Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything! - Chapter 517: Might Of The Forbidden Sword

Chapter 517: Might Of The Forbidden Sword

Adam stormed into the chamber, his boots striking the stone with sharp echoes that betrayed both urgency and fear. In a few hurried strides, he was at Katarina’s side, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. His hands, firm yet careful, settled on her trembling shoulders as if to anchor her to the present. His gaze, locked onto hers.

“Is it the same thing?” His voice was low, but the tension beneath it was unmistakable.

Katarina’s head dipped in a slow, heavy nod, strands of damp hair falling loose against her face. “It’s the same dream,” she whispered, her voice brittle, hollowed by dread. Her eyes drifted downward, fixing on the shiver still running through her arms. “I saw the monument of His Majesty.” Her breath caught before the words tumbled out, raw and sharp. “He dies.”

Hard lines cut deep across Adam’s brow, his jaw tightening as if to crush the thought before it could root itself in his mind. “I should speak with the Queen at once.” His words carried the clipped edge of command, but the weight of grief lingered just beneath. He stood abruptly, shoulders squared, already moving toward the door with determined strides.

But Katarina’s voice cut through the air behind him, halting him in place.

“You can’t stop it.” Her tone was weary, as if her body itself sagged beneath the truth. “It’s like the world wants him gone. This death isn’t the same as the first, and it won’t come from the enemy we currently face.”

Adam froze, then spun around sharply, his cloak snapping with the motion. His eyes blazed, wide with alarm. “A betrayal?!” The word spat from his lips like a curse. “Then who is it?”

Katarina’s lips parted, but only a broken sigh escaped before she lowered her gaze, shadows dimming her expression. “I did not see,” she murmured, her voice a faint echo in the chamber. “I only heard… from those gathered by his monument. Whispering.” Her hands clenched around the sheets. “Mourning what was already lost.”

“Death has always been at our doorstep. Each war we fight, all it takes is a sword piercing through your armour and it ends. He has survived this long, changed most of your prophecies, it won’t be any different this time but he needs to know. I shall relay this news to the queen and she shall inform him once he wakes up.”

Adam said with a firm tone before leaving.

….

Asher descended the broad staircase from the left wing of his palace, each step echoing faintly against marble walls. The path curved down toward the training yard, a wide, open space constructed like an arena, though without the grandeur of seats or galleries. Instead, it was stark and purposeful, a floor of hardened stone tiles scarred with faint marks of past battles, sunlight pooling across it like molten gold.

And there, waiting before the threshold of the yard, stood Kingmaker.

The smith looked small against the empty expanse, a stout, compact man with shoulders like anvils, and in one hand he held upright a weapon that seemed to overshadow him. The blade was tall, easily six feet in length, its scabbard gleaming faintly as if the metal within strained to breathe free.

“Finally awake,” Kingmaker said, his gravelly voice carrying both relief and weight.

He lifted the weapon toward Asher, and the moment Asher’s fingers closed around it, his eyes narrowed with sharp awareness.

The sword revealed itself in pieces: first the simple, unadorned crossguard, then the hilt, longer than most, wrapped tightly in blackened leather for a sure grip. The line of the weapon ended in a round pommel, and around that pommel, he saw it, a crown, delicately carved into the metal as if etched by divine hands. At the center of the crossguard, an engraving shimmered faintly, its marks unfamiliar yet resonant, as though they whispered to the soul rather than the ear.

A subtle shift occurred the instant Asher’s palm fully wrapped the hilt. He felt it, though he could not name it, an undercurrent, a hum in the air, a ripple in his chest.

Kingmaker’s expression grew somber, lines hardening across his face.

“There is nothing I have ever forged that surpasses this blade,” he said slowly, reverently. “It can shear through steel, stone, and flesh alike. It carries a hungry spirit bound within it. But even at the height of my craft, I could not free it of its curse.”

His eyes darkened as he continued.

“Ithamar’s hold remains unbroken. The conqueror’s shadow lingers in the steel. He can reach into the mind of the one who wields it, twist them, bend them. And worse still… a wound dealt by this sword festers with plague. The flesh will blacken, rot, and wither. The more it kills, the stronger Ithamar becomes. In time, the blade will no longer wait to be wielded, it will wield its master. It will become not a sword in the hand, but a hand holding the sword of the world.”

He paused, the silence heavy. “And yet, before that day arrives… it may be the only key left to bringing an end to the Abyss.”

Asher studied the weapon, studied Ithamar. His lips curved into a faint smile, equal parts grim and defiant.

“So,” he murmured, “the Conqueror of Stars is a forbidden sword.” His grip tightened on the hilt, his storm-grey eyes gleaming. “I suppose it suits me. I’ve always had a kinship with dangerous blades.”

He tilted his head back toward the broad marble staircase, where his two sons and wife stood in silent witness, their faces caught between pride and unease. Beside them, Nero lingered with arms folded, while a handful of Iron Saints stood like statues of steel, their polished armor glinting beneath the sunlight.

Shing!

The moment Ithamar slid free from its scabbard, the blade’s song was drowned by the eruption that followed, an ominous crimson mist surging outward, thick and heavy like a living cloud spilling across the training field. The very air warped, trembling as if recoiling from its presence. Then came the roar, raw, guttural, and terrible, a sound that tore across the expanse like the cry of an ancient beast awakened from its slumber.

The Iron Saints reacted instantly, weapons drawn, their armor ringing as they assumed rigid battle stances. Yet it was futile. The mist pressed down on them with the weight of mountains, a suffocating tide of power that clawed at their lungs and rattled their very souls. Their eyes widened with the dawning realization: no matter their training, their oaths, their blades, it would not be enough. Against such might, they would all break. They would all fall.