Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Chapter 510: A Sword Beyond Kingswords

Swoosh!

A burst of blue light flared from the circular stone platform, illuminating the square in a sudden, brilliant flash. As the light dissipated like mist torn apart by wind, three figures stood at its heart. One was clad in blackened armour, his bloodstained great helm catching the last shimmer of the fading light. Two swords marked him, one strapped at his waist, the other slung across his back like a silent warning. He loomed just behind Asher and the Kingmaker, his presence as silent and ominous as a drawn blade.

Kingmaker’s eyes scanned the bustling town square before them. Dozens of wide-mouthed forges lined the perimeter, their open doors revealing glowing hearths and smouldering flames. Smoke spiraled skyward in thick, winding columns from the tall chimneys, forming a hazy veil above the industrious town.

The air pulsed with the rhythm of creation, the relentless hammering of steel on anvils, the sharp hiss of red-hot metal being quenched in oil or water, and the soft, constant murmur of workers communicating through curt nods and brief, efficient chatter.

Young blacksmiths moved swiftly between stations, hauling carts of raw ore with gloved hands. They fed the materials into smelters, where roaring flames devoured impurities before the molten metal was funneled into molds.

Senior smiths, weathered by years of toil, took over, shaping and refining the metal with practiced hands, their faces marked by soot, sweat, and absolute focus.

Kingmaker watched it all with quiet awe. The coordination, the innovation, the silent rivalries and communal pride, it was more than mere smithing. It was artistry born of discipline.

His lips curled ever so slightly, the closest thing to a genuine smile since he’d arrived in Ashbourne.

Then he saw it, a massive water-powered hammer, rhythmically rising and falling with thundering precision. It crushed heated ingots beneath its might, reducing the effort required by dozens of arms. The ingenuity brought a gleam to his eyes.

“For the first time since we came to Ashbourne,” Kingmaker murmured, “I am wholly impressed.”

“This,” Asher said, pride laced in every word as he stepped off the platform, “is Silverleaf Bastide. Home to thousands of blacksmiths and the greatest minds in the kingdom.”

They strode purposefully toward the largest forge nestled at the square’s heart, its stone façade veined with silver and black steel reinforcements. Inside, two grandmaster blacksmiths stood in heated discussion.

One, a white-haired man in deep blue robes, held a gleaming white cuirass in gloved hands, examining its shape under the forge light. The other, a muscular, black-haired, thick bearded man, stood bare-chested, his sweat-slicked torso glistening like polished bronze beneath the furnace glow.

Clad only in black leather pants, he gestured fiercely at the cuirass, his finger jabbing as he made his point with the conviction of a man who spoke with his hands as much as his voice.

But the moment was broken as a young blacksmith, no older than seventeen, looked up and froze. His eyes widened, and then he dropped his tools with a loud clatter and bowed low.

“Your Majesty!” he called out, his voice ringing through the forge like a struck bell. “We weren’t expecting you!”

The commotion made both grandmasters pause. They turned simultaneously, their gazes locking on the newcomers.

Their eyes found Asher first, tall, majestic, every inch the legend he had become.

Then they saw the dwarf standing beside him, his stature barely reaching Asher’s waist, yet radiating a presence that made him seem twice as large.

And then their eyes rose again, to the figure behind them. A towering, eight-foot man in blackened steel, the blood-streaked helm hiding whatever expression might have been beneath.

The air in the forge seemed to still, the flames dancing quieter, as if even the fire respected the company that had arrived.

“Your Majesty!” Ark and Dan bowed deeply, their faces etched with both awe and disbelief.

Asher smiled faintly. “This is the Kingmaker, creator of the Kingswords.”

The weight of those words dropped like an anvil.

Ark and Dan exchanged stunned glances. They had studied the Kingsword Asher retrieved from Everard’s cryptic vault, examined every etching, every arcane seam and alloy but even together, they couldn’t comprehend its complexity. It was less a weapon and more a mystery wrought in metal.

And this dwarf… was its architect.

They could feel it in their bones, he was beyond Saint-rank, far beyond anything they had read of in records or witnessed in the field. A living myth.

Their gazes drifted to the weapons on his back: the original Kingsword, Ithamar, and the infamous Mortal Blade. All of Asher’s iconic blades.

Was he… about to reforge them?

He wanted to melt down relics of that calibre? Unthinkable. They had tried, countless times, to replicate or deconstruct these weapons, but each attempt ended in failure. The material rejected the flame. The runes resisted the chisel.

“I shall forge in the town square,” Kingmaker said, stroking his braided beard, his eyes glinting with pride. He seemed oddly pleased to stand in a bastion of iron and invention, among a community of sweat-soaked smiths hammering away at the boundary of their limitations.

Asher turned to him with a flicker of curiosity.

Kingmaker caught the glance and smirked. “Don’t you want your blacksmiths to grow past their current ranks?”

Before Asher could respond, he felt it, piercing stares from Ark and Dan. There was no need for words; he could feel their desire burning hotter than any forge.

This wasn’t just an opportunity. It was a gateway, one that might allow them to take the step they had long been denied. A chance to breach the veil between mortal craft and divine artistry.

“It would take a while to set up a forge,” Asher said, half as a question, half in caution.

“At a certain realm,” Kingmaker replied without missing a beat, “you do not need such things.”

With that, he reached behind and pulled free the hammer strapped to his back. Without ceremony, he tossed it skyward.

The hammer spun through the air like a comet, gleaming in the morning light. As it descended, it struck the exact center of the town square…

BOOM!

Flames erupted in a circular bloom around the impact site. The very stone of the square shifted and cracked, reshaping into a brick-forge with an open mouth. Flames licked upward from within. The chimney curled into existence like a rising tower of smoke and soot. Sparks flared, and glowing metal swirled inside as if the forge had always belonged there, waiting.

The hammer rested atop an obsidian anvil, which had also emerged from the flames. The clang still echoed across the square.

Asher’s golden eyes flickered with a silent mix of surprise and wonder.

Kingmaker chuckled under his breath. “That’s what your weapon will be able to do once it’s forged.”

He stepped forward, eyes gleaming like hot coals. “Mine gives me what I need to complete its use, a forge. Yours will give you armor. An equipment born for you, tailored by fate itself. Probably beyond any Kingsword I’ve ever created.”