The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family-Chapter 216: The Silent Observer

The darkness shifted, fragments of memory reorganizing themselves like pieces in a complex puzzle. The identity of Klaus Zagerfield—the Five-Circle Mage who had died—remained present but receded, making space for something older, something deeper.

A different name emerged from the void.

Tomas Veil.

The fragments coalesced around this new identity, building a coherent memory from scattered shards of consciousness.

I am Tomas Veil. I am a scholar.

The Great Library of Astrana was not a place ordinary citizens could enter. Its towering shelves, stretching upward for three stories, housed knowledge deemed too sensitive, too dangerous, or too powerful for general consumption. Only those with specific authorization from the Magical Council could pass through its heavy bronze doors, and even they were restricted to designated sections.

Tomas Veil was one of the few granted nearly unrestricted access. As Royal Chronicler to the Astranian Court, his task was to document events of significance—both for the official historical record and for the private archives that only future chroniclers would ever read.

At forty-two, Tomas had served in this capacity for nearly two decades. His unremarkable appearance—average height, brown hair now streaked with gray, forgettable features—had proven advantageous in his role. People tended to forget he was present during important conversations, allowing him to observe and record events with minimal interference.

"Still here, Master Veil? The hour grows late."

Tomas looked up from the manuscript he was examining, blinking as his eyes adjusted to focusing on something other than the cramped text he'd been deciphering. Librarian Serna stood by his table, her thin frame casting a long shadow in the lamplight.

"I lost track of time," he admitted, noting the darkness beyond the high windows. "These accounts of the Northern Anomaly are... inconsistent. I'm attempting to reconcile the contradictions."

Serna's expression softened slightly. Unlike most library staff who viewed visitors as potential threats to their precious collections, she had always shown Tomas a measure of professional courtesy.

"The Northern Anomaly defies consistent documentation," she observed, glancing at the scattered manuscripts. "Fifteen different accounts, fifteen different descriptions."

"Hence my dilemma." Tomas gestured to the notes he had been taking. "The court expects a comprehensive summary by month's end, yet I cannot determine which version most accurately reflects reality."

"Perhaps that is your answer," Serna suggested. "Document the inconsistency itself. After all, your duty is to record what is known—including what is not known with certainty."

Tomas considered this, absently adjusting the silver spectacles that had become his signature accessory over the years. "A chronicler's report that details the limits of knowledge rather than presenting definitive conclusions. Unconventional."

"These are unconventional times," Serna replied. "The Northern Anomaly is but one of many unexplained phenomena in recent years. The pattern itself may be more significant than any individual event."

Her insight mirrored Tomas's own thoughts, though he had been reluctant to document such speculation officially. The Arcanum Council preferred concrete observations to theoretical patterns.

"I appreciate your perspective," he said, beginning to gather his materials. "And you're right—I've stayed longer than intended."

Serna nodded, satisfied that her gentle eviction had been accepted. "The manuscripts will be here tomorrow. Section Seven will be reserved for your continued research."

After she departed, Tomas organized his notes methodically. His handwriting was precise and compact—a necessity when one spent decades recording information in limited space. The skill had become so ingrained that even his personal journals were written in the same efficient script, as if every thought required preservation for posterity.

The Northern Anomaly had first been reported three years earlier—a distortion in the fabric of reality near the border between Astrana and its northern neighbor, Calaris. Witnesses described it variously as a shimmer in the air, a localized darkness that consumed light, or a sound that could be felt but not heard. Some claimed to have seen creatures emerging from it, while others reported missing time when in its vicinity.

What made the Anomaly particularly concerning was its apparent resistance to magical investigation. Mages sent to study it returned with contradictory findings, their instruments providing readings that made no sense when compared. Two researchers had disappeared entirely, though whether they had entered the Anomaly voluntarily or been taken remained unknown.

Tomas had been tasked with compiling all available information—not for public record, but for the private archives of the Arcanum Council. His reputation for objectivity and discretion had made him the natural choice for such sensitive work.

As he placed the last of the manuscripts in their protective folders, a familiar discomfort settled in his chest—not physical pain, but a sense of incompletion, of missing something important. He had experienced this feeling with increasing frequency over the past year, particularly when researching the Anomaly and similar occurrences across the continent.

