Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

A lone rider thundered down the cobbled streets of Nineveh, his cloak snapping behind him like a banner caught in a storm. His heart pounded against his ribs with every jolt of the galloping steed, his gaze fixed on the distant silhouette of the castle piercing the clouds like a crown of stone.

A trail of dust and startled cries followed in his wake. Hooves struck the cobblestones with a deafening rhythm, scattering townsfolk and catching even the city guards off-guard. Yet he paid no heed to the chaos he left behind.

‘I hope I’m not too late!’

….

Within the castle, Asher tore through the gilded corridors, his breath shallow and frantic. Each step brought him closer to the nursery, and with each step, his dread mounted, curling tighter around his chest.

Sapphira was beside him, her footsteps light yet swift, her silken robes whispering with urgency. The moment they rounded the final corridor, they were met with a sight that chilled them both—apothecaries, white-robed priestesses, and even armored paladins crowded before the nursery door, murmuring in low, worried tones.

The sea of attendants parted instantly at the sight of the Duke and Sapphira. The air shifted.

Wind rushed through the open hallway windows, sweeping into the room as the couple burst through the threshold.

Asher stopped, cold.

But Sapphira rushed forward, slipping into the circle of priestesses gathered around a cradle bathed in dim, flickering light. Their hands hovered over the twins, channeling waves of pale magic.

Sapphira’s breath hitched.

Her babies—once vibrant and warm—now lay still, their skin ashen, pale as parchment. Black veins snaked across their tiny bodies like cracks in porcelain, spreading from the center of their chests to their limbs. Portions of their soft flesh had begun to harden, taking on the dull, stony sheen of petrification.

One of the priestesses began to speak, her voice trembling. “Grand Priestess… it’s a curse. One that has been lying dormant—subtly feeding on their life force while suppressing their cries. We—”

She faltered, her voice lost in a sob.

Mia, pushed forward. Her face was flushed from running, her expression taut with strain.

“We can’t keep this up much longer. Our strength is fading.”

Without a word, Sapphira placed her trembling hands upon her children. Their skin was icy to the touch. No heartbeat. No warmth.

She gasped, the shock of it stealing the breath from her lungs. And then—

A burst of golden-green radiance erupted from within her. It exploded outward in a blinding flash, engulfing her and the twins in a radiant cocoon of light. The glow was so intense that everyone in the room had to avert their eyes.

The cocoon pulsed with life. Priestesses stepped in and out of the shimmering barrier—each exit leaving one more spent, collapsing from exhaustion, and another rushing to take her place.

And Asher—he simply stood there.

Frozen.

His fists clenched, yet his mind was a void.

No sorrow. No rage. No despair.

Just silence.

Just stillness.

The light flickered.

Priestesses stumbled back, faces pale, breath ragged. The cocoon weakened… then dissipated, fading like morning mist.

And there she was.

Sapphira, kneeling on the floor, cradling her children in her arms. Their skin—now flushed with a healthy color. Their fingers moved, their little limbs stretching softly. One twin let out a faint cry, but she hushed them gently, her voice warm and soothing.

Asher took a step forward, his eyes wide, glistening.

“Sapphira…” he whispered.

But his joy was pierced by a terrible sight.

Black veins still coiled along her face and arms. Patches of her skin cracked and turned to stone—gray, rough, lifeless—before softening again in cycles of painful regeneration.

Gasps filled the room as everyone bore witness.

Sapphira didn’t scream. She didn’t flinch.

She only smiled down at her children, her arms a fortress, her pain forgotten at their smiles.

By the time the cycle came to an end, several strands of Sapphira’s hair had turned a pale, ghostly silver—stark against the rich hues of her natural color. A scar not upon skin, but upon soul. One that would never fade, never be forgotten.

Even her long, dark eyelashes shimmered faintly with the same silver sheen. A quiet, damning testimony to the toll exacted upon her. Asher didn’t need anyone to explain—he knew. This wasn’t some cosmetic side effect. It was a mark of time itself, ripped from her lifespan and offered as a price to the curse.

And the cost was far from small.

One might assume that Sapphira—being the Will of the World—was a being of immeasurable power, untouched by mortal limitations. That she stood above them all, untouchable, invincible.

But the truth was cruelly different.

This body—this vessel of flesh and blood—was bound by the same limits that governed all living things. Her true form, composed of earth, stone, water, and the purest breath of life, had once contained boundless mana. A titaness of nature itself.

But that was then.

Before the Dark Age.

The Abyss had devoured more than lands. Its creeping, corrosive force had weakened Tenaria at its very roots. The continent itself was dying, and with it, the ancient magic that sustained the old ones.

The damage extended to Sapphira’s fairy form, shackling her, draining her brilliance. Just as it had to others—like the once-mighty Golden Rider, whose name had once echoed like thunder through the First Age yet now lost to time.

Now, she was merely at the Imperial rank. And even that came at a cost.

Her breathing trembled, her shoulders shaking, her hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles turned white.

Then her voice broke out—not soft, not regal, but piercing. Unrestrained.

“Find them. Find who did this to my children and take their heads!”

Sapphira shrieked the words, eyes blazing, her sorrow swallowed by rage. Her tone was sharp enough to wound, her gaze bloodshot with fury and hate.

But it wasn’t directed at Asher.

No. Her wrath was for the monsters that dared harm those under her care—her children.

Asher said nothing.

He didn’t nod. Didn’t promise vengeance aloud. He simply turned, his eyes burning like the sun yet a strange chill could be felt.

Sleep?

That word no longer had meaning.

It had fled like a ghost in the night.

Yet, there was no chaos in his heart. No storm of grief. No trembling hands.

He felt… cold.

Like a man who had stepped into the still depths of a winter lake, the chill wrapping around his bones, numbing the heat of emotion.

His steps were measured.

Quiet. Deliberate.

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