The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family-Chapter 224: Steel and Shadow

The access panel slid open silently, revealing only darkness beyond. Then a hand emerged—fingers elongated unnaturally, nails hardened to dagger-like points. Alexandra's blade moved with lethal precision, severing the appendage at the wrist before its owner could fully emerge.

No scream followed. No blood sprayed from the severed limb. Only a faint hissing sound as amber fluid seeped from the wound, crystallizing upon contact with the air.

Alexandra had no time to process this oddity. A figure lunged through the opening with inhuman speed—a hooded cultist whose face bore ritual scarification in the pattern of Icarus's mark. Where a normal human would have been disoriented emerging into light from darkness, this one moved with perfect awareness, twin daggers already seeking Alexandra's vitals.

Her White Lion training manifested in pure muscle memory. The Crescent Moon parry—a circular motion that redirected both daggers wide while bringing her own blade back for a counterstrike. Without mana enhancement, the technique relied entirely on physical precision and timing.

The cultist should have been vulnerable after the failed strike. Instead, his body bent at an impossible angle, contorting away from her counter-attack while his daggers reversed direction mid-motion.

Alexandra barely twisted away, the daggers slicing through her uniform instead of her organs. She recognized the unnatural movement immediately—the cultist still had access to energy enhancement despite the null field affecting everyone else.

"They've found the chamber!" the cultist called back into the passage, his voice eerily calm despite the combat. "Intercept protocol active!"

Alexandra had no time to warn the guards. Three more cultists erupted from the access panel in perfect synchronization, their movements enhanced by energy techniques that should have been impossible under the null field's effect.

The corridor erupted into chaos. The eight Lionhart guards, elite even by imperial standards, found themselves facing opponents who moved with preternatural speed and strength while they themselves were limited to physical capabilities only.

Alexandra abandoned formal technique for the brutal efficiency White Lion operatives learned for asymmetric combat scenarios. As a fourth cultist emerged from the panel, she drove her blade through his throat while simultaneously kicking the first attacker's knee with enough force to shatter the joint.

The crippled cultist didn't fall. Instead, amber energy visibly flowed through his damaged leg, restructuring tissue and bone before her eyes.

"Containment team, advance!" came a woman's voice from within the passage—cold and precise, carrying absolute authority.

The cultists' tactics shifted instantly. Rather than attempting to kill, they focused on controlling space—forming a perimeter around the access panel while more of their comrades emerged. Alexandra recognized the maneuver from White Lion tactical doctrine: they were establishing a beachhead for their main force.

A guard screamed as ritual daggers opened his throat. Another fell, hamstrung by a low strike before a boot crushed his windpipe. The remaining guards formed a defensive line, their swords moving in the synchronized patterns of Lionhart's Unyielding Mountain stance—a technique designed to maximize defensive coverage when outnumbered.

Alexandra couldn't reach them. Four cultists had isolated her from the main group, their movements perfectly coordinated to keep her pinned against the wall. They were buying time, she realized—keeping the defenders occupied while something worse emerged from the darkness.

*

*

*

Sister Myrith stepped through the access panel, surveying the corridor with clinical detachment. Eight cultists had preceded her—the advanced infiltration team designated for perimeter establishment. Of those, one lay dead with a severed throat, another struggled to regenerate a shattered knee despite the Inverted Core Ritual's enhancement. Five Lionhart guards were down, the remaining three maintaining a defensive formation at the Frost Chamber's door.

And one unexpected variable fought with exceptional skill against four of her best operatives.

"The White Lion soldier," Myrith observed, recognizing Alexandra from intelligence briefings. "I thought she had been assigned to patrol duties tonight."

Her gaze shifted to the Frost Chamber's entrance. The reinforced doors remained sealed, their energy locks still active despite the null field's interference with mana cores. Beyond those doors lay their objective—the Worthy One, vessel for Gluttony's manifestation, catalyst for Icarus's return.

