Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

The next day dawned bright and wild with energy. Thousands upon thousands surged toward the great colosseum—like the uncountable sands of the seashore, the crowd pressed in from all sides, an ocean of excitement and noise.

People jostled for space, straining against the guards at the gate. Only those who bore special gold-etched coins, gifts from the Ashbourne estate, were granted early entry. They passed through under the envious stares of the rest, who waited impatiently as the sun climbed the sky.

By the time the sun blazed at its zenith—its golden light casting long shadows upon the arena—the colosseum roared with life.

Over two thousand seats, carved from stone and wood, were filled to capacity. Voices melded into a living wall of sound: eager chatter, shouted bets, and the laughter of nobles mingling with the awe of common folk.

At the grand dais overlooking the field, Asher rose from his high-backed seat. Clad in black and silver, his presence alone pulled the eyes of all who beheld him.

Beside him sat Sapphira, calm and regal, while behind them stood the loyal vassals of House Ashbourne, each bearing the crest of their allegiance.

Stepping forward, Asher approached the polished stone railing. He rested a gloved hand upon it, gaze sweeping the colosseum. Silence rippled out like a wave as the people hushed in expectation.

His voice, clear and commanding, rang through the amphitheater.

“People of Ashbourne,” he began, his tone solemn yet proud. “Today, in honour of my sons—Merlin and Atreides—the champions of my house shall accept all challengers from the lords who dare to test their might. Let this contest not only entertain, but reveal the steel and soul behind each name. May the best knight win.”

For a heartbeat, silence held.

Then chaos erupted.

Cheers thundered from every direction. Hands were thrown into the air. Flags waved, and the stone beneath their feet seemed to tremble with the force of their voices.

One name rose above the rest, shouted again and again with growing fervor:

“Nero! Nero! Nero!”

The chant grew louder, echoing like a war drum throughout the arena. A name not simply spoken—but demanded.

A name that meant blood, honour, and spectacle.

“Who is this Nero?” Abigail, the poised and sharp-tongued representative of House El, asked coolly, her eyes narrowing as she turned to the young guide assigned to her party.

Sylvia, Vladimir, Alicia, and other highborn lords and ladies nearby subtly leaned in, their curiosity piqued by the thunderous chants echoing across the colosseum.

The guide cleared his throat, his posture stiffening under so many scrutinizing gazes. “Sir Nero is the Duke’s personal bodyguard. He holds the sole BloodBlade title in the Ashbourne domain. And he is… the only thirteen year old imperial ranked knight.”

A ripple of stunned silence followed. Then came the sharp gasps, the exchanged glances of disbelief.

“A thirteen-year-old imperial-ranked knight?” Alicia echoed, blinking. Her voice trembled between disbelief and suspicion.

That didn’t make him a genius. That made him an unnatural calamity. A living contradiction. When had he begun training? In his mother’s womb?

Abigail’s tone turned to steel. “Do not speak madness to me. Point him out. Now.”

With practiced calm, the guide raised a finger and directed their gaze to the man standing behind Duke Asher’s seat.

He wore a deep green gambeson that barely hid the steel-like strength of his limbs. His arms were crossed behind him, resting near the twin swords sheathed at his waist.

He stood a full eight feet tall, towering and composed. His build was lean but carved with power—broad-shouldered, his muscles taut with a predator’s grace. His features were knife-sharp, every angle clean and arresting. Black curls framed one side of his forehead, falling just above his mismatched eyes. One eye gleamed with a piercing, serpentine yellow. The other was a pale, haunted gray. Unearthly. Ominous. And yet, magnetically beautiful—daring the viewer to imagine what horrors or wonders shaped the soul behind those eyes.

“That man looks like he’s in his mid-twenties,” Alicia muttered, incredulous. “You’re telling me he’s thirteen?”

The guide nodded solemnly. “Three years ago, that boy—he hadn’t even awakened his talent yet—stood alone in the road, blocking His Lordship’s army on its return from an expedition. Everyone awakens their gift at ten, so I lie not.”

The nobles stared in stunned silence.

“He is the son of the late Sir Alex—the Duke’s former bodyguard and dear friend. Killed by the assassin, Black Rose.”

The mention of the notorious Black Rose brought a heaviness to the air. It was a name associated with the infamous Shadow Order!

Vladimir, once convinced that his own brother stood at the summit of talent, now stood frozen, words locked in his throat.

“So… he’s more gifted than Lord Asher himself?” Sylvia whispered, barely able to utter the thought aloud.

But the guide shook his head, his expression growing more reverent.

“No, my lady. That is… unlikely. His Lordship is already a Legendary Ranked Awoken One, with a uniquely powerful inner world.”

The air stilled. Conversations ceased. A weight seemed to press down upon them.

An Awoken One—at twenty-five?

Even the proudest noblewomen faltered, their sense of superiority crumbling like sandcastles before a rising tide.

Every Awoken One recorded in history had crossed the age of 150 or 200 before they touched that realm. Only one exception came to mind—Mattew, empowered by the ancient ocean spirit, Okeanos.

Sylvia’s lips parted, then closed again. Her husband wasn’t even Awoken. Her brother, though noble and accomplished, had never displayed anything near this level of achievement.

Compared to House Ashbourne’s lord, their accomplishments felt… dim.

Alicia, who until recently had looked down on this backwater domain, now sat in silent disbelief.

From the moment she stepped into Ashbourne lands, she had been struck by wonder after wonder: the giant ships, soldiers clad in burnished steel, the floating city suspended among the clouds—and now this.

The last word came from Vladimir. His voice was barely above a whisper, filled with resignation and shame.

“This man… was once the cripple? The whoremonger’s son? Baron James’s bastard?” He exhaled a shuddering breath. “God…”

No one answered him.

They were too busy watching the man called Nero, who turned and left the dais.

It was time.

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