The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family

Chapter 119: The Youngest Swordmaster (2)

The moment Klaus stepped into the ballroom, a hush fell over the gathered crowd. Conversations halted, the orchestra’s melody seemed to falter, and all eyes turned toward the young man framed in the golden glow of the grand entrance. Klaus Lionhart, the youngest Swordmaster in the continent’s history, had arrived.

The room was a tapestry of opulence: gilded chandeliers bathed the hall in soft light, reflecting off polished marble floors and cascading down to the dazzling gowns and tailored suits of the assembled nobility. Banners bearing the Lionhart sigil—two roaring lions flanking a crossed sword—hung proudly from the high ceilings. The air was heavy with the scent of exotic flowers and the unmistakable undertone of ambition.

Klaus’s entrance was like a spark to dry tinder. Whispers rippled through the crowd, each murmur carrying fragments of his name and deeds.

"He’s even younger than I expected."

"To achieve Swordmaster status at his age… remarkable."

"Do you think he’ll become the next patriarch?"

Klaus kept his expression neutral, though he felt the weight of their stares. He wasn’t here to bask in their admiration or endure their scrutiny. He was here because Roman had willed it, and because avoiding the ball would have stirred more whispers than attending it.

---

Roman Lionhart stood near the raised dais at the head of the hall, his imposing figure commanding respect and fear in equal measure. His piercing gaze swept over the crowd, briefly settling on Klaus. Though his expression was unreadable, Klaus felt the weight of his grandfather’s silent judgment. Approval, disapproval—it was impossible to tell.

"Klaus, my boy!" A hearty voice broke through the hum of chatter.

Klaus turned to see Lord Alden Trevallis approaching, his wide grin as warm as his booming voice. Dressed in a crimson sash that marked his station, Trevallis was one of the few nobles whose jovial demeanor set him apart from the calculating schemers that filled the hall.

"Lord Trevallis," Klaus said with a polite nod, keeping his tone neutral.

"You’ve become the star of the evening!" Trevallis chuckled, gesturing toward the crowd. "The youngest Swordmaster in Lionhart history—and on the continent, no less! You’ve certainly given the family something to celebrate."

Klaus offered a small smile, though the mention of his family’s pride stung. His achievements had been earned through his own sweat, unyielding determination, and his unique way of using magic. The Lionhart name may have opened doors, but it had never lightened his burden.

Trevallis’s jovial expression softened, his voice lowering. "Your father would’ve been proud."

The words struck a chord, though Klaus kept his face impassive. He wasn’t used to hearing Ludovic mentioned, especially in such a sincere tone. Most nobles avoided the subject of his father entirely, and those who didn’t often spoke in hushed whispers, laced with disdain. But Trevallis had always been different.

Unlike the others, Trevallis had never turned his back on Ludovic after the accident that shattered his core and ended his days as a swordsman. In a world where strength was the ultimate currency, Ludovic’s fall from grace had rendered him an outcast among the powerful. Yet Trevallis had shown him respect when no one else did, even visiting Ludovic during his quiet exile.

"I wouldn’t know," Klaus replied finally. His tone was measured, but the words carried a weight of their own.

The truth was, that Klaus didn’t know his father well. Ludovic had always been an enigmatic figure—distant, quiet, almost shadow-like in his presence. Their interactions had been brief and formal, leaving Klaus to form his own understanding of the man through fragments of memory and observation.

Yet, there was something else.

Greed had hinted at something peculiar about Ludovic. While Roman and the rest of the family saw Ludovic as a broken man, Greed had sensed something deeper—something no one else seemed aware of.

{There’s something hidden within your father,} Greed had remarked once, almost to himself.

But that was all the eccentric sword had said. Klaus had pressed for more, only to be met with vague deflections. Still, the idea lingered, gnawing at the edges of Klaus’s thoughts.

"Whatever the case," Trevallis continued, oblivious to Klaus’s inner turmoil, "know that your father earned my respect, and so have you. Don’t let the chatter of these fools drag you down tonight."

Klaus inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Thank you, Lord Trevallis."

As the older man moved back into the crowd, Klaus’s gaze shifted to the raised dais where Roman stood, surrounded by a circle of sycophants. The grandeur of the ball, the fawning nobles, the intricate politics—it all seemed so detached from the reality Klaus had lived.

