Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

A man clad in noble attire strode through the polished marble halls of one of his grand citadels, his heavy coat swaying behind him with each purposeful step.

The torches lining the corridor cast flickering shadows on the golden curls that framed his chiseled face, yet no light reached his eyes. His expression was stormy, heavy with something deeper than thought.

He halted before a towering double door, his gaze fixed on the man standing guard beside it.

Garen.

His bodyguard. The Fourth Knight in the Titled Knights Ranking. The strongest Awoken One amongst those to have pledged allegiance to him.

Clad in radiant silver armor that shimmered faintly even in dim light, Garen stood with the quiet menace of a drawn blade. A dragon-shaped brooch, forged from solid gold, fastened the thick, royal-blue cloak around his shoulders, its eyes gleaming like tiny rubies.

The moment Aaron stopped, Garen’s nostrils flared subtly. “You’ve been drinking, My Lord,” he said, voice calm but edged.

“Of course I have,” Aaron muttered with a crooked smile, then struck his own chest lightly with a closed fist. The thud echoed faintly off the stone walls. His voice was deep, roughened by liquor and bitterness. “Tell me, Garen… do you truly believe that Duke Asher is dead?”

Garen didn’t answer immediately. He tilted his head slightly, as if carefully weighing the truth.

“Of course,” he said at last. “No man could survive an ancient-ranked spell performed by three archmages. Not even him.”

Aaron’s grin widened, but it was a grin filled with danger, not amusement. The glint in his eyes was sharp as broken glass. “Then it doesn’t matter. Take five thousand men. Search every corner of the forest. I want garrisons stationed at every stronghold, fortress, and towns under our banner. And if you find anyone with white hair and golden eyes…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Garen bowed slightly, his tone cool. “As you command, My Lord.”

Aaron turned toward the chamber doors, his hand resting on the burnished iron handle. He paused.

“What I asked for,” he said softly. “Is it inside?”

“It is,” Garen replied.

A single nod. Then Aaron opened the door and stepped inside.

Warm firelight filled the room, but it could not chase away the chill that crept over the woman when she heard Aaron enter.

Sitting silently in a carved oak chair beside the bed was a red-haired woman, her head bowed, posture tense. The firelight caught the crimson strands of her hair, making them gleam like coals.

Yuna Mormont.

Her shoulders trembled at the sound of his footsteps.

Aaron’s gaze dropped to her hand. A gleaming ring sat on her finger, an ornate band of platinum, set with a blue jewel so flawless it looked like frozen starlight.

“Admiring your ring?” Aaron chuckled darkly, stepping closer. “I had it made by the best craftsman in the land. Only the finest for my queen.”

Yuna did not lift her head. She didn’t speak. Her body trembled, not from cold, but from the weight of his presence.

Aaron’s smile vanished. “Lie down.”

….

In a great hall, magnificent in the ancient times but run down with cracks, dusts and grasses outside, a man stands tall, an unyielding figure of grace and grandeur. His bald head, etched with age and wisdom, is crowned by a flowing white beard, yet it is the glowing embers that streak from his left eye that capture the eye first.

His armor is nothing short of indestructibility, immense, baroque, and impossibly dense. Seemingly forged of a dark, tarnished gold alloy, the metal was engraved with ancient and exalted ranked insignias. Massive pauldrons rise high above his shoulders, like the towers of a forgotten citadel, bearing sunburst emblems and grim metallic wings, both regal and dreadful.

At his breast lay a circular, central sigil, an eye without a pupil, surrounded by an ancient belt of runes, like a guardian seal or symbol of absolute authority.

His chestplate was carved into layered plates that resemble ribs of some titanic war beast, protecting his heart and other vital parts.

His gauntlets were colossal, his left one wrapped in metal that extends into claws, as if forged not just for war but execution. His right hand clutched a great polearm, more halberd than spear, with a blade too heavy for any normal man, its edge sharpened and cruel, almost ceremonial in its ruinous elegance.

