Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

"You came with your wolf." Apollyon's words were not a question but a statement, his deep tone reverberating like the toll of a war drum. His voice carried not curiosity, but offense. To him, the act of bringing such a beast, a creature of that size, power, and unmistakable menace, was nothing short of disrespect. It was a silent threat cast across the hall.

"We all know an Ashbourne never appears in places like this without a wolf." Artemis turned her luminous gaze on Apollyon, her words smooth but unyielding. One by one, the other rulers shifted their attention: Geriant's sharp, calculating eyes; Samson's stern, burning stare; Vladimir's cold and measuring look. The weight of tradition hung heavy in their silence.

"You respect the tradition of a fallen house?!" Apollyon snorted, the sound sharp and dismissive, dripping with scorn. His lip curled faintly as he leaned back into his throne, exuding arrogance as though even the notion were beneath him.

"That fallen house is the reason we have not already been torn apart by the Abyss," Samson's voice rumbled, deep as stone cracking beneath the weight of mountains. It was the first time he had spoken, and the chamber seemed to still at his words. His hair was the silver-gray of storm clouds, and his thick beard framed a face carved with the harsh lines of age and battle. His broad physique filled the throne like a living bulwark, his eyes burning with a golden light like twin suns. "Do not forget," he continued, his tone reverent yet edged, "that Zenas bore the burden alone, he fought the Abyss, he stood as a wall."

"That boy is not Zenas." Geriant countered sharply, his voice slicing through Samson's defense like a blade. His long hair, black as midnight, shifted slightly as he leaned forward, his striking face shadowed by an old grudge. His gaze locked on Asher, unflinching, hard, and filled with the bitterness of history known to all who sat in the hall.

"There is already chaos in this hall," Vladimir's voice broke through, cold and deliberate. His eyes, pale and calculating, turned away from Asher to fix on Apollyon. His tone carried no heat, no passion, only ice and weight. "And we have yet to even address the reason for this meeting. I expected better from the oldest among us."

A faint shift ran across Apollyon's face. His expression, for a moment, betrayed a flicker of surprise, and then amusement. He tilted his head, a slow smile curving his lips, and when he spoke again his voice was silk drawn over steel. "I never expected a cripple, who crawled in the dark until all the potent members of his bloodline were dust, would dare address me as if we were equals." His eyes glinted, cruel and sharp. He leaned forward in his throne, the weight of his disdain pressing like a shadow over the hall. "You are but ants. And I do not need to behave around ants."

The words hung like a blade in the air, the chamber bristling with unspoken tension. Steel whispered faintly as guards shifted; power surged faintly around the seated lords and ladies like storms barely contained.

And then, without warning, the moment broke.

Asher strode forward, his steps measured, silent yet impossibly heavy. The movement interrupted the locked stare between Apollyon and Vladimir, the atmosphere bending toward him as though the hall itself acknowledged his presence.

His golden eyes, bright, fierce, and ancient in their depth, cut through the tension like fire to frost. When they fell upon Apollyon, the older man's gaze faltered, squinting against their intensity.

For the first time, perhaps, doubt flickered in Apollyon's expression.

Maybe he had underestimated this young man. For what he felt now, leaking from Asher's very being, was not the force of a boy nor the echo of his lineage, it was the undeniable, oppressive weight of an Awoken One. And not at the first or second stage. No… it was already the third rank. A height most could only dream of reaching.

The revelation rippled silently across the chamber, unseen yet felt by every soul present.

Morgana turned, her gaze flicking toward her mother and froze. Artemis, proud queen of Silvermoon, wore an expression Morgana had never seen before. Her radiant features, usually carved in calm elegance and poise, were marred by something raw and jarring: disbelief. It clung to her face like a shadow stitched into her very flesh, her narrowed eyes unable to deny what they beheld.

Turning back toward Asher, Morgana's lips pressed into a thin line. He felt close, too close, like a presence brushing against her own heartbeat. Yet, at the same time, he seemed impossibly distant, as though a chasm of eternity yawned between them. Her chest tightened.

'Space manipulation!' The realization hit her like thunder in her veins. Her pupils dilated, her breath shallow. The signature ability, the unmistakable mark of a third-ranked Awoken One. Her fingers clenched against her throne, and she could not stop her widening eyes.

Asher turned slowly to face them all, his broad shoulders squaring against the light that fell upon the dais. Behind him rose the broken throne, its thirty shattered steps leading toward the high seat none dared to claim. By taking his stand before it, Asher placed himself in stark defiance of its silence, not ascending yet daring to cast his shadow over it.

He had revealed his strength deliberately, the oppressive weight of his aura crackling like an unseen storm. This was no idle boast, no performance. It was necessity. He could not waste time on courtly posturing and veiled insults, not when Abyss had already torn into his domain.

The memory seared behind his golden eyes; twelve thousand gone in a single night, torn apart beneath the tide and plague of abyssal beasts.

Another thousand lost to plague in the following days, their bodies writhing and rotting before him. And this was only the beginning. He could still hear their screams in his head, smell the acrid rot of flesh tainted by Saelix's curse.

He knew with grim certainty. When the true host of the Abyss arrived, their armies would not matter. The plague alone would sweep through the world, unmaking every soul, regardless of whether they fought or fled.

The silence pressed heavy until Artemis's melodic voice rose, smooth and deliberate.

"I hear you want to share your Mythril crystal mine," she began, her words graceful as silk but edged with ambition. She leaned forward slightly, her regal bearing exuding confidence. "Give it to us, and you will have my daughter, one of the most beautiful damsels in the realm, along with half my forces to fight by your side once the situation calls for it."

Her bargain hung in the air like a jewel glimmering beneath the sun, but to Morgana, it tasted like ash. Her breath caught, and her teeth sank into her lower lip. Shame burned across her cheeks, shame at being bartered like a coin, shame at her mother's calculating tone, shame at her own heart that twisted painfully at the idea.

After all, being taken or given in marriage was one of the prominent means to build strong ties and gain allies.

Asher's golden eyes flicked toward Artemis, then to Morgana, and finally down to the cracked stone floor at his feet. One eyebrow arched, slow and deliberate. "You would have to speak…"

The ground itself answered him. With a deep groan, roots tore free from beneath the broken stones. They writhed and curled like serpents, weaving together in thick braids. Dust clouded upward as the ancient roots spiraled into shape, forming a massive throne. From its back, dozens of slender branches fanned outward in a magnificent arc, spreading wide and proud like the feathers of a peacock in full display. The roots pulsed faintly with life, carrying the scent of soil.

With a faint smile curving his lips, Asher lowered himself onto the living throne, its frame creaking like a heartbeat beneath him. "...My wife."

The roots shivered again, and from their twisting embrace she emerged.

A woman of breathtaking majesty, her emerald hair spilling in endless rivers, flowing almost to her feet. Two braids, adorned with golden ornaments that glimmered like captured sunlight, framed her face with an austere grace. Her figure, towering at nine feet, radiated power and allure in equal measure. Every curve of her form seemed sculpted to please the heart of those who lay eyes on her, her presence both a seduction and a command. Her face, enchanting, flawless, immortal, bore an authority that pressed upon the hall like an unseen weight.

She settled upon her own throne, wrought from roots that rose beside Asher's like a twin, and lifted her chin ever so slightly. Her emerald gaze turned to Artemis.

"I am enough to satisfy his bed desires." Her voice was low, resonant, carrying the deep pride. "My husband did not come here to seek a concubine." She leaned forward slightly, and the roots at her throne's base seemed to pulse with life, spreading further across the floor as though claiming the hall itself. "He came here to inform you of the Abyss."

....

A/N: One chapter for today.