Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Asher stood at the same window, eyes fixed on the snowfall drifting lazily from the sky. It felt as though not a second had passed—but eight months had come and gone.

Eight long, relentless months.

Months of rebuilding Everard. Of replacing fear with hope. Of dragging the enslaved from their shackles and leading them into celebration. He had imported festivals from the mainland—customs of joy and remembrance—to lift the people out of their old, broken mindsets.

He had repelled pirate fleets, not once but many times. Each attack made headlines across the continent, each retaliation adding fuel to the legend. They called him the most brutal lord to ever walk the land. A tyrant. A monster. A conqueror soaked in blood.

But Asher didn’t care.

He had seen the cities—his cities—with his own eyes. He had walked the streets and seen the joy on faces once hollowed by despair. Two million, four hundred thousand people no longer bent to whips and hunger. That was what mattered.

Not the world’s judgment.

He hadn’t left the island once during those months. Not even for a day. Every hour was spent in labor—paperwork, public addresses, policy drafting. He selected leaders, trained overseers, enforced discipline, and created structure.

It had been chaos. But now it was taking shape.

Four cities had risen on the island. The largest was built atop the ruins of Cyclox and named Antioch the First. A city of over one million. A metropolis with stone-paved roads, arched bridges, wide districts, and bustling markets filled with craftsmen, weavers, smiths, and bakers. The former slaves had become artisans, and many were already masters of their trades. Slavery had scarred them, but it had also shaped them. Now, they could use those skills with pride.

The other cities were Antioch the Second, Third, and Fourth, each progressively smaller, but all thriving.

Military organization had been surprisingly efficient. Selecting soldiers here was easier than in the mainland. Those chosen were sent to be trained under the banners of the Grand Aegis Legion and the Frontline Legion. Two hundred thousand had already completed training, returning as gold-ranked and diamond-ranked knights, each garrisoned in one of the cities. Disciplined. Loyal.

Everard had transformed. The prison had become a promised land.

It came at a cost, of course. Asher had made enemies. Kingdoms that once profited from the Everard trade now whispered of war. But even that didn’t matter.

Three hundred thousand refugees had fled Mormont after its noble families were executed. They came to him—choosing his rule over chaos.

That influx had brought his mainland population from 800,000 to 1.1 million.

Now, with the addition of the 2.4 million freed souls of Everard, his total population stood at 3.5 million.

A kingdom within a Dukedom.

And yet, as snow fell silently beyond the window, Asher’s expression remained unreadable. Neither pride nor satisfaction. Only a stillness.

He knew better than anyone—

The Abyss was coming.

And his greatest enemies—King Reuel and Prince Aaron—were in Eden, raising their forces in anticipation of what would soon engulf the continent.

Asher could feel it in his bones, as tangibly as the air in his lungs. A great war was brewing, a tide that would drown nations before the Abyss itself even arrived.

Galvia had already made its move.

Last month, they finally razed Nightfire, annihilating its royal lineage in a single night of plague and flame. Millions had perished—burned alive, cut down, or left to rot—but no one dared call the emperor a madman.

Who would?

Nightfire was stronger than Everard had ever been. Its arcane academies led the New Era’s magical revolution. Their scholars were revered. Their mages, legendary. And yet—they fell.

Just like that.

Now Silvermoon stood next in line. But unlike Nightfire, they had scrambled for allies. In desperation, they forged pacts with the Merchant Guilds of the Sacred Flame Empire and even pledged fealty to its imperial throne. Their fear was plain to see.

And while empires shifted and kingdoms crumbled, Asher’s ambition soared.

It was time.

Time to become a king.

Knock! Knock!

“My Lord, the council awaits your arrival,” came a soft female voice beyond the doors.

….

Boom!

The great doors swung open.

Asher stepped into the sacred hall. The chamber was rectangular, flanked by officials on both sides—men and women tasked with every vital role: internal affairs, military command, mainland relations, and the growing network of Ashbourne’s allies.

At the sight of him, they all bowed low.

He was clad entirely in black. A flowing coat of dark weave covered his tunic, and gloved hands swung at his sides. His pale skin and long snow-white hair created a stark contrast against the darkness of his garb, but what struck everyone most were his golden eyes—radiant, fierce, unblinking.

Twin suns that burned with something beyond fire.

With measured, quiet steps, Asher ascended the dais and took his seat on the throne. His gaze swept across the hall, calm but hollow.

There was no joy in his eyes. No pride. His path to this seat had stripped him of both youth and innocence. What remained was a man held together by sheer resolve, carved from scars, regrets, and a burden that could crush him the moment he faltered.

When he sat, the room straightened in unison.

Lucinda was the first to speak. She was beautiful and sharp, a commanding presence in her own right. She oversaw all administrative officials and was widely believed to be the most likely candidate for a noble title—though others still competed.

“My Lord,” she began, her voice careful, “you’ve summoned the council without the mainland nobles?”

Asher’s eyes settled on her, golden and piercing. Lucinda lowered her head slightly.

“I plan to make Ashbourne a kingdom,” he said, voice even, “and for that to happen—I must be king.”

Her question was swept aside.

A ripple of gasps filled the chamber. The words had been whispered in corridors, guessed in silence—but hearing them aloud shook the hall to its core.

Asher stood.

He extended a hand. From beside the throne, Nero stepped forward, carrying a sword wrapped in dark cloth.

Asher took it.

“This is the Kingsword,” he said, unwrapping the blade. A crimson sheen danced along its edge, forged from a metal none could name. Its size was monstrous—its broad blade nearly wider than Asher’s own face.

“It was given to the first King of Everard, three hundred years ago. By the laws of Boundless, owning this sword could make me king.”

He paused, lifting it high for all to see.

“But I do not want this sword.”

Gasps again. Murmurs. Bewilderment.

“I need my own,” he said, golden eyes blazing like molten stars. “A sword forged to embody me.”

Then he asked the question that silenced every voice in the hall:

“So tell me… where is the Kingmaker?”

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