The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family

Chapter 121 A Sword Drawn in Challenge

The night continued with an air of celebration, the grand hall alive with the hum of conversation, laughter, and the occasional clinking of goblets. Klaus stood apart from it all, his gaze distant. Roman's words lingered in his mind, their weight pressing against him as if the patriarch's expectations had taken a physical form. The polished grandeur of the ball was only a thin veil over the restless tension brewing within him.

For days, Klaus had been plagued by nightmares—shadows from a past life he did not recognize or perhaps visions of future events mingling with fears of the present. His sleep had become a battlefield, and every night he woke drenched in sweat, the echoes of phantom threats clawing at his mind. It left him fatigued, his body tense and his patience frayed. Though his expression remained stoic, the irritation simmered beneath his poker face like a beast waiting for release.

As he observed the crowd, a subtle shift in the atmosphere caught his attention. A ripple of movement, heads turning toward the entrance, and murmurs spreading like wildfire. A man strode into the hall, his presence commanding attention despite his attire being far less ornate than the nobles around him.

The man was in his early thirties, with a rugged face marked by faint scars that hinted at a life of battle. His dark hair was pulled back into a simple tie, and he wore a black and gray coat with a sword strapped to his hip. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the room as if searching for something—or someone.

Klaus recognized the type instantly: a rogue swordsman. The man carried himself with the confidence of someone who had seen countless battles, and while he lacked the refinement of the nobles present, there was an undeniable strength to his aura.

Whispers spread through the crowd.

"Isn't that Caidon Veynar?"

"From the Veynar clan? Weren't they stripped of their titles decades ago?"

"Yes, but I heard he's made a name for himself as a mercenary. A dangerous one."

Caidon's gaze landed squarely on Klaus. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he began to walk toward him. The nobles parted in his wake, their eyes flickering between him and Klaus with growing curiosity and anticipation.

When Caidon stopped a few paces from Klaus, the room fell silent.

"So," Caidon began, his voice carrying a casual confidence that grated against Klaus's fraying patience. "You're the young Swordmaster everyone's been talking about. Klaus Lionhart, the prodigy."

Klaus turned to face him fully, his expression calm but his blue eyes cold. "And you are?"

"Caidon Veynar," the man said, bowing with exaggerated flourish. "Former heir of the Veynar clan—though that title means little now. I've heard tales of your skill, young Lionhart, and I find myself… curious. They say you're the youngest Swordmaster in history. A remarkable achievement."

"Your curiosity is noted," Klaus replied evenly. "And what is it you want?"

Caidon chuckled, the sound sharp and mocking. "Simple. A demonstration. Prove to us all that you're truly a Swordmaster. Let's see if the Lionhart name is built on more than just grand words and titles."

The challenge hung in the air, and the crowd murmured excitedly. The nobles, ever hungry for drama, leaned in closer.

Klaus's gaze darkened, his irritation bubbling to the surface. The lack of sleep, the constant nightmares, the endless scrutiny—it all coalesced into a sharp edge of frustration. His jaw tightened, though his face betrayed nothing.

"I see no reason to entertain the whims of a rogue swordsman," Klaus said, his tone measured but icy. "This is a celebration, not a dueling ground."

Caidon's smirk widened, and he raised his voice to address the gathered crowd. "Oh, I see! The great Klaus Lionhart, celebrated as the youngest Swordmaster in history, won't even lift his blade to defend his honor? Perhaps the title is just that—a title."

The murmurs grew louder, a wave of excitement and scandal rippling through the room.

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In the back of his mind, Klaus noted something odd. The arrival of a rogue swordsman at a Lionhart ball wasn't just unusual—it was deliberate. Someone had orchestrated this. His thoughts sharpened, recalling the political intricacies of the Lionhart family. There were plenty of people within the family who would benefit from seeing Klaus humiliated.

*Keenly planned,* Klaus thought, his mind darting to the likely conspirators. This wasn't just about a challenge; it was a game meant to undermine him.

"Enough," Roman's voice cut through the tension, and all eyes turned to the patriarch.

Roman's gaze was piercing, though he didn't look at Klaus but at Caidon. "This is a celebration of the Lionhart family's legacy. I won't have it sullied by petty provocations."

Caidon shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Of course, Patriarch. But surely a Swordmaster can handle a simple challenge? Or… perhaps the title is unearned?"

Klaus's fist tightened at his side, the irritation burning hotter. The crowd's gaze was on him now, a mixture of curiosity, doubt, and anticipation.

Roman's expression remained stern, but there was something in his eyes that Klaus recognized: he wouldn't intervene further. This was Klaus's moment to either rise or fall.

For a long moment, Klaus said nothing. The tension in the room was palpable, the silence heavy. Then, slowly, a faint smile curled his lips—dark and dangerous.

His blue eyes gleamed with an icy light as he met Caidon's gaze. "If it's a demonstration you want," Klaus said, his voice low but cutting, "I'll give you one. But you may find it's more than you bargained for."

The crowd gasped at his words, the promise of a spectacle electrifying the atmosphere.

Caidon's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before returning. "Finally," he said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Let's see what the youngest Swordmaster can do."

As Klaus stepped forward, the crowd parted, a circle forming around the two. The air crackled with anticipation, the nobles whispering among themselves, eager to see whether Klaus Lionhart would prove himself or falter under the weight of his title.