Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Chapter 509: Conqueror Of Stars, Ithamar

With a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through the walls like a slumbering beast awakening, what had seemed to be an ordinary wall shuddered, then retracted inward before sliding seamlessly to the left. It unveiled a void, pitch-black space, silent as death.

They stood within Asher’s study, a chamber of old-world elegance and veiled power. The Kingmaker stood poised before the newly revealed passage, hands clasped behind his back, while Asher stood behind his vast mahogany desk, withdrawing his palm from a sunken print carved into the table. A small, blood-beading wound marked his palm but healed in an instant, as though the very air stitched it closed.

He cleared his throat softly, yet the sound seemed to carry command and in response, the dormant torches lining the walls flared to life.

Fire bloomed across them like tongues of obedient flame, casting a warm, golden light that chased away the darkness. The light unveiled a spiral staircase hewn of blackened stone that spiraled down into the unseen depths.

“Oh? Nice mechanics,” the Kingmaker said, mildly impressed, as he took the first step down, his boots echoing off the stairwell walls. Asher followed closely behind, his steps silent despite the weight of his presence.

“So…” Asher began, his deep voice soft, contemplative, as if speaking a thought half-formed. “Malrath was supposed to right the wrongs of the world, wasn’t he?”

The Kingmaker nodded solemnly. “Indeed. He was chosen, just like you.”

“So if I fail…?”

“Another might rise in your stead or it will be the end for Boundless.” The Kingmaker didn’t look back. “I don’t know how you managed to get a continent to become your wife, but you should know… she’s dying. Tenaria is slowly becoming uninhabitable. It’s like watching a human riddled with a plague, one organ at a time begins to fail. That is what’s happening to her.”

He paused for emphasis, letting the next words fall like judgment.

“First, her waters will sour and turn vile. Then famine will stretch her lands bare. As your people scramble and fight over what little remains, the Abyss will emerge. It always does, like a predator drawn by blood.”

Asher halted on the stairwell, mid-step. The Kingmaker, three steps below, stopped as well and turned, his eyes sharp and piercing through his thick eyebrows.

“So… when you fail, know this, your wife might be the first to die. And once she’s gone, the other races will follow. All life here will be snuffed out. Tenaria is not just land… she is the cradle of existence. And she is bleeding.”

“You mean,” Asher replied, his voice now ironed with quiet resolve, “failing isn’t an option.”

“Exactly.” The Kingmaker’s eyes gleamed faintly in the torchlight. “Make sure you kill Saelix… even if it means dying alongside her. You’ve been given everything needed to end this war. The ability to gather the greatest and most formidable army from both realms. The only sword that crosses dimensions, one that houses the defiant spirit of a war-born giant. The body of an Old One. A mortal scroll to bend fate in your favor.”

He raised a brow. “Isn’t that enough?”

Asher exhaled, his sigh as heavy as the world placed on his shoulders. “Isn’t this too much for one man?”

The Kingmaker resumed descending. “Maybe. But not for the Ashbourne King.”

They reached the bottom of the spiral, where the air grew heavier, thick with dust. Before them lay a stone platform. Upon it rested two swords, one broken and beside it, sheathed and cloaked in dust, was Ithamar.

“It doesn’t suit my size and new style,” Asher remarked, voice neutral, gaze locked on the weapon. “Neither is the weight enough.”

The Kingmaker stepped forward and reached out. He gripped the weapon’s hilt, lifting the blade and its sheath in one hand.

Asher’s eyes widened, a flash of warning erupting from him. “Wait, don’t—!”

Shing!

The scabbard slid away in a fluid motion, revealing Ithamar in all its terrible glory.

The blade gleamed like molten starlight, unmarred by age. A shimmering red mist burst forth and condensed into the phantom of a colossal warrior, skin the hue of burning embers, with wild hair like fire itself, and eyes that devoured everything they beheld.

A suffocating, bloodthirsty aura flooded the chamber, warping the air and dragging it into a battlefield long forgotten. The red giant narrowed his eyes and creased one brow as if squinting into fate.

“It is you,” the spirit rumbled.

The Kingmaker gave a knowing chuckle. “Ithamar. From an Old One to a weapon… from the greatest warrior to the greatest weapon. Kingdoms have risen and fallen, yet you remain.”

Ithamar’s voice thundered through the stone walls, calm but laced with pride. “I am the conqueror of stars. None is my rival. You mock me, after your brother sealed my spirit in this godsforsaken blade? Where is the Forgefather?”

“Dead.” The Kingmaker’s answer dropped like an executioner’s axe.

Ithamar tilted his head up and let out a cruel, resounding laugh, shaking the room like a tremor. But the Kingmaker’s next words silenced the storm.

“He was killed under Saelix’s influence.”

The laughter died. Ithamar’s face twisted into grim silence.

“Even sealed within this weapon,” the red giant muttered, “I should have sensed her…”

“She isn’t here,” the Kingmaker said. “Not yet, at least. But I plan to reforge you. You will enter the Abyss, not as a relic, but as his weapon.”

He pointed at Asher.

Ithamar’s grin returned, savage and eager. “I’ve always wanted to test how hard her scales really are. But know this, I am no controlled boy, no puppet of men.”

He floated toward Asher, his towering form casting shadows that danced and twisted on the walls.

“I shall take that body of yours,” he growled, circling him like a predator. “I sense immense strength from that second heart you carry. You are no ordinary mortal…”

“Oh, Conqueror of Stars, he is no mere mortal,” the Kingmaker intoned, his voice echoing with solemn finality. “He may possess the spirit of one, but not the flesh. And you, Ithamar, you shall bend. For you shall be his weapon, and your armour shall be his own.”

Ithamar’s form trembled for a breath, just a flicker and his blazing crimson eyes narrowed into slits. The air grew thick, dense with his wrath. A low growl rumbled through the chamber like the grinding of ancient stone.

“What?!” he bellowed, squinting in disbelief and indignation. The red phantom surged in size, his fiery outline stretching across the vaulted chamber, almost brushing the ceiling with his horned head. “Me? Bound to a king of clay? A creature of blood and bone?”

His voice thundered like a falling star, each word a blow upon the air. The dust on the old stone floor quivered, rising in little spirals, disturbed by the fury of a once-godlike being.

But the Kingmaker stood unmoved, cloak still, gaze sharp. “You swore to break her, didn’t you?” he asked, his words a quiet blade. “Then be broken in turn, for only in submission will you wield your vengeance.”

Behind him, Asher said nothing. He merely stood there, eyes locked with the phantom giant, his presence calm but immense, an unmoving mountain before a hurricane.

Ithamar’s molten eyes shifted toward him. He studied Asher, scanning deeper than the skin, as though reading each fragment of strength, every scarred will etched into his soul. His laughter had died. Now, only a deep, contemplative silence remained.