Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

“You need three fortresses to summon thirty thousand men,” Sapphira said quietly, her voice soft but probing, confirming if Asher had what it truly took to call forth the Bladebreakers.

Asher turned to her, eyes gleaming with purpose. “We have taken one,” he replied. “I left one of my generals behind to bring down the other two. The United North Alliance will use this moment to try and silence me forever.”

He stepped down from the throne, his voice low but seething with resolve.

“So will I.”

“When this is over,” Asher continued, “this Dukedom will no longer bow. We will raise our own banner. Ashbourne shall become a kingdom, independent and sovereign. We will close our borders, tighten our ranks, and focus on internal development: military reforms, institutional restructuring, and the construction of the Great Ashbourne Wall, a bastion that will encircle our entire domain.”

His golden gaze flicked across the chamber, his next words heavy with the weight of foresight.

“Because when the Abyss comes in full, not in whispers, not in creeping corruption, but as an onslaught, we must be ready.”

A moment of silence followed before Kelvin stepped forward, clearing his throat with caution.

“But… what of the armies of the United North Alliance?” he asked. “They’ve had decades*l of access to Eden. Who’s to say they haven’t harvested those ores already? What if they, too, now bear weapons forged from those metals?”

Asher regarded him with a measured look.

“Then let them bring them.”

He turned slowly, addressing the hall now. “Ore does not wield itself. Power is not found in metal alone. It is forged through will, blood, and conviction. Let them bring their blades—let them come armored. I do not fear their advantage in Eden. I fear apathy. I fear division. But we will have neither.”

He stepped forward, his voice rising like a tide.

“Our knights do not march for coin or conquest. They march for Ashbourne. For their children. For a future where we stand as more than a shield for House Nethaneel or a pawn on imperial maps.”

He turned toward Sapphira once more. “My House is done bending the knee. We rise.”

….

The sun bathed the citadel in a cascade of golden brilliance, its rays striking the white stone walls until they shimmered like polished ivory. The citadel, vast enough to be mistaken for a city, rose like a monument to civilization, its towers reaching skyward as if challenging the heavens themselves.

Around it sprawled smaller settlements, neatly aligned and fortified, their cobbled streets bustling with activity under the watchful gaze of armored sentries.

Upon its mighty ramparts stood soldiers in full silver plate, their helms gleaming beneath the sun. High above, the skies rippled with motion, hundreds of Silverwings, majestic eagle-dragons with broad feathery wings and thick fur rather than scales, patrolled the skies in sweeping formations. Their screeches echoed.

Within one of the tallest spiral towers, a chamber opened to a sweeping balcony where a golden-haired man stood, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the resplendent view below. The citadel, in all its grandeur, reflected in his calm blue eyes.

“Lord Aaron?”

The soft, velvet-smooth voice stirred the air.

He turned slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips as his eyes fell upon the speaker: a woman in a flowing black gown, her dark hair cascading down her back like strands of midnight. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floor as she stepped closer, her expression wry.

“You came early,” she said, lips curled into a teasing smile.

“Lady Morgana,” Aaron replied with a chuckle. “You are as beautiful as ever.”

Morgana scoffed, flicking her hair aside. “Save that for her,” she said, glancing over her shoulder.

Across the room, standing near one of the towering arched windows, was a vision of nobility.

A woman of striking beauty, clad in a pristine white gown that hugged her form with regal elegance. Her golden hair glistened like sunlight woven into silk, and her porcelain skin seemed to glow with a subtle inner light. Even among queens and noblewomen, she was unmatched.

Elowen.

The last child of Emperor Samson Draith, ruler of the Sacred Flame Empire, one of the rare imperial lineages that still held absolute power in Tenaria. Her every movement exuded grace, her very presence the culmination of generations of divine right and elite breeding.

She spoke in hushed tones with a tall, broad-shouldered knight clad in armor that bore no insignia.

Aaron followed Morgana’s gaze, his voice quiet. “She truly is a sight to behold. They say the Emperor favors her above all his children. So much so that he assigned an Awoken One to guard her personally.”

Morgana’s brows rose, her interest piqued. “That man… is an Awoken One?”

She studied the silent knight more carefully now, her usual mirth dampened by the weight of that title.

“Hmm…” she murmured.

The tall chamber doors swung open with a soft groan, and in strode King Reuel, his dark cloak swaying behind him, boots tapping briskly against polished stone.

“Apologies for my late arrival,” he said, offering a polite smile, but his eyes lingered, just a little too long, on Elowen and Morgana.

They were radiant, regal, powerful, and completely beyond his reach.

Women like them reminded him of a wound that never healed: Sapphira.

Even now, the memory of the painting Sylvia had commissioned, her hair like moonlight, her eyes like emerald fire, enchanted him. Just a picture, and yet, it had carved pain into him.

If only he had found her first.

“You are not late,” Elowen replied gently, her voice like velvet. “We arrived earlier than planned.”

They took their seats, tall, high-backed thrones of carved stone, around a hexagonal table at the center of the chamber. Upon the table was no ordinary map, but a raised, sculpted relief of Eden itself. Rivers shimmered as if they moved, mountain ridges and valleys cast shadows beneath the hall’s ethereal light. A living map of the world’s most contested land.

Aaron, laced his fingers together and looked around the table.

“Your nations seek access to the Mythril crystal ore… am I right?”

Morgana scoffed lightly, tossing her black hair back. “Why wouldn’t we be interested in a crystal that can nullify the effects of the abyss force? Something so rare that there’s only one large vein of it and it’s in your land.”

Aaron leaned back slightly, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Then we propose an alliance. The four of us, equal shares. The mine is ours as long as we stand together to defend it should Galvia or Cyrenia make a move.”

At the mention of those two names, both Morgana and Elowen arched their brows. Everyone in the room knew the truth, if either of those imperial giants took the mine, the rest of them would be nothing more than vassals groveling for scraps.

Elowen exhaled softly, her expression unreadable. “Is that all—?”

Boom.

The doors slammed open again.

A man stumbled in, robes torn, face pale and drenched in sweat. He crashed to his knees, gasping for air like someone who had escaped death itself.

Everyone in the room went still. Aaron’s fingers slowly unlaced.

“My Lord,” the man croaked, “he’s back…!”

Reuel’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “Who?” he demanded, already displeased by the interruption.

The man looked up, terror carved into every line of his face.

“The Blood King. He took my fortress with giants! Giants taller than the wall itself!”

A stunned silence fell across the room.

Aaron leaned forward slightly, his voice like ice cutting through fog.

“…Asher?”

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