Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Chapter 498: Battle Of Dura [1]

In a grand bedchamber adorned with tall windows and heavy burgundy drapes, a gray-haired woman sat quietly before a polished silver mirror.

The soft glow of midday filtered through the silk curtains, casting faint patterns on the stone floor. A carved wooden brush lay forgotten on the table before her, its bristles stained with strands of gray hair. In her hands, she held a parchment letter, its seal broken, its words still burning in her mind.

In the corner of the room, a falcon perched inside a wrought-iron cage mounted atop a five-foot-tall wooden pole. Its feathers shimmered faintly in the light as it pecked and preened itself, occasionally tilting its head toward her, as if sensing the storm of emotion within.

Mary’s expression darkened the longer she stared at the letter. Her brows drew close, lips tight, and eyes glassy with restrained fury. Every line of ink seemed to pull her deeper into a silence that had weight.

Then, without warning, the falcon stopped preening. Its keen eyes turned sharply toward the door.

And at that very moment, the door swung open with a low creak, revealing a tall man clad in a rich maroon doublet trimmed with gold. His braided white hair hung over his shoulder like a banner, and a smile tugged at his lips as he stepped inside.

“Isn’t your brother coming?” Lucas asked, his tone light, unaware of the tension steeping the room. “I had the entire castle prepared for his arrival. My father and siblings are already here.”

He approached Mary, the warmth in his voice gently nudging against her silence. But she didn’t look at him.

“He’s not.” Her voice came out flat and cold, as if the words had frozen in her throat before escaping.

Lucas stopped mid-step. The smile vanished. A faint crease formed between his brows as the weight of her tone struck him.

Slowly, Mary turned to face him, her eyes like golden stormclouds.

“Assassins were sent after him and his family. They’re safe.” She spoke each word with deliberate calm, the kind that trembles with fury just beneath the surface. “And he has chosen to return to Ashbourne.”

She rose with quiet grace, the folds of her long gown brushing against the stone floor. Without another glance, she walked past Lucas, her fingers clutching her gown tightly for a moment before releasing it.

As she reached the door, her voice drifted back, low and venomous, like a curse uttered in the dark.

“I hope he doesn’t return until he has the heads of Reuel and Aaron on a spike.”

….

On the sweeping plains of Dura, a vast expanse stretching thousands of miles, endless and unforgiving, Asher stood before his mount. One hand rose slowly, gently caressing the creature’s head as his white mantle billowed behind him, caught in the restless wind.

Today, the skies above were uneasy. Grey clouds churned in silent rebellion, and far in the distance, thunder rumbled like an omen.

His mount, a majestic beast black as the void, stood tall and proud. Ethereal veins of ever-shifting light pulsed faintly beneath its dark hide, strange, phantom lines that shimmered for a breath before vanishing like illusions. It lowered its head, nuzzling him with quiet affection.

Asher reached up, fingers curling around the creature’s long, spiraled horn. He traced the length of its obsidian face, then down to its neck, his armored hand sinking into the silken depths of its midnight mane.

“Velmorne…” he murmured, the name spoken like a vow.

His gaze shifted, drawn to the army gathered before him.

Three hundred Iron Saints sat atop muscular, horned steeds, massive brown warhorses whose forward-curving horns resembled sharpened khopesh blades. Silent and unmoving, the Saints radiated an aura of dread calm, their golden shields resting against their thighs.

Behind them stretched an ocean of warriors: sixty-eight thousand beastmen. Minotaurs with massive horns and great axes. Werelions cloaked in lionhide and armour, their eyes aflame with battle-hunger. The wolves in more disciplined formations, low growls rolling in their throats. And towering above them all, the Jotunn, humanoid giants with skin like glacier-blue stone, their massive axes shimmering in the light.

All were clad in black and gold plate, their white cloaks rippling like waves of snow. And among them, fluttering high above the ranks, flew the banners of House Ashbourne, black cloth emblazoned with the silver-white head of a howling wolf, its fangs bared to the wind.

With a soft grunt, Asher mounted Velmorne. His Kingsword, nearly as long as a man, rested in its scabbard strapped to the beast’s right flank. As he slid the crown-helm over his head, a faint pulse of power surged through him. He held it in check, just enough to avoid ascending into the sky like a comet.

His eyes narrowed, fixing upon the horizon.

Two kilometers ahead, across the wind-swept fields, the enemy stood waiting.

The United North Alliance Army, an immense force of one hundred and sixty thousand soldiers arrayed in ranks that stretched from one end of the plain to the other.

They had come in full strength. This was no border skirmish. This was their bid for finality. A single battle, meant to end everything.

They were led by Aaron. Reuel. Rimmon.

Asher couldn’t see them from this distance, but he knew they were there. His informant, Uriah, had confirmed it: Aaron’s black dragon had been spotted, its wings blotting out the sun as it circled above. Alongside it flew eight hundred wyverns and ten thousand Intis Swiftwings, lethal eagle-dragons known to tear through infantry like wind through grass.

Each one was a flying death sentence, capable of slaughtering hundreds in a matter of moments.

This was the culmination of all their hatred, all their fear. Everything his enemies could muster, gathered here… to slay him on the plains of Dura.

“There he is,” Reuel said, his voice low but sharp, as he gazed into the shimmering, water-like portal conjured by Nephis. The magical surface rippled faintly, displaying a clear image of Asher atop his dark steed, cloak fluttering, sword gleaming, and an ocean of warriors behind him.

Reuel stood tall at the rear of their great army, flanked by Aaron and Rimmon. The air around them buzzed faintly with tension, and the distant sounds of preparation.

“A great army, I must say,” Aaron muttered with a smirk, flexing his fingers as he tightened the final strap on his obsidian gauntlet. The faint clink of metal echoed with foreboding weight. “But it ends today.”

He turned, eyes gleaming with ambition and cruel certainty. “Once I kill him, they’ll have no choice but to surrender.”

He raised a hand toward a waiting aide.

“Bring my saddle,” he commanded, the wind catching his cloak as he stepped away from the portal. “I shall greet him on dragon’s back.”

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