Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

There was an acrid, metallic stench to the cloud, sharp enough to sting the throat and water the eyes, yet mercifully, it lingered high above rather than descending. Had they been forced to breathe within that suffocating mist, survival would not merely have been uncertain, it would have been impossible, a swift and merciless death shrouded in crimson haze.

Suddenly, the dense fog split apart as though torn open by unseen claws, unveiling a colossal and dreadful apparition. A monstrous red phantom emerged, its lower half dissolving into a roiling whirl of crimson vapour, giving it the appearance of floating upon wrath itself. Its torso, sculpted from mist thick as blood, was broad and unearthly, each ripple of its form carrying unnatural life. Eyes like molten furnaces burned with a hateful orange glow, casting their baleful glare down upon the living. One immense hand, formed from coalesced mist, pressed down against the earth, fingers stretching wide enough to engulf a house, while the other hovered ominously just above Asher's head, its shadow swallowing him whole.

Meanwhile, Asher's own figure transformed beneath that dreadful gaze. A dense armour of weathered silver, dull and scarred from countless forgotten battles, enclosed his frame with an unyielding weight. It was not a thing of beauty, not the jewelled armour of kings, but the grim raiment of war. Its thick plates and broad, timeworn pauldrons lent him the aura of an ancient champion.

The helm that crowned him was simple yet sovereign, forged with a circlet-like crest at its peak, as though the iron itself had remembered the shape of kingship.

At his full height, ten feet of sinewed muscle and silver-clad defiance, Asher towered like a living relic of a bygone age, a warlord summoned from memory and myth. His mane of long, white hair spilled down, stark against the steel, catching the light in pale threads. No man of flesh and blood could dare stand eye to eye with such a figure, for even the tallest of mortal men, those rare few reaching six and a half feet, sometimes seven, would appear diminished and frail before his colossal stature.

"I shall have your body." Ithamar's voice was a dirge of doom, his words thick with malice so palpable it weighed upon the chest like iron chains. The very air around them warped beneath the pressure, quivering as though the world itself recoiled from his presence. The atmosphere bent and twisted, the fabric of reality struggling to contain him.

Merlin let out a sharp cough, a fleeting weakness in the face of overwhelming dread. Asher's golden eyes flared, pupils dilating with sudden fire, when he turned to see the anguish carved across his sons' young faces. Their mother clutched them desperately, her arms outstretched, but even she could not mask the distress written upon her features.

"Not around them." Asher's voice dropped into a glacial calm, each word a blade of restrained fury.

"Or what?" Ithamar's response was a low, rolling mockery, more thunder than laughter. He was not merely powerful; he was primordial. One of the firstborn of creation, wrought in an age when the stars themselves were young, his might had been so absolute that only by wrenching his spirit from his indestructible body had his rampage been halted. His legend was etched into the bones of the earth and whispered by shadows across millennia. No weapon, no mortal hand, no army had ever brought him low in fair combat.

It was no boast he carried, no arrogance. It was a truth, cold and unyielding, that had endured for thousands of years.

"Or I will toss you into a sea within the spirit realm, one deeper and more vast than the Red Sea. There you will rot, forgotten, for all eternity."

Asher's voice rolled like thunder wrapped in steel, each word striking with the weight of divine judgment. The threat cut deep into Ithamar's essence, making the spirit grind his teeth until sparks of scarlet mist curled from the cracks in his form.

A silence followed, thick, suffocating, charged like the calm before a storm. The two locked in a tense standoff, their gazes like blades clashing in a battle of will. Then, with a hiss, Ithamar's aura recoiled. His towering form shivered and unraveled into shreds of mist, collapsing back into the blade that housed him.

Asher let out a slow breath, shoulders relaxing, though his eyes still glowed faintly with restrained fire. With deliberate care, he slid the sword back into its scabbard. "What a troublesome weapon," he muttered, his voice heavy with both weariness and grim respect. Turning his gaze to the old man beside him, he added, "All that remains is paying a visit to the other rulers."

"That would take precious time," the Kingmaker replied, stroking his thick, grey-streaked beard that cascaded down to his abdomen like a river of iron threads. His tone carried the weight of long memory. "It is wiser to summon them to the Ruined Hall of Eden. That place has ever been a throne for discourse among the great. Your ancestors gathered there in the Dark Age, when the abyss almost drowned the world in their plague."

Asher's brow furrowed, his voice a low rumble. "Why should they heed my summons? Many might spurn it. Pride is the marrow of lords."

"Not if you bait their pride with desire," the Kingmaker countered, eyes glinting shrewdly. "Mention the Mythril crystal mine in your possession. No lord in this time would dare allow another to seize advantage over such a treasure. Greed will drive their feet faster than loyalty ever could."

Before Asher could respond, a gentle yet commanding voice rang out from above. "Then let me write the letter."

Descending the grand staircase was Sapphira. Her gown flowed like woven moonlight, each step quiet yet regal, and her eyes burned with a resolve tempered by affection. She crossed the last step and laid her delicate hand upon Asher's arm, her touch soft but steady. "Leave it to me," she said with a tender smile. "The meeting will be held in a week's time."

With that promise, she caressed his arm once more before turning away, her presence lingering in the air even as she departed.

The Kingmaker's gaze followed her, lingering a moment too long, as though he were trying to comprehend the impossible sight. Then he shook his head slowly, beard swaying. "I still cannot believe it," he admitted, his voice rough with wonder. "You married Tenaria herself, the land beneath our feet, the soul of this realm made flesh. A mere man binding himself to a living dominion… such a thing defies reason."

Asher glanced at him, his expression unreadable, and without a word unsheathed Ithamar once more. A violent burst of crimson mist roared outward, rippling across the chamber and scattering faint motes of light. Without hesitation, Asher rose into the air, carried by the sword's will, until he ascended into the open training yard above.

His grip tightened on the blade, his voice a whisper, 'Time to train.'