Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

The grass whispered beneath his boots as Asher approached the camp. The gentle rustling was the only sound until the flickering glow of dozens of braziers came into view, chasing away the encroaching darkness.

A dozen tents had been erected in a wide circular formation, each one glowing faintly from within. Paladins stood in pairs at fifty-meter intervals along the outer edge, their large aspis shields, modelled after the legendary hoplites of Earth, catching the orange light.

Their armour reflected the firelight like sentinels forged from dusk and steel.

With three hundred Imperials of the paladins’ calibre forming a perimeter, Asher felt at ease. His wife and children, nestled within the heart of this camp, were safer than most kings on their thrones.

Beyond the edge of the brazier’s reach, where the darkness began to reclaim the grassland, a lone figure stood still, Nero.

Arms crossed, his expression unreadable, he watched Asher emerge from the shadows. The faintest breeze ruffled the ends of his dark coat.

“I would have come searching,” Nero said as Asher drew near, his voice quiet, yet firm.

That drew a faint chuckle from Asher. “Can you defeat something that can kill an Awoken One?”

Nero shook his head, his face stoic. “No. But I’d die alongside you. Whatever kills you should kill me first.” He glanced at the camp behind him. “And besides… I’m at the Ancient Rank now.”

Asher’s eyes glinted with quiet pride. “A sixteen-year-old Ancient-ranked dual swordsman. You’re already a legend in the making. You might surpass my record and become the youngest Awoken One to ever exist.”

Nero exhaled, raising his calloused hands, fingers curling slightly as if remembering his blade’s weight. “I’ve hit a wall. I can’t feel it anymore, the flow. It’s like I’m slashing through mud. Every swing is heavy. Dull. There’s no… breakthrough.”

Asher came to a stop before Nero, his towering frame casting a long shadow in the firelit dark. Standing at ten feet tall, he easily loomed over Nero’s already impressive eight-foot build. For a moment, silence passed between them, thick as fog.

Then, with a deep sigh, Asher placed a heavy yet reassuring hand on Nero’s shoulder.

“Your limit,” he said, his voice quiet and firm, “can be surpassed.”

Nero looked up, a flicker of hope igniting behind his eyes. “Then I would like it to be a wyvern,” he said quickly, “like my uncle.”

Asher’s brow rose slightly, his golden eyes narrowing. “No,” he said with finality. “You’re already Emberframed. That’s enough. You’ll go through the rest on your own.”

Nero’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Your Grace!” he burst out, stepping forward, desperate. “I’ll be stuck at the Ancient rank for decades at this rate. How can I stand beside you in the coming war against the Abyss?”

But Asher had already turned as he resumed his slow walk toward the heart of the camp.

“You’re already standing at the top,” he called over his shoulder. “That’s enough.”

Nero stood there, jaw clenched, hands trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of his own powerlessness.

Asher didn’t look back. His gaze was lost in the distant dark, in the future battles already written in blood.

‘He doesn’t understand,’ Asher thought. *’The realm of the Awoken Ones is the realm of death. Every step we take forward draws us closer to its edge.’

He clenched his fists slightly.

‘I bear the body of an Old One. Its strength protects me, dulls the death’s pull. But Nero…’

‘If the boy pushed forward recklessly, he would die long before his thirties, unless he remained dormant, unless he chose to live instead of chasing the power that only brought ruin.’

And that, Asher knew, was a decision every warrior had to make alone but for Nero, he would be making that decision.

Because the reason for his aspiration was him. This сhаptеr wаs uplоаdеd by thе tеаm аt М|VLЕМРYR.

The Awoken Ones were only glorious to those who had never become one. From the outside, they were legends, revered, worshipped, envied.

But once the threshold was crossed, once they saw the world not as it was but through the eyes of power itself, they became exiles to reality.

To rise was to be undone.

But Asher had chosen that path long ago. To rule, to stand among lords and emperors, he had to become one. Or fall beneath the feet of another.

His boots sank quietly into the earth as he entered his tent, the murmured greetings of his men drifting past him like wind. The flap of the tent whispered closed behind him, sealing him within the soft warmth of flickering candlelight and quiet anticipation.

His eyes found her immediately.

Sapphira.

She sat atop the thick furs on their bed, wrapped in a robe of white silk that shimmered beneath the flame’s glow. Her back was to him, slender fingers weaving her long, striped green-and-white hair with patient grace, as if giving him time, time to come to her.

The mirror floated gently before her, catching her serene expression.

Asher said nothing. He stepped quietly to one side, leaned the blood-hued Kingsword against the canvas wall, then began unclasping the cords of his gambeson. Each motion slow, careful. The weight of the day pressed down on him now that he was alone with her.

He sat on the edge of the bed, bent forward to remove his boots and felt her shift.

Her presence moved behind him, and then her arms wrapped around his back. Delicate fingers slid beneath his tunic, tracing the lines of muscle and the warmth of skin hardened by years of war.

“Now that I think about it,” she whispered, voice soft against his ear, “we never had a public marriage.”

Asher chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Are you jealous of Mary?”

A gentle slap on his back followed.

“Of course not,” she said with mock indignation. “But I am your wife. Shouldn’t the world see you put the ring on as well?”

Asher leaned back slightly into her embrace, eyes half-lidded. “Then let the stars and the flames bear witness. I’ll marry you again. A hundred times over, if you like.”

She rested her head on his shoulder, her breath warm on his neck. “Once is enough… just don’t vanish without a word again.”

Asher’s hand reached back, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “Never. Not while I have something to return to.”

While a blissful smile graced Sapphira’s enchanting face, her head resting softly against Asher’s shoulder, danger crept silently beyond the flickering perimeter of the camp.

From within the thick brush, several pairs of eyes, cold, calculating, and sharp as a hunting owl’s, watched every movement beneath the tents. Cloaked in the veil of night, their forms merged with the darkness itself. Shadows moved where no man should move, closing in with the silence of seasoned killers.

Their breath barely stirred the leaves. Their steps left no trace.

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