Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Chapter 513: Asher’s Fate

Asher turned, his gaze hardening as his golden eyes narrowed on a lone figure standing just where he had entered from. The moonlight barely reached him, but even through shadow, his presence was unmistakable. The man’s gray hair shimmered with age and pride, his eyes a gold so intense they seemed carved from sunlight itself. He stood tall, arms crossed, radiating a quiet authority that didn’t need announcing.

Aside from Asher and Zenas, all others had been dismissed, sent away in silent reverence, because the man who had arrived was no ordinary Ashbourne.

He was Zorah.

Firstborn of Zenas.

The prodigy exiled.

A man whom time had not weakened, whose reputation had never faded. Said to be even more gifted than his father, Zorah embodied the full might and potential of the Ashbourne bloodline. But politics, twisted and ancient, had turned against him.

And because of that, Asher knew with chilling certainty: If not for exile, Zorah would have been the first king of House Ashbourne. Not him.

A suffocating silence clung to the air.

Zorah stepped forward with measured grace, the heel of his boots crunching the frost-kissed grass beneath. He moved like a phantom, like someone who had spent centuries in solitude, sharpening both skill and resentment.

“Dual wielding was a tradition,” Zenas began, his voice composed and strong from the throne carved in reverent wood. “But not anymore. Asher has proven that one sword, in the right hands, can surpass even the might of two. He is hailed as the Fourth Strongest Swordsman in the mortal realm.” There was pride in his voice, and a flicker of defensiveness.

Zorah approached slowly, his eyes locked on Asher, slightly narrowed, scrutinizing, as if trying to read something deeper than face or fame. As if measuring weight.

“The mortal realm isn’t what it once was,” he said, voice cold as the air. “Tell me, how good can a mortal be… in the realm of spirits?”

His tone wasn’t of curiosity. It was a challenge. A verdict.

Zenas’ brows creased, his grip on the throne’s arm tightening slightly. “Why challenge him? What offense has he given you?”

Zorah didn’t look at his father, not immediately. He kept his eyes on Asher like a blade fixed on its target, as if he had never communicated with him before.

Then he turned. “I am connected to the lineage once more,” he said with weight, his voice laced with old bitterness. “You know that. I have heard the Kingmaker’s words. I know what fate now hangs in our hands, in his hands. A man not even thirty years of age, barely understanding the force within him, chosen to carry us all to salvation?”

He let the words hang.

“He might be chosen. He might even be gifted with a blade. But a man who can’t yet master his own nature, how can he hope to save Boundless?”

Asher’s jaw clenched slightly. His golden eyes didn’t waver, but there was weight in them now. Understanding. This wasn’t about power. It was about legacy. And doubt.

Zenas exhaled deeply, slowly, as if the centuries weighed anew on his shoulders. “Now is not the time to—”

“Now is not the time?” Zorah interrupted sharply, his voice rising with indignation. His head tilted slightly, a bitter smile creeping to his lips. “Was then the time, Father? When you cast me aside because I couldn’t control my gift? Because I wasn’t born like the others, with two blades in hand and a legacy of symmetry? Doesn’t that mirror him?”

He thrust a finger toward Asher.

“He impressed you, didn’t he? He made the name of Ashbourne great again, and so the laws changed. Convenient.” His voice dripped with scorn.

Zenas didn’t flinch. But something shifted in his gaze. The pride gave way to quiet guilt.

“Every man makes mistakes,” Zenas said at last, slowly, every word pulled from deep within. “And I did. My loyalty to the realm… my fear of failure… it blinded me. But this is not the hour for pride or penance. We must guide him to the Dunes of Nubis and help him gather the Lords of the Spirit Realm before he faces the Four Great Mountains.”

Zorah exhaled, a sound heavy with years of anger yet not unyielding. Hearing his father admit fault, after centuries of silence and separation, softened something in him. A storm quelled, if only momentarily.

He turned to Asher once more, eyes no longer hostile but stern, firm with expectation. “He must master his gift.”

Then to his father, voice quiet but unshakable:

“He must learn to blur the gulf between the spirit and the mortal realm… and summon his wolf. Or he will travel to Nubis by foot.”

And with that, the weight of the Ashbourne name settled like a mantle across Asher’s shoulders, not forged by blood or title alone, but by the judgment of those who came before.

“We have a month. A month before your sword is forged,” Zorah said, his voice deep and calm.

“In that time, you must master more than passage, you must dominate the veil between the mortal realm and the spirit world. You must learn to cross freely. And more importantly, you must learn to bring things with you across the rift. You shall begin with your pet beast.”

….

Sunlight filtered through the high arched windows like golden blades, cutting across the marbled floor and touching the ornate pillars that lined the king’s room, the most sacred chamber in the entire territory. Yet despite the warm glow that filled the space, a somber stillness lingered like a breath held too long.

Two days had passed. And still, the king lay motionless upon his bed, his figure draped in silken sheets of royal blue and ivory. To the world, he seemed merely asleep, but Sapphira knew better. She knew where he had gone.

Seated at his bedside, she dipped a linen cloth into a bowl of lavender-scented water and gently dabbed his face, her movements tender, almost reverent.

His skin was warm, his breath steady, but his spirit was far away, traversing realms where time bent and empires whispered through eternity.

Her emerald eyes brimmed with a quiet, patient hope. She knew the task he faced. In the veiled lands of the spirit realm, Asher would have to find and plead his cause before kings long dead, sovereigns who once ruled during the First Age, the Glorious Age, even the Dark Age.

Legends of men who had bent the continent of Tenaria to their will with word, sword, or vision.

And then there were the Great Mountains of the Spirit, ancient sovereigns of unimaginable presence, the original rulers of the Eternal Immortal Empire, the Sacred Flame Empire, the Galvia Empire, and the Endless North. These four colossi of history were said to have shaped not only the lands but the very laws of man.

If Asher could reach them, convince them, they could become the bedrock of victory against the abyss.

But would they listen? Would they yield to a living man bearing only the dreams of a broken age? Or would they test him, challenge his claim, and cast him aside as just another bearer of futile hope?

Would he emerge as a leader among giants, or merely the messenger of revolution, replaced once his purpose was spent?

The questions surged through Sapphira’s mind like waves in a storm, battering the edges of her heart. But she did not waver. Her resolve was ironclad.

Then came the voice of an Iron Saint from beyond the chamber doors, muffled but firm, pulling her attention to the present.

“Your Majesty, Lord Eric Adamos is at the Sacred Hall.”