He exhaled softly, straightening his posture. Whatever mysteries surrounded his father, they wouldn’t be solved tonight. Tonight, Klaus had to navigate a different battlefield—one of words, alliances, and hidden daggers.

---

Klaus barely had a moment to gather his thoughts before the crowd shifted again. A trio of foreign nobles approached, their elaborate attire marking them as emissaries from distant lands. The man at the center wore a heavy cloak trimmed with fur, a symbol of his station in the northern territories. His skin was weathered from the cold, but his sharp eyes were warm as they studied Klaus.

"My lord Klaus," the noble began, his voice carrying the lilting accent of the North. "It is an honor to meet the youngest Swordmaster in history. I am Lord Magnus Fellwind of Winterreach, and these are my daughters, Freya and Ingrid."

Magnus gestured to the two women flanking him. Their fair complexions and shimmering silver dresses echoed the icy beauty of their homeland. Both curtsied gracefully, their gazes lingering on Klaus longer than necessary.

"Lord Fellwind," Klaus replied evenly, his piercing blue eyes meeting Magnus’s. "The honor is mine. Winterreach is renowned for its warriors. I hope the journey wasn’t too harsh."

Magnus chuckled. "The cold may bite, but it’s nothing we haven’t weathered before. Your estate, however, is warmer than we’re used to—in more ways than one."

As the northern noble spoke, Klaus noticed how the younger daughter, Freya, seemed unable to avert her gaze. Her cheeks flushed faintly, though she quickly looked down when Klaus’s eyes met hers.

He was used to this reaction. His silver hair, inherited from Roman, and his striking blue eyes had always drawn attention, much to his chagrin. Klaus bore an uncanny resemblance to his grandfather, a fact that seemed to unsettle even seasoned nobles. Roman’s legendary presence had loomed over the continent for decades, and now Klaus carried that legacy in his features, whether he wanted to or not.

Another figure emerged from the crowd before Magnus could continue the conversation. This one was a tall, stately woman in golden robes, her complexion dusky and adorned with intricate patterns of henna that marked her as a dignitary from the southern deserts.

"Lord Klaus," she said, her voice smooth and commanding. "I am Lady Amara Sahlid, ambassador of the Solari Empire. I have heard much of your accomplishments."

"Lady Sahlid," Klaus replied with a polite nod. "Your empire’s reputation precedes you. It is a pleasure to meet you."

Amara’s golden eyes studied him intently, her smile mysterious. "The pleasure is mine. My emperor sends his regards and his congratulations. He regrets being unable to attend himself but hopes to see you at the Solari Games next season."

Klaus inclined his head. "I look forward to the challenge."

Amara’s attention shifted to Magnus, and the two exchanged polite pleasantries, leaving Klaus a moment to breathe.

Not for long, though. A third group approached—a delegation from the eastern Isles. Their leader was a wiry man with sharp, fox-like features, accompanied by a striking young woman with dark hair and piercing green eyes.

"Lord Klaus," the man began with a deep bow. "I am Shiroka of the Izan Clan. This is my niece, Aiko."

Aiko offered a small bow, her movements were fluid and graceful, like those of a dancer. "It is a privilege to meet someone of your renown," she said, her voice soft yet confident.

"The privilege is mutual," Klaus replied. "Your people’s artistry with blades is well known. Perhaps you can teach me something one day."

Continue your journey on empire

Her lips curved into a subtle smile. "Perhaps."

As the nobles exchanged courtesies, Klaus felt the weight of their attention. Their words were polite, even flattering, but he could sense the calculations behind their smiles. This wasn’t just admiration—they saw him as a potential ally, or perhaps even a rival to keep close.

The introductions blurred together as more nobles joined the fray, each presenting their daughters, nieces, or protégées with carefully chosen words of praise. Despite the lavish compliments and thinly veiled offers, Klaus remained composed, his responses measured and polite.

But inwardly, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of irritation. This wasn’t the battlefield he had trained for—this was a war of appearances, alliances, and subtle manipulations. His every move, every word, was being scrutinized, not just by Roman but by an entire hall of power-hungry nobles.

Still, he endured. If this was the cost of his newfound status, so be it.

As the music swelled and the crowd shifted once more, Klaus’s gaze drifted toward the dais. Roman remained at its center, speaking with dignitaries who hung on his every word. Their resemblance was undeniable, and Klaus felt the weight of expectation settle on his shoulders again.

Perhaps that was the price of being a Lionhart—a constant struggle to live up to the name, even when carving your own path.