Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Clip. Clop.

The sound echoed across the blood-soaked square, each hoofbeat from the majestic beast like a countdown. The commander of the Wyvern forces stood dazed, his knees buckling as he stared up at the rider.

Atop the onyx-black unicorn—an ancient beast thought to be extinct—sat Asher, Duke of Ashbourne. Rain slid down his body like tears over steel, his cloak clinging to him in the downpour. His golden eyes blazed, not with mercy, but with an unbearable cold.

Behind him, the paladins stood in formation, their crimson-stained spears glinting under the silver rain. The walls of Velmyra dripped not with water, but with blood. Behind them lay hundreds of fallen Wyvern soldiers, their lifeless bodies contorted, strewn like discarded dolls.

They had surrendered, but mercy had not come.

The commander collapsed onto his knees, his soaked hair plastered to his brow, his lips quivering. “Have mercy on me, Duke. I—I did not—”

Asher’s gaze swept the ruins of the citadel.

Where once stood a proud stronghold of House Nubis, there was now a husk of horror.

Streets silent. Windows shattered. The stink of fear and blood hung in the air. Even those unfamiliar with Velmyra could sense it—this ghost town once housed tens of thousands.

And now?

“Your men…” Asher’s voice was a low growl, trembling not with rage, but something worse. “Violated women. Slaughtered men. Played with children before gutting them like animals. And I…”

He raised his sword.

“…am no longer that kind-hearted lord you heard stories about.”

Swish!

A gleaming arc of ice burst forth from his blade—silent and swift. The commander’s head soared into the air, a clean cut. Blood froze mid-spill, the droplets hanging like rubies caught in crystal. His corpse paled instantly, skin turning ghost-white, as though carved from glacier stone.

Then, it crumbled.

Velmorne, the unicorn, carried Asher through the carnage without flinching. Around him, his men pressed deeper into the heart of Velmyra, cutting down those too slow. The paladins, relentless, emotionless, obeyed his will without pause.

At the foot of the grand staircase that led to the City Lord’s residence, Asher dismounted.

His boots struck the stone with a rhythm like funeral bells, the rain pounding harder now. His paladins swept ahead—left and right—ascending the stairs in twin waves of burnished gold.

Then, as if the heavens themselves bore witness to the storm inside him, a thunderclap split the sky.

CRACK!

A flash of white revealed the horror for an instant: severed banners, charred flags, bodies sprawled across the marble. The wind howled like a beast mourning its cubs.

It rained the day he was cast out of the grand party for their creation, Boundless.

Asher’s steps slowed as memories pierced his mind.

He had poured his soul into that game—it was his world. The hours, the sacrifices, the pieces of himself he gave to build something greater. Could it be… he’d always been connected to her? That Tenaria—the spirit of this continent—had been with him all along, watching through the veil as he made an imitation?

And that day, long ago, when he destroyed the servers… when he screamed and hacked at the machines with an axe…

Was she the one weeping then?

His heart lurched. The memory flashed again: sparks flying, wires screaming as he cleaved them apart in fury, believing it all betrayal. Perhaps, even then, their souls had touched.

Now, the rain washed the blade of his sword clean, even as the blood it had spilled clung to his heart.

At the top of the stairs, a cluster of trembling nobles awaited—the last remnants of House Wyvern’s rule left behind. Men, women, decked in fine silks now soaked and stained.

Asher stopped before them. His expression didn’t shift.

“Spare none.”

The sentence dropped like a guillotine.

The paladins didn’t hesitate. Spears thrust forward. Screams rang out, echoing briefly before being silenced by steel and rain.

Asher walked past their crumpling forms, unflinching. He moved through the corridors of the residence, past trembling women,. natives of Nubis territory, who had suffered unspeakable things. Some looked up at him with hope. Others, with fear. He said nothing.

The throne room was silent.

He stepped inside, boots echoing with each heavy stride until he reached the throne of stone and iron. Sitting slowly, he rested both hands on his sword, the blade tip between his feet, his head bowed low.

Around him, the city writhed in echoes of war.

Outside, the paladins hunted those who still thought to resist. Steel rang in alleyways. Pleas were drowned by thunder. Velmyra stronghold, proud and terrible, was finally taken.

Asher sat still, eyes fixed on the floor.

“No wonder…” he murmured, bitter laughter curling around his words like smoke.

She had always vouched for peace.

She had always held back the blade of vengeance.

She had protected his vassals, even when they scorned her.

Her powers made sense now—her impossible beauty, her healing hands, the flowers that bloomed wherever she stepped. Her very presence was a hymn to life.

She was life.

Tenaria—the continent, the mother of spirits, the breath within the soil and the whisper in the rivers.

She was crowned with titles and yet… the woman he loved may have only been a mask.

A part of him longed to believe the love was real. That she didn’t plan this. That their meeting wasn’t just fate weaving a web to bind him.

But trust once broken rarely returns whole.

And so, in a throne room slick with rain and regret, the Duke of Ashbourne sat amidst the retaken city—his rage spent, but his sorrow just beginning.

….

Weeks had passed since the retreat of Count Rimmon Wyvern, and now, beneath the quiet flicker of oil lamps, General Clegane stood within the study chamber of Vladimir Nubis.

The room smelled faintly of ink and old parchment, with rain tapping a steady rhythm against the tall windows.

In his left hand, Clegane held his helm, its surface still shone bright, a prideful result after thorough cleaning.

Vladimir, seated behind a broad oak desk, dipped his quill into a small inkwell, poised to finish the letter he had been drafting. At Clegane’s words, he froze mid-stroke.

“You’ve driven Count Rimmon back?”

Clegane gave a slow nod. “He fled with barely a hundred men. The rest… his soldiers, his officials—every one of them who occupied Velmyra—fell to Duke Asher’s sword.”

He paused, as though the weight of the memory lingered on his tongue.

“I don’t know what overcame him that day,” Clegane admitted, his voice quieter now, more uncertain. “But Velmyra was soaked in blood.”

Vladimir turned his gaze to the window, where grey clouds hung low in the sky like mourning shrouds. The rain had not ceased since that day—never heavy, always present, a slow and unending weep from the heavens.

“Since then, the rain hasn’t stopped,” he murmured. “We’re fortunate it remains a drizzle. A true storm would’ve drowned half the lowland towns.”

There was a pause, then Vladimir asked without turning, “Has he returned?”

“Yes,” Clegane confirmed with another nod. “He departed for Ashbourne the very night Velmyra bled. He should be nearing it by now.”

Vladimir rested his quill on the desk, exhaling softly. “Then I shall send my gratitude. If he did not stop by, it means he has matters of his own to settle.”

“I believe so,” Clegane replied, straightening slightly.

“You may leave,” Vladimir said at last.

As the general bowed and exited, the room fell into a deeper stillness. Vladimir sat alone, watching droplets slide down the glass. His thoughts drifted far from parchment and ink—toward the reason Duke Asher would leave so suddenly, when he had prepared for him to meet a member of the Sacred Flame imperial family!