Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Deep into the night…

Boom!

The great doors of the Sacred Hall flew open, their hinges groaning as they swung inward. Kelvin stormed in, his boots echoing across the marble floor. Urgency bled from every step he took, but so did something deeper—dread. His face was carved into a mask of tension, as if he carried a truth too heavy for a single soul to bear.

He didn’t notice it at first.

The candelabras that lined the pillared walkway, the great golden chandeliers above, each meant to burn without end in reverence to the hall, were dark. Snuffed out.

The entire hall, sacred and eternal, lay in cold silence, shrouded in a dense, unnatural gloom.

And then he saw him.

Or rather… he felt him.

Asher sat upon the throne at the far end of the hall, slumped back against the cold blackstone seat as if lifeless. Only his legs lay visible beneath the fall of shadows—but it was the eyes that betrayed his presence.

Twin flames of gold blazed in the darkness. No mere glow—they burned. They pierced.

Kelvin’s breath hitched.

Those eyes weren’t human. They weren’t even mortal. They were the very eyes spoken of in legend—the eyes the first Zenas was said to have used to see through, darkness, and illusions.

To see Asher like this, an unmoving silhouette surrounded by shadows, his golden gaze the only light—was to behold a figure torn from myth and reawakened in fury.

Kelvin stumbled mid-step, his throat dry, but even before he could speak a word—

The weight hit him.

An immense pressure rolled over the hall like a tidal wave. Mana—thick, suffocating—poured from the throne like a storm held barely in check. It didn’t roar or crackle. It simply was overwhelming in its quietude. Like gravity made manifest.

His knees buckled without resistance.

Thud.

He hit the floor, trembling—not out of fear of Asher himself, but of whatever might have driven him to this state.

Kelvin dared not look up again. All he could do was kneel and await permission to speak. The weight of that sacred hall was no longer in the stone, or the history.

It was him.

And whatever news Kelvin had brought—it had to be worth this disturbance.

“Your Lordship…”

Kelvin’s voice was a fragile thread, barely louder than the whisper of wind through a crypt. His pupils—locked onto the intricate swirls of the marble floor—quivered.

He dared not lift his gaze.

Because something had changed.

Something had burst inside Asher.

A stillness so vast now emanated from the throne that it made even the heavy silence of the Sacred Hall feel like noise. This wasn’t rage, nor grief—it was something far more dangerous. Something absolute.

Then, Asher spoke.

“We are listening.”

The words rolled forth—deep, resonant, and layered. As if they echoed from the walls of eternity, as though his voice wasn’t his alone but carried the weight of unseen judgment. Kelvin flinched, a tremor running through his entire body.

These were not the words of a boy. Nor were they influenced by his predecessors—there were no flickers of ancestral possession, no shifts in eye color, no voices speaking through him.

This was Asher.

But not the Asher Kelvin once knew.

This was a soul reshaped by fury, sorrow, and purpose. A ruler who had passed through the crucible of helplessness and emerged not hollow—but hardened. The shift was unmistakable.

He had reached the mindset of an Absolute.

A realm of thought, of presence, where the will of the ruler is the nation, and his words carry not only law, but divine right. It was said only one man alive had touched such a state—the Emperor of Galvia.

Sacred Flame Emperor was flickering. Half his empire was strangled by merchant guilds. His sacred status propped up by pageantry, not true power.

Prince Aaron? Fractured. His territory was divided like meat amongst wolves.

Asher had no such chains.

And Kelvin knew—this was no performance. This was not some mimicry of command.

This was command.

Mercy in Asher now came weighed against justice. Carelessness would meet punishment. A shift not of demeanor, but of spirit.

He was no longer a boy. He was a will sharpened into form.

Kelvin swallowed hard and finally delivered the message.

“Everard has attacked our ships.”

His voice cracked. “Baron Josef… he located an island, finally, but was ambushed by three Everard pirate ships. Some of our people were killed. The rest… taken.”

“What of Lord Josef?” Asher asked, calm—but the calm of a blade before the swing.

Kelvin’s throat tightened. “He was taken, my Lord. It seems… the true target was the Estate ship. But it was too powerful. They lost two ships trying to seize it.”

“And the third?”

“It fled. With the baron and… one hundred and twenty of our people.”

Asher’s gaze didn’t waver, didn’t flicker.

“How many did they kill?”

Kelvin’s lips parted—slowly. As if saying it made it more real.

“Six hundred.”

Just then, a voice pierced the heavy silence of the Sacred Hall.

“My Lord, Chief Lan has returned!”

‘Lan!’

Asher’s thoughts sharpened. The most refined among the Angels—subtle, efficient, and emotionless. He had been undergoing intensive training with the rest in the depths of Ashkelon. But a month ago, Asher had pulled him aside—entrusting him with a delicate, dangerous task: infiltrate House Mormont, and uncover the truth about Duke Ohad and his son’s death.

“Enter,” Asher commanded.

The doors groaned open once more, and a man stepped into the hall, cloaked in shadow and silence.

Brown-haired and broad-shouldered, he wore tight, black leather armor molded to his frame. A deep-blue scarf coiled around his neck and lower face, concealing everything below his nose. At his back, a blade rested—too large for a dagger, too short for a sword. It was a weapon meant for swift, silent deaths.

Kelvin’s eyes widened in disbelief.

He walks… unfazed?

The mana still pouring from Asher should’ve pinned the assassin to the ground. It had crushed Kelvin, a seasoned Swordsman, with its sheer force. But Lan moved fluidly, undeterred, until he reached a few paces after Kelvin’s position. Only then did the weight finally settle over him like an avalanche.

Without hesitation, Lan dropped to one knee, but unlike Kelvin, he raised his gaze.

There was respect in his eyes.

And urgency.

“My Lord,” Lan said, his voice steady despite the crushing presence bearing down on him. “Jessica Mormont and her son plans to kill your children. I have proof.”

He paused, then added with grave emphasis:

“They required the assistance of the Shadow Order which owns the assassin rankings.”

The hall went still again.

Even the moonlight spilling in from the arched windows seemed to pause, like the world was holding its breath.

And then—

Asher stood.

Rising like a monolith, his towering frame stretched into the moonlight, casting a long, sharp shadow across the floor. The golden fire of his gaze ignited with purpose, illuminating the veil of darkness that clung to his form. The fine threads of control he’d maintained unraveled, replaced not with fury, but with clarity. Cold, exacting clarity.

This was the moment he had waited for.

The answers he needed.

The names.

The hidden architects of the cruelty done to his children.

The conspirators behind the silver strands in his wife’s hair.

“Is that so?”

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