Sometimes, in the space between wakefulness and sleep, Tomas thought he glimpsed connections between seemingly unrelated events—patterns that suggested something vast and deliberate unfolding across decades, perhaps centuries. But these insights proved frustratingly elusive in the light of day, leaving him with only the vague certainty that he was overlooking something crucial.

The Royal Chronicler's quarters were located in the east wing of the palace, a short walk from the Great Library. As Tomas made his way through the quiet corridors, nodding to the occasional guard, he contemplated Serna's suggestion. Perhaps documenting the inconsistencies was indeed the most honest approach. After all, his duty was to record what was known, not to invent coherence where none existed.

His rooms were modest by palace standards—a sitting area with a desk for his work, a small bedchamber, and a private bathroom with the luxury of running water. The walls were lined with bookshelves holding his personal collection and copies of his official chronicles. A single window overlooked the palace gardens, though at this hour they were visible only as vague shapes in the moonlight.

Tomas placed his notes on the desk and moved to the window, stretching muscles stiff from hours of hunched study. The night sky was unusually clear, stars shining with remarkable brightness. He had never been particularly interested in astronomy, yet something about the constellation patterns caught his attention tonight—they seemed somehow... wrong, as if certain stars had shifted position when he wasn't looking.

He shook his head, dismissing the notion as fatigue. The hour was late, and his mind was still fixated on anomalies and inconsistencies after a day spent documenting them.

A soft knock at his door interrupted his thoughts.

"Enter," he called, turning from the window.

The door opened to reveal Lord Arvus, the king's seneschal and Tomas's direct superior in the court hierarchy. The elderly official's expression was grave, his formal attire suggesting he had come directly from the king's council chamber.

"Master Veil," he began without preamble, "your presence is required at an emergency session of the Arcanum Council."

Tomas frowned slightly. "At this hour? Has something occurred?"

"A delegation has arrived from Calaris with urgent information regarding the Northern Anomaly. The Council wishes you to document the proceedings."

Something in Lord Arvus's tone suggested this was no routine development. Tomas moved to his desk, gathering fresh parchment and ink. "What manner of information?"

"I am not privy to the details," Arvus replied, though his expression suggested otherwise. "Only that it concerns a significant change in the Anomaly's behavior."

Tomas nodded, collecting his materials efficiently. As Royal Chronicler, he had learned to respond to such summonses without delay or unnecessary questions. His role was to observe and record, not to participate in the deliberations themselves.

They walked in silence through the palace corridors, now largely deserted except for night guards. The Arcanum Council chambers were located in the west wing, deliberately separated from the regular governmental offices. Access required passing through three separate security checkpoints, each manned by mages as well as conventional guards.

At the final checkpoint, Lord Arvus was stopped while Tomas was allowed to proceed—an unusual deviation from protocol that heightened his sense that something extraordinary was unfolding.

The Council chamber itself was a circular room with a domed ceiling painted to represent the night sky. Twelve high-backed chairs arranged in a circle served as seats for the Magical Council members, while a small desk positioned against the wall provided Tomas's observation point. He moved to his designated place without acknowledgment from the assembled councillors, who were engaged in intense conversation with three robed figures—presumably the Calarian delegation.

High Mage Elindra, head of the Magical Council, noticed his arrival and gave a slight nod. "Master Veil will document these proceedings," she announced, briefly interrupting the discussion. "Proceed with the understanding that your words will be preserved for the official record."

The central figure in the Calarian delegation—a tall man with silver at his temples and an emerald pendant at his throat—bowed slightly. "We understand the gravity of this matter warrants such documentation."

Tomas prepared his materials, quill poised over parchment as the delegation resumed its report. He had developed a personalized shorthand over the years that allowed him to capture speech almost verbatim while maintaining focus on the speakers and their dynamics.

"As I was explaining," the Calarian continued, "the Northern Anomaly underwent a significant transformation three days ago. The localized distortion expanded to nearly triple its previous diameter, then contracted again over a period of approximately six hours."

"Expanded and contracted on its own?" one councillor asked. "Or in response to some stimulus?"

