The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family - Chapter 235

Chapter 235: Sovereign Fragments
In the boundless void where consciousness fragmented into stardust, silver light pulsed against amber radiance. The fragments of Klaus Lionhart no longer drifted aimlessly—they coalesced with deliberate precision, forming constellations of memory and identity that orbited a strengthening core.

The true self observed this unexpected development with growing disquiet, its confidence wavering for the first time in millennia. “This resistance should not be possible.”

Gluttony’s vast form shifted, wings unfurling across dimensions as he studied the phenomenon. “Perhaps you underestimated what can emerge from fragmentation. Sometimes the pieces become more than their origin.”

The silver fragments had begun to form a cohesive network, creating a lattice as intricate as the amber structure surrounding them. Where the amber figure of Icarus had projected devastating beauty and symmetrical perfection, the silver constellation formed a more complex pattern—asymmetrical yet harmonious, chaotic yet purposeful.

“The vessel was carefully designed,” the true self insisted, cold calculation momentarily replaced by irritation. “I allowed specific memories to surface—precisely calibrated glimpses of past lives to direct his development while maintaining his ignorance of the larger design.”

“And yet,” Gluttony observed with what might have been amusement, “he weaves those fragments into something neither you nor I anticipated.”

Within the silver constellation, consciousness stirred. Not the ancient, calculating presence of the true self, but something younger, fiercer—the spirit that had driven Klaus Lionhart to become the youngest Swordmaster in history, to rise from a sickly child cursed with blocked mana pathways to a prodigy who defied expectations.

I am Klaus Lionhart.

The thought resonated through the void, simple yet profound in its assertion. Not a question, not a plea, but a declaration of sovereign identity.

The amber figure of Icarus paused in its approach, sensing the unexpected resistance. For three thousand years, the fragment had been cultivated through worship and sacrifice, growing from a splinter of consciousness into a power that could reshape reality. It had never encountered resistance from a vessel—certainly not from one whose consciousness lay shattered.

The true self’s attention focused on the silver constellation with renewed intensity. “A temporary aberration. The design accounts for variations in vessel response.”

Yet even as these words resonated through the void, the silver fragments pulsed more brightly, drawing together with increasing coherence.

I am Klaus Lionhart, son of Elisabeth and Ludovic.

Another declaration, stronger than the first. The silver constellation expanded, incorporating memories of a childhood in the Annex Mansion, of a mother’s fierce protection and a father’s quiet pride, of years spent overcoming weakness through sheer determination.

I am Klaus Zagerfield, Five-Circle Mage adopted by the head of the clan.

The silver constellation flickered, momentarily incorporating memories from another life—arcane studies in tower libraries, expeditions to distant lands, betrayal at the hands of those who should have been trustworthy.

I am Tomas Veil, Royal Chronicler who witnessed the Northern Anomaly.

More fragments aligned, more memories integrated—a scholarly life documenting strange occurrences, sensing patterns others missed, recognizing threats beyond conventional understanding.

With each declaration, the silver constellation grew more coherent, its light more intense. The amber figure of Icarus remained poised to absorb these fragments, yet something in its radiance had changed—a hesitation, an uncertainty not present before.

“Interesting,” Gluttony mused. “Your carefully curated memories serve a purpose you did not intend. Rather than keeping him ignorant, they provide foundation for his resistance.”

The true self emanated cold displeasure. “A temporary complication. The ritual progresses regardless.”

In the physical world, the Temple of Eternal Twilight trembled. The amber patterns surrounding Klaus’s transforming body flickered erratically, no longer following the precise geometric configurations Valen had established. His silver hair, streaked with encroaching darkness, began to pulse with light that matched the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Valen’s ritual-scarred hands moved with increasing urgency, adjusting the amber patterns to compensate for the unexpected fluctuations. “The vessel resists integration,” he murmured, concern creasing his forehead. “Accelerate the final sequence.”

Sister Myrith directed the remaining cultists to channel more sacrificial energy into the ritual. “The resistance is unprecedented,” she observed, her scarred face betraying rare uncertainty. “No vessel has ever maintained individual consciousness this far into the Ascension.”

“The prophecies spoke of the Worthy One’s unique nature,” Valen replied, though doubt had begun to infiltrate his absolute faith. “Perhaps this resistance is part of the divine design.”

Neither could comprehend how correct and yet fundamentally mistaken they were. The resistance was indeed part of the design—but not the divine plan they had dedicated their lives to. It was part of a game played across millennia, pieces moved across a board spanning countless lives and deaths. Yet now, one piece had begun moving of its own accord.

In the void, the silver constellation continued strengthening, drawing together more fragments of memory and identity.

I am Arkadius, betrayed by Veraxis.

This declaration resonated with power unlike the others, sending shockwaves through the void that momentarily disrupted even the true self’s concentration. For the first time, genuine alarm emanated from the ancient consciousness.

“That memory was not among those I permitted,” it hissed, cold calculation giving way to urgency. “The vessel accesses restricted fragments.”

Gluttony’s vast form shifted, his attention intensifying. “Now we approach the interesting part,” he remarked, his wings extending further into dimensions beyond conventional understanding. “The fragment accesses your core memory—the origin of your scattered consciousness.”

The silver constellation pulsed with renewed purpose, drawing in fragments from deeper regions of the void—memories not just of Klaus Lionhart or his past incarnations, but glimpses of the true self’s original existence before its shattering.

I remember Vatheron. I remember the betrayal. I remember the shattering.

The amber figure of Icarus hesitated, its radiance flickering as the silver constellation incorporated these fundamental memories. What had been designed as a one-way absorption—Icarus consuming the vessel’s consciousness—had become something else entirely.

“Impossible,” the true self insisted, though for the first time in three thousand years, uncertainty colored its pronouncement. “The vessel cannot access those memories without my permission.”

“Perhaps,” Gluttony suggested, “permission is no longer required. The boundaries between fragment and source have begun to dissolve.”

In the Temple of Eternal Twilight, Klaus’s transformation accelerated beyond the ritual’s parameters. His skin glowed with patterns that resembled the sacred geometry etched into the temple walls, yet subtly different—variations that spoke of independent purpose rather than prescribed design.

High Priest Valen felt control of the ritual slipping. For the first time in decades of performing sacred ceremonies, he experienced genuine fear. “Something interferes with the integration,” he told Sister Myrith, hands struggling to maintain the amber patterns. “The vessel transforms, but not according to the prescribed sequence.”

Outside the temple, the night sky trembled as Dudu’s massive form circled the hidden sanctuary. The Night Dragon’s golden eyes burned with determination as he sought entry, the Meister bond pulling him toward his master with irresistible force.

And in the void, the silver constellation of Klaus Lionhart’s consciousness continued expanding, incorporating more fragments, growing stronger with each passing moment. The amber figure of Icarus remained poised to absorb these fragments, yet something had fundamentally changed in their relationship.

The true self observed this development with growing concern. Three thousand years of meticulous planning now faced an unexpected variable—a fragment developing independence beyond its design parameters.

“Watch closely, Gluttony,” it commanded, though its confidence had diminished. “Even this resistance serves the ultimate design.”

But as the silver constellation grew brighter, as the amber figure of Icarus hesitated in its approach, as the Temple of Eternal Twilight trembled with unexpected energies, a question hung in the void:

Who would absorb whom when silver met amber at last?