Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

“I demand to see my husband.”

The words rang through the hall, firm and crystalline, echoing off the vaulted stone. Yet beneath the commanding tone, there was a tremor—so subtle, so well-hidden, that only those who truly knew her might have noticed it. That courage, so fiercely assembled for this moment, seemed to waver at the very thought of facing him.

Kelvin adjusted his monocle, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “He has remained within the sacred hall since the moment of his return. He has eaten nothing. Only water touches his lips.”

Sapphira’s eyes trembled.

“Take me to him,” she said, rising from the smaller throne.

Not a single noble moved to stop her.

Not one word of protest escaped their lips.

Who among them dared challenge her now? Not after what they had seen—what they had felt. Her command transcended station. She didn’t rule by decree alone. She was power, veiled in grace.

Yet they all wondered the same thing, their minds a tempest of doubts.

Was this the true Sapphira? Had she hidden this presence all along? Or was this… something else?

Their understanding of her—of the Crimson Temple, of power itself—was cracking. Everything they had assumed felt like sand crumbling between their fingers.

Was this what His Lordship faced? That fear? That terrible question gnawing at his heart?

That perhaps the woman he had known, loved, and trusted… had always worn a mask?

That this—this goddess robed in flesh—was the true self beneath it?

No race they knew bore such aura. Not elves, not fae, not humans in any history book. Nothing matched the aura that draped itself so effortlessly across her frame.

The chamber held its breath.

Then—creak—the tall doors groaned open.

A small figure stepped inside.

Cynthia.

Her gait was hesitant, her eyes wide with fear as they swept across the gallery of lords and ladies—beings who wielded armies, whispered commands into law, and could end her with a flick of disapproval.

Still, she walked forward.

She stood before Sapphira, and though she felt like a speck beneath a priestess’s shadow, something steadied her—the truth she carried.

Her voice was quiet, but clear. “His Lordship left the sacred hall… three days ago.”

A collective gasp erupted.

“What?!” the nobles cried out, their voices laced with shock and confusion.

Sapphira’s eyes sharpened into slits. “To where?”

Cynthia’s voice grew quieter, but her words hit with the force of a bell toll. “The Ash Mountains.”

Silence.

A weight settled in the hall.

…

A company of paladins on horseback moved in practiced formation, their silver-and-crimson armor gleaming beneath shafts of sunlight that pierced the forest canopy. At their center rolled an exquisite carriage, lacquered in deep reds and adorned with gold trims. Embossed on its doors was the sigil of the Crimson Temple—a blooming lotus in-between wings.

The rhythmic clop of hooves mingled with the creak of wood and iron. Occasionally, the wheels lurched over stones hidden in the overgrown dirt road, causing the entire carriage to sway and groan softly. On both sides, tall trees stretched toward the sky, their leaves whispering with each breeze. Ferns and wildflowers skirted the path, undisturbed by time.

Inside the carriage, Sapphira sat still, her back straight, her gaze fixed out the window as the woods slid by like ghosts.

Across from her, on a cushion of royal purple, Mia cradled the two infants. The green-haired child, barely two moons old, giggled softly as he grasped Mia’s index finger with surprising strength. His brother, pale-haired and more restless, tried to bite the same finger after seizing it, mouth gaping with toothless determination.

The scene was warm, gentle—a rare stillness in the whirlwind of their lives.

Mia glanced at Sapphira, noting the distant look clouding her features. “The rain finally stopped,” she said with a hopeful smile, her voice light.

Sapphira blinked as though waking from a long thought. She looked at Mia, then returned the smile, though faint and uncertain.

Her gaze dropped to the children, and her expression softened, her fingers lightly brushing the green-haired one’s cheek. “Will he be happy to see them?” Her voice was low, almost hesitant. “Or… will he reject them?”

Her eyes lingered on the one with emerald hair—Merlin.

“Especially him,” she whispered. “He bears none of his father’s features.”

The carriage creaked again.

A shadow passed over Mia’s face. Her lips parted, but she hesitated before saying anything. The look in her eyes flickered with unspoken thoughts—uncertainty, loyalty… perhaps even guilt.

She had known long before Sapphira met Asher.

She only nodded gently, shifting one of the babies in her arms, holding them closer.

Outside, the sun broke through the trees fully, casting golden light over the procession. But within the carriage, despite its warmth, the air remained heavy with questions neither woman dared answer aloud.

After a long ride through thinning woods and winding slopes, the carriage came to a gradual halt. Voices murmured outside—curt commands and reverent tones laced with unease.

Sapphira stepped out, her gown brushing against the grass. Her eyes darted through the gathering until they landed on Nero.

Hope stirred within her.

He stood tall, directing a few of the knights to remain behind—but the moment his gaze met hers, the stern edge of his expression dissolved into something gentler, almost sorrowful.

“My Lady,” Nero said, bowing his head low.

“Please… let me see him.” Her voice trembled, more from emotion than weakness.

Nero hesitated for only a moment, then stepped aside, keeping his gaze lowered until she passed. The rest of the convoy followed behind silently, the tension rippling through them like a phantom wind.

…

When the carriage halted again and she descended, Sapphira froze.

There, seated on a weathered boulder at the base of the Ash Mountains, was a man whose back once bore the domain—now bowed, though unbroken. His torso was bare, his frame forged by hardship and discipline. Muscles coiled under healthy pale skin, but his sword, once always in motion, was thrust into the earth, unmoving, like a gravestone.

Beside him, the white wolf, Sirius, watched with predatory stillness. Its massive form radiated both majesty and menace. One step from it could silence an army.

Sapphira’s breath caught. The faint growth of white hair on Asher’s chin was new—stretching from lip to jaw, dusting his sideburns. It gave him a hardened, mature look—like a warrior-king returned from the ends of the world. But it wasn’t his face that undid her.

It was his eyes.

The light in them was dimmed. The fire gone. What remained was a silent, smoldering void—like a blade dulled not by time, but by betrayal.

His pants were torn at the edges, his once-proud hair tied back in a careless knot. And though Sirius rose to its feet, growling low, it did not attack. The wolf glanced at Asher, uncertain.

Even the paladins behind her shifted uneasily, their horses pawing the ground in discomfort.

Sapphira took a breath that hurt to draw.

This… this broken man before her… she had done this.

Her eyes welled with tears she could no longer blink away. Still, she stepped forward. Her voice cracked, but she forced it out—more plea than statement.

“I brought them,” she said, raising her voice against the mountain winds. “They’re already two months old. D-don’t you want to meet them?”

The moment hung, fragile as glass.

In her arms, the green-haired baby stirred. The one with white hair let out a soft cry, the kind that demanded to be heard.

Sapphira’s heart clenched.

‘Please,’ she thought. ‘Please don’t let this be the end.’

And then—

Asher stirred.

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