The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family

Chapter 363: The Seal Beneath the Ice (3)

Klaus stood amidst the silence of the chamber. The knowledge he had just recovered settled over him like a heavy cloak. It was not new information, not really. It was old. Ancient. Buried beneath layers of reincarnation and forgotten lives.

The memory surfaced unbidden, pulling him back into the skin of Tomas Veil.

The air inside the temple had been thick with the scent of decay and old dust. Tomas coughed, wiping blood from his lips as he stumbled over the uneven stone floor. Behind him, the sounds of battle were dying out. Not winning. Dying.

"Hold the line!" a guard shouted, his voice cracking with fear.

The shadows detached themselves from the walls. They were not mere darkness. They were hollows. Creatures of void that drank the light from the torches. Three guards fell in seconds. Their swords passed through the shadows as if swinging at smoke. Fireballs from the accompanying mages exploded harmlessly against the creatures' forms.

Tomas pressed his back against a cold pillar, clutching his research notes. They were going to die. The expedition was over. The hollows drifted closer, silent and inevitable.

Then a figure stepped forward. A warrior clad in silver armor etched with golden runes. A Paladin of the Old Order. He raised his greatsword, not in a strike, but in prayer.

"Light," the Paladin whispered.

Mana gathered around the blade. Not the standard blue or red of elemental magic. This was pure white. Golden. Radiant.

The Paladin swung. The blade connected with a hollow. This time, there was resistance. A screech tore through the chamber, a sound of tearing metal. The creature dissolved into motes of gray ash.

"Light!" the Paladin roared, turning to the mages. "Only Light attribute mana harms them! Anything else is useless!"

Tomas watched the ash settle. He remembered the relief. He remembered the cost. Only the Paladin survived the encounter. The rest were gone. And the knowledge remained. Hollows. Vulnerable only to Light.

Klaus opened his eyes. The room was quiet, but the knowledge burned in his mind. He knew what was needed. But he was not the one holding the line at the peaks.

*

*

*

The Frostfang Peaks were burning, though no fire burned there. The sky was a bruised purple, slowly lightening as dawn approached. The ground shook under the weight of thousands of feet.

Erion Stark stood atop a ridge of jagged ice, his black hair whipping in the freezing wind. Below him, the Stark Battalion was engaged in a slaughter. Not of the enemy. Of themselves.

"Fireball! Hit it with everything!" a captain screamed.

A volley of fireballs streaked down from the mages on the ridge. They struck the advancing horde. The explosions bloomed bright orange against the dark forms of the hollows. When the smoke cleared, the creatures kept walking. Unharmed. Unchanged.

"My ice shards went right through!" a mage shouted, panic rising in his voice. "It's like they aren't there!"

"Lightning! Try lightning!"

Bolts of electricity arced down. They crackled over the surfaces of the hollows, grounding themselves in the ice below. The creatures did not flinch. They poured from the cracks in the glacier like oil leaking from a wound. Thousands of them. A tide of living shadow.

Erion gripped the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white. He had seen this before. In the old texts. In the forbidden archives of the Stark family. But he had hoped, prayed, that it was just a myth.

"Lord Erion!" a lieutenant scrambled up the ridge, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. "The front line is gone. They're not dying, my Lord. We can't stop them."

Erion looked down at the battlefield. His men were falling. Not from enemy strikes. The hollows walked through them, and where they passed, life simply extinguished. Men dropped their swords and collapsed, their faces gray, their hearts stopped by the mere proximity of the void.

"Pull them back," Erion said. His voice was low, but it carried over the wind.

"My Lord?" the lieutenant stared at him.

"Retreat," Erion said, louder this time. "Fall back to the secondary ridge. Now!"

"But the Palace! If they reach the Palace!"

"If we stay here, there will be no one left to defend anything," Erion snapped. He turned away from the edge, his face grim. "Move! That is an order!"

The horns blew. The sound was mournful, signaling a retreat. The surviving soldiers of the Stark Battalion scrambled back up the icy slopes, leaving their fallen comrades behind. They could not afford to bury the dead. They could barely save the living.

The hollows did not pursue with speed. They marched. A steady, relentless press of darkness moving upward. They were not hunting. They were migrating. And their path was direct. Toward the Ice Palace. Toward the source of the energy they craved.

"Seal Master Varen," Erion called out.

An old man stepped forward from the group of retreating mages. He wore robes of deep blue, stitched with silver threads that formed complex geometric patterns. He was pale, his breathing shallow. The retreat had cost him mana he could not afford to lose.

"My Lord," Varen bowed slightly.

"Can you hold them?" Erion asked.

Varen looked at the approaching tide. The sun was just beginning to crest the eastern peaks, casting long shadows across the ice. The hollows seemed to recoil slightly from the dawn, but only slightly.

"I can erect a Rune Barrier," Varen said. "But it is not a standard ward. It must be anchored. It requires a constant flow of mana to maintain integrity against void entities."

"Can you do it?"

"I can start it," Varen said. "But I cannot sustain it. Not alone. Not against this many."

Erion did not hesitate. He stepped forward, placing a hand on the old man's shoulder. "Then I will supply it."

Varen's eyes widened. "My Lord, the drain. It could strip your core dry. It could kill you."

"Do it," Erion said.

Varen nodded. He raised his staff. The silver threads on his robes began to glow. He slammed the butt of the staff into the ice. Runes erupted from the point of impact, spreading outward in a massive circle. They climbed into the air, forming a dome of golden light that stretched across the pass.

The hollows slammed into the barrier. The golden light hissed where the shadows touched it. Smoke rose. The creatures pushed, endless and silent.

Erion closed his eyes. He reached into his dantian, pulling forth his mana core. It was a high-tier white core, vast and powerful. He pushed the energy out, channeling it into Varen's array. The golden light brightened, stabilizing under the influx of fresh power.

"Hold," Erion gritted out.

The sun rose higher. The light of dawn spread across the peaks, illuminating the scene. The golden barrier stood firm against the dark tide. Behind the gold, the shadows pressed. The ice beneath the barrier began to crack under the strain.

Erion felt the drain. It was like holding up a mountain. His knees trembled. Sweat froze on his brow. He pushed more mana. The barrier held. But a hairline fracture appeared in the golden light near the northern anchor.

"Lord Erion," Varen whispered, his voice trembling. "The stress is too great. The anchor points are failing."

Erion looked at the crack. It was small. Insignificant. But it was growing. The hollows behind it seemed to sense the weakness. They pushed harder. The crack widened. A thin line of darkness leaked through the gold.

"Reinforce the north anchor," Erion commanded.

"I have nothing left," Varen said, collapsing to one knee. "It is all you now, my Lord."

Erion stood alone at the center of the array. The golden light was fading, turning a sickly yellow. The horde behind the barrier was endless. They were not mindless beasts. They were moving with purpose. Marching toward the Ice Palace. Drawn to the power sleeping within the city.

The crack in the barrier widened another inch. A spiderweb of fractures spread from it. The golden light flickered.

Erion did not move. He poured every ounce of his will into the seal. He would not break. Not here. Not now.

A lieutenant approached, seeing the state of his Lord. "Sir? What are your orders?"

Erion watched the crack. He watched the shadows pressing against the failing light. He knew this was only the beginning. The barrier would hold for an hour. Maybe two. But it would fall. And when it did, the horde would reach the gates.

He did not look at the lieutenant. He kept his eyes on the horizon, where the Ice Palace stood silent against the morning sky.

"Inform the Queen," Erion said.