"Breach team, prepare the secondary array," she commanded. Two cultists moved forward, retrieving specialized discs from within their robes—smaller versions of the main Null Array, designed to disrupt specific energy frequencies.

Myrith turned her attention back to Alexandra, who had just driven a blade through one of her operatives' shoulders. Even without mana enhancement, the Lionhart woman fought with exceptional skill—each movement economical, precise, and brutally effective. A worthy opponent under different circumstances.

"Finish her," Myrith ordered. "No further delays."

She raised her hand, channeling energy through pathways created by decades of ritual modification. Amber light coalesced around her fingers, then shot forward in a concentrated blast that Alexandra barely avoided. The wall where the energy struck cracked and blackened, stone transmuting into something resembling volcanic glass.

"You retain energy access," Alexandra observed, ducking under another cultist's blade while keeping her eyes on Myrith. "The null field doesn't affect you."

"The Inverted Core Ritual," Myrith explained conversationally, as if they were colleagues discussing theory rather than mortal enemies. "It reverses the standard energy flow patterns, making us immune to the disruption that affects standard practitioners." She gestured, and another energy blast forced Alexandra to roll aside. "A technique requiring significant sacrifice to master."

*

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*

Roman Lionhart and Melo moved through the estate's corridors with deadly purpose, their blades already wet with the blood of six cultists encountered at junction points. Even without mana enhancement, the Ice Monarch's swordsmanship represented the pinnacle of physical technique—each movement executed with mathematical precision, each strike targeting vital points with unerring accuracy.

Beside him, Melo remained a silent shadow, his own bladework employing the negative space between Roman's attacks—striking wherever the Ice Monarch was not, creating an impenetrable zone of death around them both.

"We're being herded," Roman observed quietly as they dispatched another pair of cultists at a corridor intersection. "These opponents lack the skill of true combat specialists."

Melo nodded once, his white mask betraying nothing of his thoughts. "Sacrificial pieces to slow our approach. The extraction team must already be at the Frost Chamber."

They quickened their pace, turning down the eastern gallery that would lead most directly to the central wing. As they reached the midpoint, a strange sound echoed from ahead—a harmonic resonance that seemed to vibrate through the very stone beneath their feet.

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The gallery's far entrance suddenly filled with figures—thirteen cultists moving in perfect synchronization, their ritual-scarred faces identical despite different physical builds. At their center stood a towering man whose entire body had been transformed through extensive scarification—not a centimeter of natural skin remained visible beneath the intricate patterns carved into his flesh.

"The Ice Monarch," the central figure intoned, his voice producing that same unnatural resonance they had heard moments before. "I am Brother Mortus, Harmonizer of Icarus's Will. You will proceed no further."

Roman's expression remained unchanged. "Sacrificial pieces indeed," he remarked to Melo. "Though these appear more valuable than the pawns we've encountered thus far."

Brother Mortus raised his hands, and the thirteen cultists surrounding him mirrored the gesture with perfect simultaneity. Amber energy flowed between them, forming a complex geometric pattern in the air before them.

"We are the Containment Chorus," Mortus announced. "While our brethren secure the Worthy One, we shall grant you the honor of witnessing Icarus's harmonics."

The energy pattern solidified, then projected forward with explosive force. Roman and Melo separated instantly, decades of battlefield coordination requiring no verbal communication. The energy blast struck the space they had occupied moments before, transmuting marble flooring into swirling patterns of obsidian glass.

"Their energy techniques remain functional," Roman noted, his blade already in motion as he closed distance with lethal intent. "The null field is selective in its interference."

Three cultists moved to intercept him, their movements synchronized to create overlapping defensive patterns. Their daggers—ritual implements of amber crystal—left trailing afterimages as they sliced through the air.

Roman's response demonstrated why the Ice Monarch was feared even without his legendary mana abilities. The Phoenix Descending technique—a series of strikes traditionally enhanced with ice energy—became in his hands a pure expression of physical mastery. His blade moved faster than the eye could track, finding gaps in the cultists' defense that shouldn't have existed.

