The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family

Chapter 367: Light in the Abyss(2)

The wind at the Frostfang Peaks did not merely blow. It screamed. It carried the bite of eternal winter, a cold so profound it sought to freeze the blood in the veins of anyone foolish enough to stand exposed. Here, at the edge of the known world, the barrier erected by House Stark was the only thing separating civilization from the encroaching void.

Erion Stark stood at the center of the ritual circle, his knees buckling under the weight of the mana he was channeling. The barrier above him shimmered like a wounded beast, translucent white light flickering violently as shadowy claws raked against its surface. Thousands of Hollows pressed against the dome, their formless bodies writhing in anticipation. They did not speak. They did not roar. They simply existed as holes in the world, draining the warmth from the air around them.

Erion wiped sweat from his brow, though the sweat froze instantly on his brow. His breath came in ragged gasps. Maintaining this barrier for the last six hours had drained him to the bone. His mana core, usually a reservoir of infinite power, felt like a dried well. He could feel the cracks forming in the magical structure. Another hour, maybe less, and the barrier would shatter. When it did, nothing on this side of the peaks would survive.

A shadow fell over the ritual circle.

Erion looked up, expecting another wave of shadows. Instead, he saw a figure descending from the storm clouds. White hair whipped wildly in the gale, glowing faintly against the morning sky. The figure landed with a grace that defied the icy terrain, boots touching the frozen ground without slipping.

Erion's eyes widened. He knew that face. He had seen the portraits. He had seen and faced the kid in a duel back in the Stark District.

"Young Lionhart?" Erion said, his voice raspy from the strain of maintaining the barrier. "What are you doing here?"

Klaus Lionhart stood tall, unaffected by the biting wind or the oppressive aura of the Hollows pressing against the barrier. His white hair settled around his shoulders, framing a face that held no fear, only a calm, calculating focus. He looked at the straining barrier, then at the sea of shadows beyond it.

"I came to help," Klaus said simply.

Erion let out a dry, humorless laugh. He shifted his weight, his hands trembling as he kept the mana flow steady. "Help? There is nothing you or I can do to hurt those creatures. Conventional magic passes through them. Physical blades pass through them. They are not alive in the way we understand. If you want to help me, share some mana to the barrier. I am sure you have quite the reserve since you are this strong."

Klaus took a step closer to the ritual circle. The soldiers manning the perimeter watched him with a mix of awe and suspicion. They were Stark elites, veterans of the northern wars, but the pressure radiating from the young Lionhart made them instinctively step back.

"Why hold them," Klaus asked, his voice cutting through the wind, "when we can just erase them?"

Erion's eyes narrowed. He wanted to snap at the boy for his arrogance, but he lacked the energy for anger. "I told you. None of our attacks works on them. We have tried fire, ice, lightning, and physical force. Nothing sticks. They absorb the energy or let it pass. We are only holding the line because retreat is not an option."

"Light Attribute attack will work on them," Klaus said.

The statement hung in the air, absurd and impossible. Light Attribute magic was rare. It was considered a supportive magic, used for healing or purification. It was not combat magic. It certainly was not anti-entity magic.

Erion stared at Klaus, searching for any sign of delusion. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice a rasped whisper from maintaining such a draining barrier for this long. "Do not gamble with lives, boy. If you break the rhythm of the barrier to cast a spell that does nothing, the Hollows will break through."

Klaus did not answer. He did not argue. He simply looked at Erion, his crystalline blue eyes glowing with an inner intensity. Then, he vanished.

There was no sound of movement. No buildup of mana. One moment Klaus was standing beside Erion, and the next, the space where he had stood was empty.

Inside the barrier, amidst the swirling chaos of the frontline, Klaus materialized. He was no longer protected by the dome. He was standing directly among the Hollows.

The creatures turned toward him instantly. Hundreds of faceless heads tilted. They sensed the life force radiating from him. They surged forward, a tidal wave of darkness seeking to snuff out the light of his soul.

Klaus raised his right hand. He did not draw Greed. He did not channel his Arcane Energy. Instead, he reached for something deeper, something purer. He tapped into the mana circulating in the atmosphere, filtering it through the lens of his Ten Eyes Mantra, refining it until it was no longer just mana. It became holiness.

"Fourth Circle Magic: Holy Sphere," Klaus whispered.

A sphere of pure white light erupted from Klaus's body. It did not explode. It expanded. It moved like a ripple on a pond, silent and inevitable. As the wave of light passed over the Hollows, the reaction was instantaneous.

The shadows did not fight. They did not scream. They simply ceased to be. Where the light touched the darkness, the Hollows evaporated into wisps of gray smoke that vanished into the wind. The sphere expanded outward, fifty meters, then a hundred. Every Hollow within the radius was purified instantly.

The soldiers on the wall stopped breathing. They had been fighting for hours, losing ground inch by inch. They had seen their comrades dragged into the shadows, never to return. And now, in a single breath, a circle of safety had been carved out of the abyss by a boy who looked barely old enough to hold his liquor.

But Klaus was not finished.

He lowered his right hand and raised his left toward the stormy sky above the peaks. The clouds above churned, reacting to the surge of light energy. The darkness of the storm clouds caused by the hollow's presence began to part, pierced by beams of golden illumination.

Within those beams, shapes began to form. Swords. Hundreds of them. They were not made of steel. They were constructs of solidified light, humming with a frequency that made the teeth of every soldier ache. They hung in the sky, pointing downward, aimed at the sea of Hollows pressing against the barrier.

Klaus clenched his left hand into a fist.

"Fall."

The swords dropped.

It looked like rain. A white rain of judgment. They fell with impossible speed, streaking through the air like comets. When they struck the ground, they did not bounce. They pierced. Each sword of light impaled a Hollow, and upon impact, detonated in a burst of purification.

The effect was catastrophic for the enemy. Where the light rain fell, the Hollows vanished in droves. Two hundred creatures disappeared in the blink of an eye. The ground where they had stood was scorched with light mana that glowed briefly before fading.

The silence that followed was heavier than the wind.

The soldiers on the wall stared down at the battlefield. Their mouths hung open. Their weapons hung limp in their hands. They had been prepared to die. They had accepted that this was the end. And now, standing amidst the fading glow of the holy swords, was Klaus Lionhart. He stood alone in the center of the cleared zone, his white hair settling around him, his hand still raised from the command.

He had not broken a sweat. He had not strained. He had simply rewritten the rules of the engagement.

Erion Stark leaned against the ritual console, his eyes wide as he watched the young man standing outside the barrier. The barrier was no longer straining. The pressure had been relieved, if only for a moment. The Hollows were regrouping, hesitant to rush into the zone that had just been purified. They were learning. But for the first time in six hours, the Stark forces had breathing room.

A young sergeant standing next to Erion lowered his spear. His hands were shaking, not from cold, but from shock. He had seen Swordmasters. He had seen Golden Core experts. He had seen the Stark family Patriarch himself fight. But this? This was not combat. This was execution.

The sergeant looked at Erion, then back at Klaus, who was now walking calmly back toward the barrier entrance. The young Lionhart did not look like a savior. He looked like a force of nature that had briefly decided to favor them.

The sergeant swallowed hard, his throat dry. He turned to the man next to him, his voice barely a whisper, yet carrying clearly in the sudden quiet of the battlefield.

"Just who the hell is this man?"