The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family

Chapter 118: The Youngest Swordmaster

The sharp clang of steel echoed in Klaus’s mind, accompanied by the roar of an invisible crowd. His vision blurred, overtaken by the sight of shadowy figures falling one by one under his blade. A great beast loomed above them all, its eyes like molten fire, its roar shaking the earth. Blood splattered across his hands, warm and sticky, as the beast lunged at him—fangs bared, claws stretched. Your next journey awaits at empire

Klaus awoke with a jolt, his breath ragged and his heart pounding in his chest. Darkness cloaked the dormitory room, save for the faint moonlight streaming through the narrow window. He ran a trembling hand through his sweat-dampened hair, his eyes darting around the room until they landed on the familiar silhouette near the foot of his bed.

A small, sleek figure lifted its head, blinking with round golden eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. Dudu, his ever-watchful companion, let out a soft, questioning chirp. The baby dragon stretched its black wings briefly before hopping onto Klaus’s lap with an almost feline grace.

Klaus exhaled slowly, his hand instinctively reaching out to stroke Dudu’s smooth, obsidian scales. "Another nightmare," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "They’re getting worse."

Dudu nuzzled against his chest, a low, comforting purr vibrating through his tiny frame. It was a strange sight—this ferocious creature in miniature, a being destined to grow into one of the most feared and revered entities in the world, now behaving like a loyal, affectionate pet. Klaus couldn’t help but smile, despite the weight pressing down on his soul.

"You’re the only one who gets me, you know that?" Klaus muttered, scratching the spot behind Dudu’s small, curved horns. The baby dragon closed its eyes in contentment, letting out a puff of warm air that smelled faintly of sulfur.

The nightmares had become routine now, vivid and unrelenting. They were always the same or rather different—visions of chaos, blood, and a crown of shadows that seemed to burn rather than shine. Klaus didn’t know what it meant, but every time he woke, the lingering dread stayed with him like a shackle.

Dudu chirped again, as if to say, *I’m here.* Klaus chuckled softly and gave the dragon one last pat before gently placing him back on the bed. "I can’t take you with me tonight, little one," he said, standing. "You’d steal the spotlight, and I’ve got enough eyes on me as it is."

Dudu tilted his head, his golden gaze curious but understanding. He flopped onto the bed dramatically, curling into a neat ball of black scales. Klaus shook his head with a faint smile before turning to the wardrobe near the corner of the room.

Tonight was the ball in his honor, a celebration of his unprecedented achievement. At just thirteen, he had reached the rank of Swordmaster, making him not only the youngest in the history of the Lionhart family but also the youngest in the entire continent. It was a feat that had sent ripples of awe and envy through noble circles, solidifying his place as a prodigy.

But Klaus didn’t feel like a prodigy. The title weighed on him, much like the expectations that came with it. Every accolade felt like another chain, binding him to a legacy he hadn’t chosen but could never escape.

He opened the wardrobe to reveal the outfit prepared for the occasion. It was a formal ensemble befitting a Lionhart: a deep crimson coat embroidered with silver filigree, its design evoking roaring flames and majestic lions. The family crest was emblazoned over the left breast, a constant reminder of who he was supposed to be. Beneath the coat was a black silk shirt and matching trousers, tailored to perfection. The outfit radiated power and prestige, but to Klaus, it felt more like a costume.

As he dressed, his thoughts drifted to the training ground outside the dormitory. The Lion Youth Training Center had been his home for months now—a crucible where young Lionhart descendants, along with those from families affiliated with the Lionhart lineage, honed their skills and prepared to uphold the family’s legacy. It was here that Klaus had pushed himself to the brink, wielding his sword until his hands bled and his muscles screamed. The grueling days had paid off, earning him the title he now bore—but at what cost?

Once dressed, Klaus’s attention was drawn to a small ornate box on his desk. It had arrived earlier that day, delivered by Roman Lionhart’s personal butler along with the tailored suit he now wore. Opening the box, Klaus had found a golden signet ring resting inside. The butler had conveyed Roman’s message with practiced grace: "The Patriarch wishes for you to have this. He also added: It is time you bear the weight of our lineage."

Klaus picked up the ring, turning it over in his hand to study the intricate runes etched into the metal. It symbolized the unbroken chain of the Lionhart lineage, passed down from one generation to the next. Sliding it onto his finger, he felt its weight—small, yet significant. A gift from the Patriarch himself carried expectations far heavier than the gold band could ever reflect.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Master Klaus," came the voice of an attendant, muffled but polite. "The carriage is ready."

"I’ll be there," Klaus replied, his tone clipped. He glanced back at Dudu, who was now half-asleep, his tail twitching lazily. "Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone," he said with a smirk.

Dudu responded with a faint huff, as if to say, *Don’t I always behave?*

Klaus shook his head and grabbed his new sword—a simple yet elegant blade that hung at his side like an extension of himself. The weapon served as a constant reminder of the true form of Greed, still dormant or perhaps merely silent in its ring form. With the sword at his side, Klaus made his way out of the dormitory.

The night air was cool against his skin as he stepped outside, the vast estate sprawling before him. In the distance, the lights of the main mansion glittered brightly, where carriages arrived one after another, bearing nobles and dignitaries from across the continent.

The ride to the mansion was short, but Klaus found his mind wandering. He thought of Roman, the patriarch of the Lionhart family, and his grandfather. Roman, with his imposing presence and unyielding expectations, had always loomed large in Klaus’s life, though never as a guiding hand. Their relationship had always been strained, distant. Klaus had achieved his title of the youngest Swordmaster on the continent through his own relentless determination, not because of Roman’s support.

Then there were the other nobles—the sycophants, the schemers, and the ambitious opportunists. Some would shower him with praise for his remarkable feat, masking their envy with false smiles, while others would already be plotting how to use or undermine him to further their own interests.

The carriage came to a halt before the grand entrance. As Klaus stepped out, he was greeted by the sight of the Lionhart main mansion in all its splendor. Golden light spilled from the massive windows, illuminating the intricate stonework and towering columns. Laughter and music drifted into the night, a stark contrast to the turmoil within Klaus’s heart—and, more profoundly, his mind.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. The ball wasn’t just a celebration; it was a stage, a battlefield where alliances were forged, rivalries stoked, and secrets exchanged. Klaus knew he would need to tread carefully, to navigate the evening with the precision of a Swordmaster.

As he ascended the steps, the massive doors opened before him, revealing the opulent ballroom beyond. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and fine wine, the laughter and chatter of the gathered elite mingling with the strains of an elegant waltz.

Klaus stepped inside, his presence commanding immediate attention. Heads turned, conversations paused, and a ripple of whispers spread through the crowd. He could feel their eyes on him—curious, admiring, envious.

And yet, amidst the sea of faces, Klaus couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. A subtle tension hung in the air, almost imperceptible but undeniable.

As he made his way further into the ballroom, he couldn’t help but wonder: What awaited him here tonight?