"Unknown. Our observation posts recorded no unusual activity in the vicinity prior to the expansion."

High Mage Elindra leaned forward. "And the entities? You mentioned increased activity."

The Calarian nodded grimly. "During the expansion phase, our mages observed multiple... incursions. Entities emerging from the Anomaly, moving into the surrounding forest, then returning before the contraction phase completed."

"You have descriptions of these entities?" another councillor asked.

Instead of responding verbally, the Calarian produced a sealed case from within his robes. He placed it on the floor at the center of the circle and stepped back, making a complex gesture with one hand. The case opened, revealing what appeared to be a crystal sphere approximately the size of a human head.

"A visual record," he explained. "Captured by our Arcanum's newest observation technique."

He made another gesture, and the crystal began to glow. Light emanated from within, coalescing into an image that hovered above the sphere. Tomas paused in his writing, captivated by the display.

The image showed a forest clearing at night, illuminated by an unnatural light that seemed to emanate from a rippling distortion in the air. As the observers watched, the distortion expanded, its edges becoming more defined until it resembled a vertical tear in reality itself.

From this tear emerged... something. Tomas found his quill frozen above the parchment as he struggled to find words to describe what he was seeing. The entities were vaguely humanoid in overall shape, but their forms appeared to shift and flow, as if they weren't fully materialized in this reality. Their movements were jerky yet precise, like insects examining new territory.

Most disturbing was how the forest itself seemed to react to their presence—plants withering as the entities passed, shadows behaving unnaturally, extending toward the creatures rather than away from light sources.

The recording continued for several minutes, showing multiple entities emerging and exploring the area before returning to the Anomaly as it began to contract. Throughout the observation, Tomas noticed symbols appearing briefly at the edges of the tear—complex patterns that seemed almost like writing, though in no language he recognized.

When the recording ended, the chamber remained silent for several moments. Tomas realized he had documented none of what he'd just witnessed, so transfixed had he been by the images. Hastily, he began to write a description, though words seemed woefully inadequate to capture what he had seen.

"How many entities emerged in total?" High Mage Elindra finally asked.

"Twenty-three during the six-hour period," the Calarian replied. "Each returning to the Anomaly before the contraction completed."

"A scouting party," one councillor suggested, her voice tight with concern.

"Or researchers," another countered. "They appeared to be examining their surroundings rather than preparing for invasion."

The Calarian delegation exchanged glances before their leader spoke again. "Whatever their purpose, we believe this represents a significant escalation. In three years of observation, we have documented only five previous entity emergences, each involving no more than two individuals."

High Mage Elindra rose from her seat, her elaborate robes shimmering with embedded protective enchantments. "The Council will need time to deliberate on this information and determine an appropriate response. In the meantime, has Calaris taken any additional security measures?"

"We have established a quarantine zone extending five miles in all directions from the Anomaly. No unauthorized personnel are permitted within this boundary. Our Arcanum has also begun constructing a containment barrier using the ritual formulations provided by your Council last year."

Tomas's quill moved steadily across the parchment, recording these exchanges while his mind processed the implications. The Northern Anomaly had been concerning before, but this development suggested something far more ominous—a potential threat not just to border regions but to the stability of the continent itself.

As the discussion continued, focusing on technical details of containment procedures and information sharing between kingdoms, Tomas noticed something strange. The crystal sphere, still sitting at the center of the chamber though no longer projecting images, appeared to be... pulsing. A subtle rhythm, barely perceptible, that matched the beat of his own heart.

He glanced around, but none of the Council members or Calarian delegates seemed to notice. Returning his attention to his documentation, Tomas tried to dismiss the observation as a trick of light or fatigue-induced illusion.

Yet the sensation persisted, growing stronger rather than fading. And with it came a strange certainty that he had seen something like this before—not the Anomaly itself, but something similar. Not in this life, but...

The thought made no sense, yet it settled in his mind with the weight of truth. Memories that couldn't possibly be his own flickered at the edges of his consciousness. Knowledge he had never learned crystallized into certainty.

The entities are scouts. This is merely the first phase. They are testing the boundaries between worlds, seeking weaknesses, preparing for something larger.