The lower armor was adorned with blackened cloth, frayed but untouched by age, trailing behind him like torn banners. His greaves were chiseled with the same intricate patterns as his cuirass, and his armored boots pressed down on the cracked marble.

Light from the shattered upper exit of the hall fell directly on him, illuminating the halo-like crest above his head and casting jagged shadows down his armor. It bathed him in a golden-red hue, making him seem less man, more judgment made flesh. A warlord. A twisted Messiah.

An emperor who has long since outlasted the era that birthed him.

He stood still, but the presence he radiated was suffocating.

This was Emperor Apollyon Galvia, first of his name.

A legend cloaked in flesh.

A man who had stood in the time of Archduke Zenas and the first kings and emperors, at the fall of the Glorious Age—a time when those with Magi Force ruled as tyrants, draining the very life from the land to fuel their might. Apollyon had never forgotten. He had never forgiven how they, knights and swordsmen were looked down on.

And though he might well be the oldest human still drawing breath, Apollyon stood unbent, his back straight, his presence colossal. The mere weight of his aura was enough to make Exalted-ranked warriors seem like feeble children. Each breath he exhaled carried the scent of ancient wars and the crushing pressure of expectation.

“I can feel it,” he rumbled, his voice deep and thunderous like tectonic plates grinding. “The Abyss Force… it has returned.”

He closed his eyes.

“Our continent is crumbling. Tenaria rots from within.”

He exhaled slowly, a weary breath that carried centuries of burden.

“Had Archduke Zenas still drawn breath, I might have believed the North could hold. But now? The North is a broken shadow of its former self. Pathetic.”

“Not exactly,” came a voice, smooth as oil, cold as night.

Two crimson eyes flared open in the darkness where the sunlight dared not tread. From within the void, a figure stood, draped in shadow like a second skin.

“The boy… Asher. He’s from Zenas’ bloodline, and he destroyed my sanctuary. He might come for your head next, considering you, knowingly or not, are the founder of the very Shadow Order that threatened his children.”

Apollyon’s gaze drifted toward the shade.

That voice belonged to the number one assassin in the Shadow Order ranking. A being whispered of in myths, older than Apollyon himself.

From the darkness, mist unfurled, swirling and condensing into a slender figure. A woman.

Pale silver hair spilled down her shoulders, framing a face too beautiful for a lowborn. Her skin, bleached and bloodless, glistened like frost under moonlight. Long lashes veiled crimson eyes that glowed with hunger and cruel amusement.

And then came the smile. Cold. Sensual. She drifted behind Apollyon like a wraith, her lips inches from his ear.

“He’s already reached the Mythical Rank,” she said, her voice honeyed with venom. “And Tenaria… is his wife now. Your precious continent bends to his will.”

“The Abyss King stirs. A warlord with the might of an entire race, united. The Merchant Union amasses an army of mercenaries and free blades, surely to strike at me. I won’t stop attacking Silvermoon, and Cyrenia has grown fat in silence, hidden in the deep North. War is inevitable. The throne of the world will not stay empty forever.” Apollyon sighed. “And yet you ask me to worry about a boy…”

Apollyon grunted. A slow, brutal sound of disdain.

“Afraid, are you?” he said. “The thousand-year-old elf trembling at the thought of losing her head?”

Before the assassin could even react, Apollyon turned.

His iron hand clamped around her throat, lifting her into the air with terrifying ease. Her feet dangled. Her crimson eyes widened, not in surprise.

In fury.

The force that held her was overwhelming.

“You will find him,” Apollyon growled, his voice shaking the pillars of the chamber. “You will bring me his oath of allegiance or his head.”

Her lips curled, despite the grip around her throat.

“You always were dramatic, Emperor.”

“And you always overestimate your own worth,” Apollyon snarled, then hurled her to the ground. She landed in a crouch, hissing, but said nothing more.

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