The Genius Mage Was Reincarnated Into A Swordsman Family-Chapter 355: The Frozen Bloodline

The Stark family didn't rule Iskandriel — they were Iskandriel. Older than the Lionhart dynasty, older than the Rikxia Empire itself, their lineage stretched back to the First Frost, when the city's foundations were carved from a glacier that had swallowed an entire mountain range. While other ruling families traded silks and spices, negotiated treaties, or curated libraries of forgotten lore, the Starks maintained the walls. They were the ice that shielded the flame, the silence that guarded the song. For twenty centuries, they'd turned away emperors and invaders alike with a simple truth etched into every Stark soul: Strength is the only language outsiders understand.

They ruled not through charisma or coin, but through the weight of history. Their authority came from blood spilled defending the Eight Gates during the Shattering Wars, from the Frost Pacts signed in dragon's breath and human oath. While House Lanisglace debated philosophy and House Targar counted trade routes, the Starks stood watch. Their traditions were rigid as permafrost, their values carved from necessity. To them, the world beyond Iskandriel's walls was a storm best weathered from within. Diplomacy was a luxury for the Ice Queen and her scholars; the Starks existed to ensure there was a city left to diplomatically protect.

And now, in the heart of their district's courtyard, the current patriarch of that ancient line stood before Klaus Lionhart.

Erion Stark's introduction still hung in the frozen air. Klaus inclined his head slightly, white hair catching the blue light of the courtyard crystals. "Klaus Lionhart," he replied, his voice steady despite the exhaustion clinging to his bones. No titles. No boasts. Just a name that had shattered myths and scattered armies.

Erion's black eyes narrowed, scanning Klaus from head to toe. His gaze lingered on the obsidian sword in Klaus's grip — Greed, already transformed into blade form at Klaus's silent command before they'd landed. 'Make yourself useful,' Klaus had thought, and the sword had complied without complaint. Now, Greed's mental voice cut through Klaus's focus, sharp with unease.

{Careful Runt; I can't feel him... At all,}

Klaus almost flinched. Greed, an Arkdieu who'd measured gods and emperors with casual arrogance, couldn't sense this man's power?

{Not like Roman,} Greed added, his usual swagger absent. {Not like anyone... It's like staring into a blizzard — everything's there, but you can't see the shape of it. He's touched the realm beyond mortality. Transcendence.}

Erion stepped forward, his boots clicking against the singing ice. The sound echoed strangely, as if the courtyard itself held its breath. "A Lionhart," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in Klaus's chest. "The prodigy who broke the Mythril Crystal at twelve. The youngest Swordmaster Runiya has ever seen." He paused, studying Klaus's white hair. "Though the portraits show silver. War changes a man, I suppose."

Klaus kept his expression neutral. "It does."

"Prove you are who you claim." Erion's demand held no malice — only the cold certainty of a man who'd spent decades verifying truths with steel. "The Ice Queen receives no one unverified. Not even emperors' grandsons."

Klaus reached inside his coat, withdrawing the small velvet pouch Roman had given him. He opened it carefully, revealing the brooch resting on dark cushion. The miniature ice sword glowed faintly, its frozen-light material casting soft blue ripples across the courtyard snow.

Erion barely glanced at it. "Roman Lionhart's seal," he stated flatly. "A pretty trinket. Meaningless here." He flicked a gloved hand. "We do not recognize outside symbols. The Ice Queen might know its worth, but the Starks judge men by their blades, not their baubles." His black eyes locked onto Klaus's. "There is a simpler way to confirm your identity. One my ancestors used when impostors crawled from the northern wastes claiming to be kings."

{He's not doubting you,} Greed muttered mentally. {He's testing you. This man knows exactly who you are. He just wants to see if the legend holds water.}

Klaus felt the truth of it. Erion's posture wasn't defensive — it was anticipatory. The tension in his shoulders wasn't caution, but coiled readiness. Like a master swordsman who'd spent years studying a rival's techniques, waiting for the day their paths crossed.

"Why?" Klaus asked quietly. "You already know I'm Klaus Lionhart, don't you ?"

A ghost of a smile touched Erion's lips. "Rumors reach even Iskandriel's walls, boy. We heard of Northwatch. Of the white hair appearing overnight after your battle with Sabrina Petrova. We know the Lionhart blood runs deep in your veins." He tapped the pommel of his own sword — a massive, unadorned blade forged from black ice that seemed to drink the courtyard light. "But legends are fragile things. They shatter under pressure. I need to know if the man behind the name can hold an empire's weight on his shoulders. Or if he's just another pretty story told over wine."

Klaus understood then. This wasn't about verification. It was about measure. Erion Stark, patriarch of the family that had defended Iskandriel since its birth, wanted to test the sword that had cut through vampires, demons, homunculi armies and shattered unbreakable crystals. He wanted to feel the edge of the blade that had earned Klaus his place in history.

Klaus's fingers tightened on Greed's hilt. He opened his Five Eyes of the Ten Eyes Mantra. His vision sharpened, peeling back layers of reality to read Erion's energy flow, his combat rhythm, his hidden weaknesses.

And saw nothing.

No aura. No mana currents. No telltale tension before a strike. Erion stood before him like a mountain —p resent, immovable, and utterly unreadable. It was as if his very existence defied Klaus's perception. Even Dudu, crouched low behind him, let out a soft, warning rumble, his golden eyes fixed on Erion with uncharacteristic wariness.

{How strange,} Greed whispered, his mental voice strained. {I've faced Apostles, homunculi, even half-fused Arkdieus. I always feel the shape of their power. But him? It's like he's not even here. Or he's everywhere at once, how interesting for someone supposed to be an ant.}

Erion drew his sword. The black ice blade made no sound as it slid free, but the temperature in the courtyard plummeted. Frost spiderwebbed across the ground at Klaus's feet.

"You have two choices, Lionhart," Erion said, his stance shifting with glacial slowness. One hand rested on his sword's hilt; the other hung loose at his side, deceptively relaxed. "You can draw that black blade and meet me as a warrior. Or you can turn back now, carry your pretty brooch to the Ice Queen, and let her decide if Iskandriel bends knee to the Rikxia Empire or if Rikxia discover what it means to bow?"

Klaus didn't hesitate. He planted his feet in the snow, Greed humming to life in his grip, violet runes flaring along its edge. "I didn't cross half the continent to kneel," he said.

Erion's smile widened, sharp as a glacier's edge. "Good."

The courtyard lights flared blindingly bright. For a heartbeat, Erion Stark vanished in the glare—

And then he was there, his black ice sword already descending in a blow that carried the weight of centuries. No roar. No battle cry. Just the silent, deadly grace of a predator that had guarded these walls since time began. The air itself seemed to fracture along the blade's path, ice crystals exploding into diamond dust where the edge would strike.

Klaus raised Greed to block.

Steel met ice.

BANG!!

The impact didn't just shatter the courtyard's silence — it shattered reality. The singing ice beneath Klaus's boots cracked like glass. Dudu roared, leaping back as shockwaves rippled outward. And in that frozen instant, Klaus saw not just a warrior before him, but the living embodiment of Iskandriel's soul — ancient, unyielding, and utterly without mercy. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

Erion Stark's voice cut through the ringing clash, calm as a frozen lake.

"Show me why they will call you the sword that cuts fate."