The first cultist fell, Roman's sword emerging from the back of his skull before the others could adjust their formation. The second lost his sword arm at the elbow, then his head a heartbeat later as Roman's blade completed its circular follow-through.

The third cultist launched himself backward, narrowly avoiding decapitation. "Impossible," he gasped, genuine fear breaking through his ritualistic conditioning. "Without mana enhancement—"

His words ended abruptly as Roman's blade pierced his throat, driven with such force it embedded in the wall behind him.

Across the gallery, Melo moved like living shadow among six cultists who had attempted to flank him. Where Roman's swordsmanship was precise and economical, Melo's style emphasized continuous motion—his blade never stopping, each strike flowing into the next in an unbroken chain of lethal grace.

Three cultists already lay dead around him, their bodies barely beginning to fall as he claimed a fourth with a strike that opened the man from collarbone to hip.

Brother Mortus observed the decimation of his Containment Chorus with surprising calm. "Impressive," he acknowledged. "Your physical techniques exceed our intelligence estimates."

Roman extracted his blade from the wall, flicking blood from its edge with a practiced motion. "Your intelligence failed in multiple respects," he replied. "Not least in believing you could delay us with such inadequate forces."

Mortus smiled, revealing teeth that had been ritually filed to points. "Delay is relative, Ice Monarch. We need not stop you permanently—merely long enough."

He raised his arms, and the remaining cultists formed a circle around him. Amber energy flowed between them once more, but this time it coalesced around their bodies, creating translucent armor that pulsed with inner light.

"The Chorus Ascendant," Mortus intoned. "Those who fall feed the strength of those who remain."

The surviving cultists moved with visibly increased speed, their energy enhancement magnified by the sacrifice of their fallen comrades. One lunged toward Roman with blade extended, moving faster than any unenhanced human possibly could.

Roman sidestepped with millimetric precision, the cultist's blade passing so close it sliced several strands of his silver hair. The Ice Monarch's counter-strike should have opened the cultist's ribs—instead, it scraped against the amber energy armor with a sound like steel on glass.

"Their protection is substantial," Roman observed to Melo, who had disengaged to reassess the altered threat.

"But not impenetrable," the masked enforcer replied, indicating a hairline fracture his own blade had created in one cultist's energy armor.

Brother Mortus spread his arms wider. "The Chorus consumes, Ice Monarch. With each passing moment, your chances of reaching the Frost Chamber diminish. By now, the extraction team has surely secured the Worthy One."

Roman's eyes narrowed slightly—the only indication of his concern for his grandson. "Melo."

A single word, conveying a complex tactical adjustment. The masked enforcer nodded once, then blurred into motion. Where before he had engaged directly, now he became a distraction—his blade dancing around the cultists' defenses without committing to decisive strikes.

Meanwhile, Roman shifted stance, adopting a form rarely seen outside the most secretive training grounds of the Lionhart family. The Midnight Lotus—a technique designed for situations where a swordsman faced multiple energy-enhanced opponents without access to their own mana.

His blade angled downward, held in a reverse grip that seemed to expose his defenses. Three cultists immediately seized the apparent opportunity, converging on him with amber-enhanced speed.

Roman remained motionless until the last possible instant. Then his body rotated—not a dodge but a perfect pivot that created a circular zone of death around him. The Midnight Lotus bloomed, his blade striking seventeen times in less than two seconds, each hit targeting the microscopic fractures Melo had created in the cultists' energy armor.

All three collapsed, their protection shattered along with their vital organs.

Brother Mortus's expression finally shifted from confidence to concern. "The legendary techniques of the Ice Monarch," he murmured. "I had thought the historical accounts exaggerated."

"A common misconception," Roman replied, blood dripping from his blade as he advanced toward the Harmonizer. "One your cult will not survive to correct."