Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Chapter 506: The Impossible

Asher stepped down from the obsidian-carved carriage that rolled to a smooth halt before the palace square. The air was cool, carrying the scent of spiced oil and blooming marleia flowers from the palace gardens. At the center of Nineveh, the capital gleamed like a jewel, and at its heart stood the palace, majestic, ancient, and alive with power.

Lining the pathway were two flanks of maids and servants, garbed in immaculate grey-blue robes trimmed with silver. They stood in perfectly symmetrical rows, heads bowed low, not daring to meet the eyes of the man stepping forth. Their stillness was reverent, yet behind it buzzed a trembling awe, as if a warlord had returned to walk among mortals.

Asher walked with steady, deliberate strides, each step measured yet effortless.

At his side, Merlin matched his pace, though his gait was slightly less graceful, the edges of his brown cloak dusted from travel. Asher’s long midnight-blue cloak fluttered behind him like a shadow given form, his boots silent against the marble floor.

The sunlight glinting from his sword’s hilt, strapped diagonally to his back, drew more attention than any crown could have.

Merlin’s expression was unreadable, eyes a lazy emerald that flicked over the lined servants with only passing interest, until they rose, sharpened and intent, as they landed upon the grand staircase ahead.

There, at the highest landing, stood a white-haired boy. No older than him, he was dressed in a sleek black silk tunic embroidered with faint gold threads, matching trousers tucked neatly into high, polished boots. The boy’s posture was relaxed, casual even, but the way he held his head, slightly tilted with a calm confidence, spoke of bloodline and training.

Atreides.

A faint, knowing smile curved the corners of his lips as his golden eyes, striking and radiant like morning sunlight breaking over storm clouds met Merlin’s.

But when those eyes took in Merlin’s ruffled cloak, travel-worn appearance, and wild curls, his smile quivered, the urge to laugh barely suppressed.

Merlin glared and scoffed under his breath, making sure the sound didn’t escape far.

He knew better than to draw his father’s attention in moments like this. Asher was not a cruel man, but he was a giant to them, not just in stature, but in legend.

Since childhood, the twins had grown up hearing of the man who commanded legions, who walked the scorched north with his armies, who had the great Sirius, the greatest pet beast in Ashbourne history.

Even among the palace guards, all of whom reached eight feet in height, Asher remained a figure that loomed above all. His broad shoulders, long limbs, and unmistakable bearing made him the center of gravity in any room he entered.

Beside Atreides, a composed man stood like a sculpture carved from the ideals of nobility. His black gloves were pristine, one hand neatly clasped behind his back. His black coat was crisp, double-breasted and crested with the sigil of House Salvatore. A monocle gleamed upon his right eye, catching the ambient glow from the chandelier above.

Kelvin Salvatore. A name whispered in courts and war camps alike. His hawk-like gaze flicked briefly to Asher, not with fear, but with the recognition of actual noble grace and in that, his heart swelled with pride.

When Asher closed in, Kelvin and Atreides bowed their heads. “Your Majesty!” As they lifted their heads, Kelvin continued.

“You have a guest, My Lord. Lady Katarina is in the sacred hall.”

“I see.” Asher replied, his tone steady as ever. His golden eyes, sharp and piercing, dropped to meet Atreides.

“How many sword swings today?”

“Eight thousand.” Atreides answered, pride swelling in his voice.

Asher nodded, the faintest smile curling on his lips. He placed a firm hand atop his son’s head, the gesture gentle yet brimming with silent approval. Then, with the quiet rustle of his robes and boots tapping against the polished floor, he strode forward without another word.

. . .

The great doors to the sacred hall parted with weighty groans as two Iron Saints, huge men encased in blazing golden ceremonial armor, pushed them open with synchronized precision. The echo of steel hinges rumbled through the massive chamber like thunder retreating through stone.

Asher stepped into the hall, the hem of his long coat trailing behind him like a shadow. The golden sigils embroidered into the fabric shimmered under the golden light of the chandeliers above. His gaze, unblinking and focused, landed immediately on the lone figure at the center, Katarina.

She stood silently before the empty throne, her back turned to him, rubbing her shoulders in slow, absent strokes. A thick brown coat hung from her frame, the fur collar wrapped tightly around her throat. Her gray hair was bound in a long braid, though the trembling of her hands betrayed her composed stance.

Asher cleared his throat, his voice calm but edged with concern. “You wear a coat, yet you still feel cold? You may have to visit the apothecaries.”

At the sound of his voice, Katarina turned. Her face, lined with age, still held the glow of a woman in her prime. The years had softened her bones, but not her spirit. She looked, perhaps, sixty at most, though Asher knew the truth, eighty-one seasons had passed over her, and she wore each one with a quiet resilience.

Relief flooded her eyes when she saw him, but it quickly gave way to sorrow. Her expression sagged, and her gaze dropped briefly to the marbled floor.

Seeing the shift, Asher’s brow furrowed. He approached her slowly, his footsteps echoing beneath the towering ceiling.

“You had a dream?”

Katarina gave a slow nod, her throat constricting. “Sadly.”

“It’s been two years since your last.” Asher’s voice grew lower. “What did you see?”

She glanced toward the towering stained-glass windows lining the side of the sacred hall, ensuring there were no eavesdroppers, only the silence of stone and gold. When she was certain they were alone, she exhaled as though expelling the weight of the vision itself.

“You lose to the Abyss King,” she whispered. “He kills you in a duel, takes your crown… and before then, Velmorne is already his.”

Asher stopped in place. His entire body tensed, eyes narrowing like drawn blades. Silence hung in the air like a suspended breath.

Katarina continued, her voice trembling now, not from age, but from fear. “The Abyss King is coming. There’s no stopping him. But you mustn’t face him alone. Not even the Kingsword will save you. His weapon… it is not of this world. You couldn’t even heal from its cut. His army moves like a flood across the land, merciless, and unstoppable!”

Asher’s breath left him slowly, like a man contemplating the edge of a cliff. “So you say,” he murmured at last, his voice unreadable. Then he turned and began walking toward the grand exit.

Katarina raised her voice, desperate now.

“It is the future, Asher!”

He paused just before the threshold, tilting his head back slightly so she could glimpse his profile, a man carved from resolve.

“Should I cower in my palace then?” he asked quietly. “Or wait for the inevitable? If my weapon is inferior… then I shall find one that is superior.”

Katarina stepped forward, her voice nearly breaking.

“How?! There is no blacksmith on this continent capable of matching the work of the Kingmaker. And you speak of surpassing it? That’s madness!”

Asher did not look back. “Do not panic, Katarina. I can hear it in your voice. I am not dead yet.”

He touched the silver sigil on his left vambrace, the mark of his failed journey. His pursuit of the Kingmaker had yielded nothing but riddles and cold trails. Katarina was right, no one alive had forged a blade equal to his. Let alone better.

Boom!

The doors ahead swung open with a forceful thud, halting Asher mid-step. A gust of warm air flowed into the sacred hall.

There, framed in the entryway’s light, stood his wife, tall, dignified, her hair bound in a crown braid, and beside her walked a stout figure unlike any he had seen in years.

The dwarf’s boots clanked against the floor as he strode in. His beard, thick and meticulously braided, reached his abdomen and swayed with each step. A heavy hammer, ancient and worn from centuries of use, was slung across his back. His eyes burned with a quiet fire.

Asher’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t move, only stared.

The impossible may have just walked into his hall.