , stood tall, an icy blade in hand, cold mist trailing from his form like a living winter.

They both fell into stance.

Kryos Avatar scowled. “Still using that stance from the Shura Battle Force Art? It’s a low-tier form.”

“It is,” Asher replied without shame.

He moved. A swift horizontal slash, followed by a vertical cut, and then a slanted arc. Kryos parried each with smooth economy, then lunged forward with a brutal shoulder bash.

Asher, calm and calculating, shifted his weight and redirected the momentum with his palm, angling behind the Avatar and thrusting his sword in a backward pierce.

But Kryos wasn’t finished, his icy blade came in a sweeping arc, forcing Asher to block hard, his footing nearly faltering.

“While the art is considered low,” Asher said through clenched teeth, “the reason it forged so many high-level swordsmen is simple, it offers freedom. Freedom that most restrictive forms lack.”

He stomped his foot, lowering himself like a coiled spring. Both hands clenched tightly around the Kingsword’s hilt as he pulled it backward like drawing a bowstring of death.

Then, he thrust.

A pulse of invisible force exploded forward.

The earth shattered. A triangular gulley, several hundred meters long, tore through the land, carving through trees, stone, and all that lay before it.

Kryos had already shifted to the side, barely. The destruction had come within inches of him. He stared at the path of obliteration with narrowed eyes.

Asher had already moved.

The Kingsword arced overhead like a reaping scythe, gathering momentum for a follow-up strike. Kryos reacted, vanishing into a blur and reappearing behind Asher, his icy blade pressing toward Asher’s back.

But as the edge touched Asher, he froze.

The tip of Asher’s Kingsword hovered before his own forehead.

“…We both die,” Asher said with a low chuckle.

Kryos stepped back, eyes narrowing. “You’ve merged the essence of your predecessors’ styles into something new. Your growth in the last month is… abnormal.”

Asher drove the Kingsword into the soil with a dull thud.

“Is it enough?” he asked. “Enough to defeat Aaron, Gareth, Reuel, and whatever Awoken Ones they bring to the field?”

Kryos’s expression turned grim.

“The power of those three combined… even for you, it would be a war of attrition. Gareth alone ranks as the fourth strongest knight in the world. He’s at the third Awoken rank, Asher. He can twist space and time around himself and maybe extend it. Every slash warps reality, you’ll be fighting in a broken battlefield where your instincts will fail you.”

Silence stretched between them as the last rays of sun faded beyond the tree line.

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