The insights came unbidden, as if accessed rather than remembered. Tomas's hand trembled slightly as he continued writing, mechanically documenting the Council proceedings while his inner thoughts raced along tracks that felt simultaneously alien and familiar.

When the session finally concluded hours later, dawn was breaking over Astrana. The Calarian delegation was escorted to guest quarters, the Council members departed to implement their initial response measures, and Tomas was left alone to organize his extensive notes for the official record.

His hand moved automatically, transcribing his shorthand into formal documentation, but his mind remained fixated on the strange certainty that had taken root during the proceedings. The Northern Anomaly was not an isolated incident. It was part of a pattern, a prelude to something that had happened before and would happen again.

I've seen this before. In another time, another place. Another life.

The thought was irrational, yet the conviction behind it was unshakable. As Tomas completed his work and sealed the official documentation for the Council archives, he made a decision that went against decades of professional practice.

He would keep a separate, private record—observations and insights that went beyond what he had officially witnessed, connections that existed only in his mind yet felt more real than the reality around him.

That evening, after delivering the formal documentation to High Mage Elindra, Tomas returned to his quarters and withdrew a blank journal from the bottom drawer of his desk. He had purchased it years earlier for personal reflections but had never found the time or inclination to use it.

Now, he opened it to the first page and began to write in a script even more compact than his usual hand:

The Northern Anomaly represents a breach between dimensions, not merely a localized distortion of reality. The entities emerging from it are scouts for what will eventually become an invasion force. I cannot explain how I know this with certainty, only that the knowledge exists within me as if remembered rather than deduced.

This event connects to others across the continent—the Whispering Stones of Erathan, the Midnight Tide that flooded Veren without warning, the Lost Caravan of the Eastern Desert. Separate incidents in conventional understanding, yet linked by an underlying pattern that suggests deliberate coordination across vast distances.

I am recording these insights separate from the official chronicle because they extend beyond observable fact into something I cannot justify by conventional means. Yet I am as certain of these connections as I am of my own name.

Though perhaps even that certainty should be questioned. For increasingly, I find myself caught in moments where 'Tomas Veil' feels like a role I am playing rather than who I truly am. As if I have lived other lives, been other people, and carry fragments of those existences within me—dormant until triggered by specific events or information.

This sounds like the writing of a madman. Perhaps I am going mad. Or perhaps I am finally beginning to wake up.

Tomas stared at the words he had written, seeing them as if penned by a stranger's hand. The conviction behind them was absolute, yet the implications were disturbing. If these insights were accurate, if these strange certainties reflected some deeper truth, then his understanding of himself and his world was fundamentally incomplete.

He closed the journal and hid it between two volumes of official chronicles where no one would think to look. Whatever was happening—whether revelation or delusion—he would document it, analyze it, try to understand it. That was what he had always done, what he had been trained to do.

What he had been born to do? Or what he had chosen to do in this particular life?

The question lingered unanswered as Tomas prepared for sleep, his mind still churning with images from the Calarian recording and the strange sense that he was simultaneously remembering and foreseeing events yet to unfold.

* * *

The memory faded back into the void, leaving impressions like ripples on still water. In the darkness of his fractured consciousness, Klaus Lionhart—or Klaus Zagerfield, or Tomas Veil—struggled to integrate these conflicting identities.

I was a chronicler. An observer. Someone who documented events without participating directly. Yet I knew things I shouldn't have known, remembered things I couldn't have experienced.

This life felt more distant than that of Klaus Zagerfield, the memories less distinct, the emotions more muted. Yet it carried a significance that resonated across the layers of his existence—a common thread of observation, of bearing witness to forces beyond normal comprehension.

And there was something else, something deeper still. Another life, another identity buried beneath these more recent existences. Something ancient and powerful, connected to the very forces he had observed as Tomas Veil and confronted as Klaus Zagerfield.

The fragments shifted again, realigning around a new center—a name that wasn't quite a name, an identity that transcended conventional understanding.

In the Frost Chamber of the Lionhart Estate, the preservation runes flickered erratically as Klaus's closed eyelids twitched, revealing brief flashes of darkness beneath—not merely the absence of light, but something deeper, more fundamental.

Something that had existed long before Tomas Veil was born.

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