Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything! - Chapter 504: Prophecies Of The End

Chapter 504: Prophecies Of The End

In a cavern or what was once a natural cavern, now transformed into a subterranean sanctum, pillars of black stone held up the widened ceiling, each etched with jagged runes that pulsed faintly red. Braziers and torches lined the perimeter, casting flickering shadows on the damp walls and illuminating the many crimson-cloaked figures who stood in eerie silence.

The chamber was cold, yet filled with a breathless heat, not of temperature, but of purpose, of fanatical expectation. Hundreds had gathered, their faces obscured beneath the deep folds of their hoods, their breaths silent as they waited.

At the far end, elevated upon a carved stone dais, stood a tall figure clad in ceremonial robes, the wide sleeves of his garment hanging like shrouds down to his knees. His hood shadowed much of his face, but the firelight from the braziers on either side of the platform caught the lower half of his visage, a sharp chin, the curl of a shrewd smile, and lips that parted to speak with unsettling calm.

“It is done,” he announced, his voice resonating across the chamber like the toll of a bell before a funeral. “As prophesied, the Warfather has struck. The lords of the North lie slain, their banners torn and their great talents buried in ash. The land is broken… vulnerable. The hour is nigh.”

He raised his arms.

“The time has come. All hail the Abyss King!”

As though struck by thunder, the crimson-cloaked gathering dropped to their knees in one synchronized movement. A roar of voices rose up, not chaotic but unified, reverent, terrifying in their conviction. Their cries shook the cavern’s air, a chorus of unwavering devotion echoing off the stone.

“All hail he who shall purge the world of its weakness! All hail he who shall reforge us in the flame of godhood! All hail the Abyss King!”

Their cries did not waver. Their belief did not falter. In that hollow underground womb, a dark birth was being prepared and the world above had no idea what was coming.

….

From above, through the heavens cloaked in mist and cloud, a pair of eyes pierced downward, watching the world below with a gaze neither mortal nor serene. Beneath her, the land teemed with war, armies stretched to the horizon, valiant men in armour spreading across the fields like ants swarming a battlefield of gods.

Some bore brass-coloured armour that shimmered beneath the pale sun, their white tabards flapping with every march, their winged pauldrons reminiscent of archangels descended to fight. Others stood proud in silver-plated might, royal blue cloaks trailing behind them like waves, their banners raised high with emblems.

Darker still were those who marched under shadow, armour blacker than a starless night, with every step they took, the grass wilted, the air itself recoiled. Their pauldrons bore the carving of fortresses, fortresses they had razed and conquered, symbols of their grim vow.

Yet even these three mighty hosts paled before the blinding sight of the fourth, a legion of hundreds of thousands clad in pristine white armour etched with sacred patterns. Each warrior wielded a weapon into which a golden gemstone was embedded, pulsating with pure energy.

The very presence of their weapons repelled the abyssal miasma, like dawn parting an ancient darkness. Their black cloaks billowed in the wind, matching the ominous flags rising above their ranks, flags that bore a singular, unforgettable emblem:

A howling white wolf.

And at the front of this tide of glory, galloping with the fury of a winter storm, rode the White Wolf himself. His white-plated wolf pounded the bloodied ground with thunderous rhythm, and thousands of cavalry followed in his trail, a wave of vengeance crashing through despair.

The awe-inspiring union of the continent’s defenders, a miracle forged in desperation, rallied hope… until the watcher turned her gaze eastward.

And saw the foe.

A tide of despair, an endless, living wall of darkness stretching beyond comprehension. Giants, towering and deformed, marched side by side with grotesque ogres, roaring orcs, and leering goblins, their ranks ablaze with malice. They came not in silence but with a roar so deafening it made the very sky tremble.

Leading them, towering above monsters, was a lone rider astride a twisted steed of black smoke. His presence stilled the wind, corrupted the air, and brought a trembling to the soul.

The watcher’s breath caught.

She recognized the beast beneath the darkness, a horse once gentle and noble, a beast beloved by her lord.

Velmorne.

And astride it… the Abyss King.

Her heart froze as Asher, unwavering, undaunted, rode alone to meet the darkness.

With a raised sword, he challenged the Abyss King to single combat, and the world held its breath.

They clashed.

Steel screamed, the earth quaked. Mountains trembled beneath their strikes, and rivers turned course. Thunder crashed with each blow, and the heavens turned grey with dread.

But at the end of that titanic duel, it was Asher who fell.

On his knees, his armour shattered, the glow in his eyes dimming.

The Abyss King towered above, and with both hands upon his jagged, cracked greatsword, its light purple blade pulsing like a dying star, he drove it through Asher’s chest.

He ripped the crown-helm from Asher’s head and, with a swift swing, took his life.

As Asher’s severed head fell to the ground, the world itself seemed to cry out. Darkness surged across the battlefield, swallowing the armies, drowning the banners, extinguishing the stars.

Panting, drenched in cold sweat, Katarina shot up from her bed, heart pounding like war drums. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her fingers trembling. She turned toward the candelabra beside her bedside, it flickered, swayed…as if it too had borne witness to the vision of war.

Rising to her feet, her nightgown flowing like mist across the cold stone floor, Katarina drifted toward the arched window. She unlatched its ironwork frame and pushed it open, letting in the glow from the luminous crystals embedded high in the vast dome of their subterranean city.

The artificial starlight spilled softly into her chamber, casting long shadows on the walls and glinting off the edge of her silver mirror.

Her eyes settled on the vastness beyond, an underground city teeming with life. Cobblestone streets wound in serpentine paths through tiers of carved dwellings, towers, and bazaars. Wagons rolled along the avenues, pulled by sleek horses; merchants shouted beneath silk canopies; mechanical lifts carried nobles and messengers between levels of the city carved into the cavern walls. The great city of Ashkelon never slept.

Two years and six moons had passed since Aaron and Reuel fell, two titans lost to the war that reshaped the balance of power across the continent.

Cyrenia had withdrawn its banners, abandoning their claims of destroying Ashbourne at the word of the Alliance’ defeat. The world now whispered Asher’s name in reverence, calling him the fourth-strongest swordsman alive, though to Katarina, the title rang hollow after her nightmare.

In the shadows, truths surfaced: the feared and elusive Shadow Order was no longer an enigma but an instrument of Galvia, that ruthless empire who had threatened to invade Ashbourne after the news of the Alliance’ defeat.

House Nubis, shrewd and relentless, annexed Count Rimmon’s lands after a grueling year-long campaign against his grieving but defiant heir. Even so, Intis endured, the old crown shattered, a new one forced upon another.

The nation had slithered back into the dark, but this time, it wore no united front. Dissension festered within. Dukes once united in thought to conquer Ashbourne now turned swords on their own king. Civil war brewed, a festering wound. Month after month, endless columns of weary refugees reached Ashbourne’s gates, many with nothing but soot on their skin and stories on their lips.

Click!

The quiet snap of the door handle turned Katarina’s head. A maid stepped in, bearing a silver tray of fresh towels and a steaming kettle of rosewater.

Katarina’s voice was soft, but it cut through the silence like a thread of steel.

“Where is the king?”

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