Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything! - Chapter 442

Chapter 442: Blood King [1]
Two Estate Ships sailed across the Kryos Sea, cutting through the misty waters toward Everard. One carried eighteen thousand Stormdrakes. The other bore five thousand Gray Knights.

Twenty-three thousand strong.

Weeks passed. On the deck of the leading ship, two hundred meters away, Nero stood with his arms crossed, watching.

Asher trained. Again. Still.

Beside Nero stood Moses and Simon. All three of them had been observing Asher for hours—no, days now.

“He’s been swinging that sword nonstop for two weeks,” Moses muttered, narrowing his one good eye. “No rest. No food. How is that possible?”

Each time Asher moved, it was like the wind bowed to him. His slashes tore through the air with precision so perfect that every stroke produced a piercing howl.

His swordsmanship was basic in form—just slashes, over and over—but it felt anything but basic. It was as if he could cut the very air at will, like his blade had divorced itself from the rules of the world.

“He’s an Awoken One,” Simon said quietly. “They’ve bypassed the limits of race and body. Going without food for a month is… a trivial matter. A full release of his energy could freeze every living being aboard this ship. We’d all be statues.”

Simon had learned this from Lord Winter. Never in his life had he imagined Asher—just twenty-five—would reach this realm.

Moses frowned. “They’re that strong?”

“Strong is an understatement,” Simon said. “As we approach the Exalted Rank, the difference in physical strength between individuals becomes smaller. We rely on our battle force to surpass one another—but only in bursts. For Awoken Ones… their battle force is like a sea. They can remain empowered for weeks.”

He stared at Asher, whose figure dancing across the deck, reflected in Simon’s eyes like a phantom of war.

“There’s a reason lords don’t just send armies to kill them.”

Moses crossed his arms, skeptical. “Then why haven’t the lords who have them conquered everything?”

Simon’s eyes flickered.

“Because they’re dying.”

Nero and Moses both turned sharply toward him, stunned.

“That realm of power wasn’t meant for mortals,” Simon continued. “Only the Old Ones could wield it without consequence. For an Awoken One, the sheer power and will they possess—the will to tear through the fabric of reality and forge it into something that mirrors their own heart—makes them… something else. Something unnatural.”

“The world rejects them. Their own bodies reject them. Every Awoken One is slowly dying.”

Simon sighed as Asher leapt into the air, swinging his blade downward with explosive force, then raising his shield, dancing with an invisible foe.

“The irony,” he murmured, “is that almost all of them live for centuries. So how do those rejected by their own bodies and the world outlive us all?”

As if summoned by their thoughts, Asher lowered his weapons. He turned to them, steps slow, eyes unreadable.

When he reached them, he spoke.

“You’re mistaken, Simon. You compare us to them.”

The word us sent a shiver down all three spines.

Though it was only Asher’s voice, something had changed—something vast and ancient echoed behind it. It felt like his words came from another plane, as though a divine realm had spoken through him. The air grew heavier, reality more distant.

He spoke of himself alone, and yet… it felt like staring at a whole nation bound in a single frame of flesh and will.

Asher continued.

“They all reached the Awoken state after centuries. Most haven’t lived more than two or three decades since crossing that threshold. They’ve been dormant ever since. But we… we are the only ones to reach it this young.”

He turned away, eyes flickering.

‘In a way, you could say we might not live to see a century.’

He took a few steps forward when a sharp cry cut through the stillness. Asher raised his head. A falcon soared above—then dove like a falling star.

Wings flared wide just before landing, and it perched neatly on his shoulder.

Asher slid a hand into his pocket, withdrawing a small treat. The messengers had long taught him: these special morsels emitted a scent visible only to the trained eyes of falcons—marking their intended recipient. He always kept a few with him.

The falcon accepted the treat.

He unrolled the letter.

Asher’s expression darkened.

‘The Shadow Order?’

‘Their headquarters… is in Everard?’

“Is that so?”

….

Two months later.

Antioch. One of the largest border cities on Everard Island. Known for its massive slave markets and swarming harbors, the city never slept. Dozens of ships lined the piers, and the scent of salt and rot lingered in the air.

On the streets of the slave market, a gathering of finely dressed men and women stood silently, their jeweled fingers covering curious mouths as they stared at the sight before them.

They stood before the Great Wall of Names.

A man was nailed to the wall.

His body was streaked in black mud and dried blood, head limp, his pale skin sickly white. The iron nails pinning his wrists and ankles glinted under sunlight. Behind him, the wall was marked with a litany of names—thousands—scrawled in ash and blood.

The man on the wall was Josef. A baron of Ashbourne.

Braxen Ohl, the bloated lord of Antioch, waddled forward. His full cheeks jiggled with each step as he lifted a long ceremonial pike.

With a grunt, he drove the weapon through Josef’s ribs.

No scream. No flinch.

“Tch. He’s dead,” Braxen muttered, stepping back with a sigh. “I tell you, I don’t know what they feed them in Ashbourne, but their bones are iron. Took him a whole month to die.”

He chuckled to himself, beaming at his guests—envoys from Galvia Empire, his best customer!

“Unfortunately, the others haven’t broken yet. So I can’t supply you with slave-warriors just yet,” he said with a grin. “But I wager you wouldn’t mind a few of their pale-skinned women, eh?”

The slightest flicker of interest crossed a few eyes, and Braxen’s smile widened.

He had no idea that, even now, two colossal estate ships were breaching his territorial waters.

And at their helm stood a merciless lord, eyes cold as winter steel—bringing with him storm and wrath.

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A/N: Thank you for staying with this work throughout the hard times when I was struggling with my eyes. After the last treatment, I’ve seen much improvement and I think you guys have felt it.

Anyways, I hope Reincarnated Lord will revive to be what it once was, even if that future looks bleak.

Don’t forget to vote for this work next month! Show this little work lots of love and I might mass release!