Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

Chapter 519: Ashkelon’s Plight

The only sound that filled the vast training yard was the whistle and clash of steel as Asher’s sword danced through the air, each stroke carving silver arcs of light across the empty space. Every swing was fluid, precise, art in motion. The blade felt alive in his grasp, perfectly balanced, its weight molded to his strength as though forged for his hand alone.

Yet beneath that perfect balance, Asher could feel it, the malicious pulse of mana thrumming through Ithamar’s core. Unlike ordinary weapons that relied on their master’s energy, this sword bore its own reservoir, a wellspring as deep and potent as his own soul. Its presence pressed against his veins, demanding, daring him to keep up.

The armour that clung to his frame was no less alive. Born of Ithamar’s instinct, it had materialized over his body with the weight of countless wars etched into its weathered plates. It gleamed faintly under the light, yet bore the appearance of something ancient, scarred, tempered, carrying the burden of centuries of carnage. It looked as though it belonged to a warlord of old, one who had bathed in endless blood and flame. That hunger seeped into Asher’s being, urging him to move, to fight, to conquer.

With a sharp metallic click, his armoured boot pressed against the stone floor. Then, like a thunderbolt unleashed, Asher propelled himself high into the air, soaring over twenty meters effortlessly. At his peak, his sword swept wide, tracing a brilliant arc that split the sky itself with a lingering flash of silver light, a crescent that gleamed before dissolving.

He fell like a meteor, his impact cracking the reinforced stone beneath him, knees bending into a warrior’s crouch. The ground trembled as he absorbed the force, and in the same motion, he shot forward, his body a blur, like an arrow freed from the string of an archer’s bow.

To an onlooker, it would seem he battled phantoms, his strikes cutting into empty air with ferocity and grace. But Asher saw his enemy. After a final sweeping strike, he lowered the sword and shifted seamlessly into a ready stance, his golden eyes gleaming like molten fire.

From beneath his feet, frost erupted, spreading outward in jagged veins across the arena floor. The cold deepened, heavy mist coiling as figures rose from the ice itself. Humanoid forms took shape, armoured knights of solid frost, their bodies wrought from Kyros ice, legendary and nearly indestructible. Each bore a weapon, axes, swords, hammers, halberds, their frosty edges glittering with death.

Asher’s breath escaped in mist, curling into the air as he smirked. The frost knights closed in with the sound of grinding ice, their weapons slashing from every direction in perfect synchronicity.

He moved. A sweep of Ithamar cleaved through three knights at once, their bodies splintering into shards. Ice burst from beneath his boots, propelling him past the remaining knights in a sudden surge, his speed leaving behind a crescent-shaped trail suspended in the cold air like the ghost of the moon.

He appeared behind them, sword thrust forward, driving cleanly through the abdomen of a knight. Shards exploded outward as he ripped the blade free, ducking beneath a sweeping axe, and countered with his own stroke, clean, merciless, a slash that bisected another knight, torso severed from legs in a shower of crystalline fragments.

These were not weak conjurations. Knights forged of Kyros ice were said to be nearly indestructible, harder than steel, able to endure the strikes of armies. And yet, Ithamar cut through them as though they were nothing but brittle glass. No authority over frost aided him, only steel, skill, and a cursed blade whose hunger matched his own.

“My Lord!”

The alarmed cry cut through the clash of steel, halting Asher mid-thrust. His golden eyes narrowed as he stood upright, lowering his sword. Around him, the frost knights shattered into drifting shards of mist and then dissolved entirely, leaving only the lingering chill of their presence. Silence settled over the training yard.

He turned toward the voice, suddenly realizing the world had changed while he trained. The sun was gone, darkness blanketed the sky, and in its place, twin moons glowed with pale silver fire, casting long shadows across the stone tiles.

At the edge of the arena stood Nero. His presence was commanding as always, but his composure faltered. A grave expression carved itself into his features, betraying a rare moment of distress. The usually impenetrable calm in his face was fractured.

“What is it?” Asher asked, his tone casual, though his body radiated tension. With deliberate slowness, he drove Ithamar into the ground. The cursed blade sank with a low hiss, its crimson mist dispersing as the armour clinging to his frame unraveled. Piece by piece it fell away, dissolving into a red haze before touching the ground, leaving Asher standing once more as a man rather than the towering warlord Ithamar made him.

Nero’s voice carried weight. “Those wretched Abyss Worshipers have opened a rift in Ashkelon. The city is under siege, an entire horde of orcs pours through.”

Asher’s jaw tightened. He closed his eyes briefly, as though centering himself, and then opened them again, golden light flickering in his gaze. “So they’ve finally come.” His words were cold, resolute. “Gather the Iron Saints. We ride for Ashkelon, at once.”

…

A brilliant golden beam tore through the night sky like a divine flare, erupting upward from the teleportation channel. When it faded, Asher stood astride Velmorne, his stocky, battle-forged unicorn steed whose horn glowed faintly with celestial light. At his back stretched a phalanx of power unmatched: three hundred Iron Saints, each mounted upon towering warhorses clad in plated gold.

Their armour gleamed like living sunlight under the moons, every curve inscribed with runes of protection and war. Their solemn golden masks were expressionless, carved into eternal visages of wrath and judgment. No mortal could tell if those masks reflected their true faces beneath, but the oppressive aura they radiated was enough to silence entire crowds. The Iron Saints did not march like men; they loomed like inevitability itself, the hand of the king’s will made manifest.

“Your Majesty,” a voice rose over the awe of the gathering. It was Katarina, stepping forward from the crowd in the city square. She bowed deeply, though the tremor in her hands betrayed her fear. “I heard of your arrival, but never did I imagine it would be so swift.”

Asher inclined his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over her and the kneeling people behind her, some were soldiers, some maids, most commoners. They were not required to kneel, but the weight of his presence, his and that of the Saints, forced them down as if the air itself had grown heavy.

“The Paladins…” one of Katarina’s maids gasped, clasping trembling hands to her lips. Her husband’s tales came rushing back to her, tales of the Iron Saints, paladins in golden masks who could ride into battle beside their king and devastate armies alone. Legends spoke of each one being worth hundreds of soldiers, their blades carrying the wrath of God himself.

And now, three hundred of them had come, riding beneath the moons, their silence more terrifying than any war cry.